Page 15 of Dark Rapture
I startle so violently that my phone flies from my hand and lands somewhere behind the table I had left it on. I spin to face the direction of my front door, my heart thumping like a caged beast desperate to flee.
Who the hell is knocking at my door at this hour? If anyone I cared about had an emergency, I’m certain they would call me first instead. I checked my phone moments ago, so I know I didn’t miss a call that would warrant showing up at my apartment like this.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three distinctly separate, deliberate raps on the old wooden door. Every strike sends a little electric shock of fear coursing up and down my spine.
I wander slowly, quietly, towards the narrow hallway leading to my front door. The only barrier between me and whatever is on the other side of that piece of wood. Every step is carefully placed as I try to remain silent.
I think back to the strange man at the coffee shop. I imagine him standing like a statue on the other side of the door, smiling his hollow smile, his dead eyes like something out of my nightmares.
The image in my mind has goosebumps erupting across my skin, the intensity of my anxiety reflected in the pins and needles I now feel in my fingertips.
When I plant both of my feet in front of my door, I try to will my knees to stop trembling. I listen, waiting to see if my visitor is still there. A few moments pass, the silence weighed down by my potent fear.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I flinch with every heavy thud, the sound demanding my response. Leaning forward, I glance through the peephole.
Nothing. Absolute blackness. I should see the street lights, the concrete slab and the iron railing of my front step, and the potted plant to the right of the door. Most importantly, I should see a person.
I see nothing.
“Who’s there?” I call out loudly, my trembling voice far too loud in the odd silence that surrounds me. I realize in that moment that aside from the knocking and my shaky voice, I hear nothing at all. Not a bird, not a cricket, not a single car or train in the distance.
I stare at the door, waiting. The silence is deafening.
I take a reluctant step forward, turning my head to the side and drawing my ear close to the space between the door and the frame, straining to hear anything at all. Holding my breath, I close my eyes and listen.
“Honeybee.”
I stagger backwards away from the door, the familiar male voice striking me like a heavy fist directly into my sternum. Bile rises in my throat, scorching as it crawls up my esophagus and threatens to expel my stomach contents all over the floor.
Hisvoice. He’shere. At myhome.
My soul feels like it’s shriveling up inside of me, flashbacks of pain in fragile places sparking to life in the most cruel echo of all the terrible things my uncle did to me when I wasn’t even old enough to understand any of it.
I continue to stumble backwards until I am standing in my kitchen, my trembling fingers dragging along the cold surface of my island countertop. Pins and needles continue to spark through my hands and feet, and I know I should tell him to leave and call the police, but the words are trapped in my throat.
I am fighting to keep the vomit from spilling up from my churning stomach, and all I can think about is running. Running as far and as fast as I can, until I reach the very ends of the Earth. When I get there, I can fall off the perilous edge and plummet straight down into oblivion. Maybe then, I’d never have to hear that terrible voice ever again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I feel my mind snap, like the lock of a rattling cage breaking open. I turn and run for the door leading into my backyard, leaving it wide open as I race through the threshold and head for the farthest wall.
Using a foot to hoist myself up on the side of a planter box, I launch myself up and over the old wooden fence and down into the narrow alleyway behind it. I fall to my hands and knees, the pain of scraping my palms along the old, cracked cement lancing through me.
I force myself to my feet and run down the walking path behind my garden, my bare feet numb to the rough surface and tiny stones cutting into my soft skin. I push myself so hard I see stars flicker at the edges of my vision, but I don’t dare stop.
I don’t slow down as I emerge from the alleyway and run down the sidewalk. I stagger slightly and duck my head as flock of ravens scatter around me, cawing loudly as they take to the wind in the cold Autumn night air.
The birds sound enraged as they dive down around me, forcing me to turn down the block unless I want more than one of them to hit me as they glide on by.
As the ravens begin to settle into calmer soaring, I lift my head and search the immediate area for a place I can take refuge.
A memory assaults me against my will.
“Don’t cry, honeybee,” he tells me, his rough hands moving down to a place nobody touches. I do cry, though. I can’t stop myself. It hurts when he touches me between my legs, and he smells like sweat and whiskey. Whiskey he poured over his fingers before he put them inside of me.
