Page 35 of A Christmas to Die For
I'm frozen with fear, but I have to seal the gap beneath the door and the empty space where the knob on my end should be so I can figure out what my next step is.
I creep toward the living room, slow and wary, half-expecting a trap to spring, for the house to ignite, for a hatchet to swing from the shadows and split my skull.
Instead, I grab a blanket from the couch. Dirt billows into the air. I start coughing and the dust stings my eyes, making everything worse.
I don't even know what I did to set it off, but suddenly there's a loud pop, like a grenade. More chemicals fill the air.
My ears ring. I'm momentarily blind and deaf to everything as a flashbang of some kind explodes in the small living space.
What the fuck is going on?
I'm so disoriented, so lost, but I make it to the bathroom door.
As I block the leaking chemicals from seeping further into the house, a sickening realization hits me: I'm trapping her in there with it.
"Sabrina? Answer me!" I scream, jamming the blanket under the door.
I drop to my knees and peer through the hole where the doorknob should be, where I could've saved her, if there'd been something there to turn the levers and release the latch. I see a lump on the floor, blood dripping from her nose.
My eyes burn with tears. Too many chemicals are mixing, and I can't handle whatever's on the other side of this door.
I rip off my scarf and shove it into the hole, sealing the last opening. If she's already gone, I can't let whatever's in there take me down too.
The camera I used to film her is still rolling somewhere on the floor, the angle tilted, capturing a low, skewed view of the empty kitchen.
I yank my phone from my back pocket, fingers trembling as I try to dial nine-one-one, but a notification flashes across the screen: No Service.
"Fuck!" I shout, stomping the wooden beams. The floor groans under me, and for a second, I think I might fall through.
I stay perfectly still, too scared to risk it after setting off two traps already.
I clutch my phone and wait a solid thirty minutes for a single bar of service to appear.
And that's when I hear it.
A car approaching, and a door opening and slamming shut.
My heart stops. Literally. I don't feel it beating. I don't feel blood pumping through my veins. And then, the front door hinges creak open.
My whole body freezes, like it's forgotten how to be alive.
Someone is in the house with me, and I can't even call forhelp.
Oh my God, oh my God, I think I killed Albert.
Despite the panic clawing at my throat, and the very real possibility I might pee myself, I drop to my knees beside him and check his pulse.
I'm shaking so hard I can't feel anything—barely able to tell if there's a heartbeat pulsing under my two fingers. A pool of blood spreads around him, dark and blooming. There's no coming back from a hit to the head like that. Oh, fuck, what have I done?
Where is Chet?
Where is anyone when I need them?
I bolt to the check-in desk, heart hammering, and snatch up the landline. I slam the receiver back down a few times, jabbing the old-school clicker and waiting desperately for a dial tone.
Nothing. It's dead.
I'm too impatient to figure out a back exit, so I take a chair and throw it at the entrance's glass door.
