Page 108 of Volatile Obsessions

? Monsters - Ruelle ?

“Mum, I’m home,” I call out, as I shut the front door behind myself.

I expect to hear her reply from the kitchen—as she usually does around this hour—but nothing follows.

I drag my eyes to the clock on the wall; 6:30 p.m.

She should be definitely home, so should my sister, Siobhan.

The lights are on both upstairs and downstairs, but not a sound resonates. The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle as silence lingers around me.

Something isn’t right.

Dropping my bag in the foyer, I trail through the house quietly, keeping my eyes peeled. For what, I don’t know, but I can’t shake the bad feeling suddenly looming over my shoulders.

In the living room, the telly sits on one of mum’s favorite crime programs. There’s a glass of wine on the coffee table and one of her romance novels laid out with a bookmark lodged in the spine. Clearly, she’s home, and at a glance, nothing seems out of place.

Except for the silence.

It’s so silent I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears as I continue on to the kitchen.

“Mum?” I call out a second time, skidding to a stop upon crossing the threshold.

She’s not here either, but it’s the sight that greets me that runs my blood ice cold.

A puddle of wine and shards of glass cover a portion of the floor.

I try to not panic, try to convince myself it was a simple accident and perhaps she’s upstairs cleaning herself up, but the remainder of the backdrop all but screams there’s been a struggle of sorts.

The oven door is wide open.

The roast she’d clearly been preparing is still inside.

The stove top is on, too, two pots boiling away on the highest setting.

Forget thundering—my heart now slams violently in my chest.

“Mum?!” I bellow a third time, racing through the kitchen to the threshold on the other side.

That’s when I see red.

Blood.

Dark.

Fresh.

I freeze.

They’re the smallest of droplets, but as I step into the dining room, the droplets grow larger, forming puddles of all sizes.

Then I realize they’re no longer contained to the floor.

A long smeared hand print paints the wall beside the china cabinet. My eyes follow it a short ways, noting how it ends abruptly.

My stomach churns.

That bad feeling is now full-on ominous. I feel a cold sweat coming on. I’m trying not to think the worst, but how can I not?

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