Page 12 of When You're Alone

Suddenly, a faint sound rustled at the edge of his hearing. Something like a shuffle against the floorboards. He froze, leaning forward, ears straining for the slightest noise. His living room opened directly into a dining area and then a small hallway leading to the front door. Light from the lamp on his side table created a halo around his chair but left the far corners in dim shadow.

Geoffrey peered over the back of the armchair, scanning the darkness across his open-plan sitting-and-dining area. Nothing. Just the silent silhouettes of furniture: a wooden dining table,four chairs, a tall bookshelf in the far corner. Perhaps his nerves were playing tricks on him. Still, the hair on his arms stood upright.

He breathed out slowly and tried to dismiss the thought. Grasping his brandy once more, he took a final sip for courage. This murder had clearly gotten under his skin. “I’m overreacting,” he whispered, setting the empty glass aside.

Yet that uneasy idea he’d had moments ago took on renewed weight:Last year, for a brief stint, I sat on the Monarch Club’s board, covering for a member who was unwell.He’d signed off on a few decisions, though none were major. Still, if someone was targeting the board, he could be in danger, too. A chill prickled over his skin again, more intense this time. He shook his head.Don’t be paranoid, old chap.

He stood up, deciding to turn in for the night and hope for better clarity in the morning. The wide room’s ambient lighting cast subtle reflections on the polished floor, trailing him as he headed toward the door to the main hallway. Just as his hand closed around the antique brass knob, he thought he heard another faint creak. His pulse jerked.

“Hello?” he called, voice echoing softly. A second or two of silence. No response. He half-laughed at himself. The house was large; old timbers tended to groan at night. Perhaps that was all it was. But the tension wouldn’t fade.

Then it came again: a gentle creak from behind the door. This time, it raised goosebumps on his arms. Something or someone was there. A swallow caught in his throat, heart pounding so loudly he could barely think. He let go of the handle and backed away.

Memories of reading about burglary or violent crime scenarios flashed through his mind. He cursed under his breath and moved toward the adjoining kitchen area—thankful for the open floor plan that let him see every piece of furniture, everycorner, so he couldn’t be ambushed. On the kitchen worktop, he spotted a large chef’s knife left out from the previous night’s cooking. He gripped the wooden handle, the blade glinting faintly.

Pressing the knife close to his side, he inched back across the living space. The door remained closed, the handle still. Gathering courage, he lifted his voice, false bravado surging. “I’m armed!” he warned. “Whoever’s there… I’ll call the police!” He paused, listening. Another creak or shuffle. “Enough,” he growled under his breath.

Throwing caution aside, Geoffrey lunged forward and flung the door open wide. Tension erupted into—relief. Sprawled across the threshold was Sandy, his large Labrador, tail thumping on the floor in greeting. The dog peered up at him with a curious tilt of the head, tongue lolling.

“God, Sandy,” Geoffrey breathed, letting the adrenaline drain from his limbs. “You gave me a scare, boy.” He set the knife aside on a hallway table, leaning down to ruffle the dog’s floppy ears. Sandy responded with eager licks and a wagging tail.

“Come on,” Geoffrey said in a softer tone, patting Sandy’s flank. “Let’s stick together tonight, hmm? Can’t have me jumping at shadows every time the floor squeaks.” His nerves were still strung tight, but the dog’s calm presence helped soothe the worst of it.

Sandy, however, remained seated on the threshold, head cocked as though listening to something else. The dog let out a single, resonant bark. Geoffrey blinked in mild confusion. “What is it, boy?” he asked.

Then, in a heartbeat, he heard an unmistakable creak from behind him. This time it was different—sharp, purposeful. He pivoted just in time to see a tall figure bursting from the darkness of the living room, arms raised. A knife glinted under the overhead lamp, brandished high above the intruder’s head.

Geoffrey didn’t even manage a shout. The figure closed the distance in a heartbeat, footsteps pounding on the hardwood. Before he could jerk away, the blade descended. A stunning impact crushed into the stop of his head, pain exploding in a shock wave He reeled, the world tilting crazily. His legs gave out as the agony radiated through his skull.

The intruder’s knife was embedded deeply—Geoffrey couldn’t muster the coordination to fight back or even scream. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and numbness swallowed his senses. He was vaguely aware of Sandy cowering, barking in alarm, but everything blurred into a haze of agony.

Somewhere beyond the pain, he felt the figure bend over him. A frantic tugging motion? The edges of Geoffrey’s vision turned black, his thoughts unraveling in a wave of final terror. Then came oblivion.

Sandy let out a helpless whine, tail tucked, gaze locked on his master’s motionless form. The tall intruder hunched close, face hidden in dim shadows. For a moment, there was silence apart from the dog’s soft whimpers and the faint ring of the murderer’s ragged breathing.

With uncanny calm, the figure seemed to examine Geoffrey’s lifeless body, performing some unseen act—a rummaging for something, or perhaps placing something. The dog barked again, a desperate, lonely sound.

Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the figure rose and darted back into the darkness, footsteps receding into the far corners of the house. In mere seconds, everything was still except for Sandy’s panicked panting.

The television in the living room continued to play muted news footage of Sir Richard Doyle’s murder, oblivious to this fresh horror that had just befallen Geoffrey Wardlow. The brandy glass on the side table remained undisturbed, a silent witness to the savage finality that had claimed its owner.

And in that silent townhouse, on a quiet stretch of London’s outskirts, another life ended in the wake of Sir Richard’s death—leaving only shadows, the loyal dog’s whine, and a knife-wielding killer disappearing into the night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Finn was dreaming, and he felt the gravity of it before he could see anything at all. A nameless pressure settled on his chest, as though he were descending a dark staircase. The air was thick with a silence that felt somehow laden with sound. He wanted to wake, but the dream held him, guiding him by unseen hands.

He found himself in the corridor of The Monarch Club, though it was different than when he had last walked there. The carpet under his feet was the same plush burgundy, but the walls seemed oddly warped, extending and retracting like they were breathing. Brass sconces flickered with a dim light that cast dancing shadows. Each flicker distorted the corridor’s length, making it feel both endless and claustrophobic.

In the distance, Finn heard the soft murmur of conversation, low voices blending into the hush. He advanced carefully, each footstep muffled by the thick carpet. The corridor felt cooler than usual, as if all the warmth had bled out of the building. When he passed a small table by the wall, it was set with a lone teacup, steam curling upward, but the steam rose unnaturally slowly, as if time had stalled.

“Hello?” Finn called. His voice was swallowed by the corridor. He tried again, louder: “Who’s there?” The conversation he’d heard moments before died abruptly, and silence slid back in like a blanket.

Ahead, the outline of Sir Richard Doyle’s private study came into view, the heavy door slightly ajar. Golden lamplight seeped through the gap, a wedge of illumination cutting across the patterned rug. Finn felt his mouth go dry. Something about the partially open door unnerved him. The handle turned on itsown, squeaking softly, inviting him in with a slow, deliberate creak.

He stepped inside. The study was bathed in a haze of amber light that gave everything a sepia tone. The furniture seemed partially distorted: chairs were a shade too tall, the desk’s edges curling like old parchment. Off to one side, he noticed a portrait on the wall—at first glance, it looked like Sir Richard. But as Finn drew closer, it wasn’t Sir Richard at all. It was a woman with rigid features and stark, disapproving eyes. Her presence loomed over the study, glaring down at him with silent condemnation.

“Hello?” he murmured. The face was somehow both familiar and disturbingly unrecognizable, as though the paint were shifting beneath his gaze. The eyes in the portrait seemed to track him, their intensity unrelenting.

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