I have a new short story up on Inkitt for their 'Darkest Place" horror contest. The first part is here, the rest of it past the
link. Make sure to vote for it if you enjoy it.
The house sat empty at the top of the hill. Its security lights were
a beacon in the night, like a lighthouse alone in the mist, warning
ships away from the kiss of sharp shores. The closest neighbor was
further away than a man could throw a rock, a fact that didn't appear
to be a coincidence.
Inside its smooth walls, gray hardwood spread out across an
expansive, single floor. The leather furniture decorating the space
looked like someone’s idea of a futuristic catcher’s mitt and
felt half as cozy, chosen, as was the case for much of the house, for
color more than comfort. Doubly so for the tank of tropical fish that
shimmered against the far accent wall. Its forty-odd gallons of water
sparkled in the dark, cared for by a professional who came out to the
house on alternating Tuesdays.
Overhead spotlights clicked to life. They were triggered by the
abrupt opening of the heavy front door. A burst of cool air was
followed into the house by Douglas, the owner. He shut the door just
as quickly as it had swung open, his gray, unblinking eyes flecked
with bits of blue.
Three hard clacks and the door was locked. Four beeps and the alarm
system was activated.
In the kitchen, Douglas stood at the refrigerator and poured himself
a glass of water, drinking it down in one gulp, then did the same
with a scotch. He was thirsty and had been for some time. His nerves
were on fire and needed extinguishing. After another scotch, this one
over ice, he drew the blinds and ran the shower until the mirror
couldn't be seen. Then he undressed and stepped in.
Under the hot water, Douglas kneaded his sore neck like a baker
working a tough batch of dough. Three days now it had been stiff,
three days of limited movement, of waking in the mornings with a cry.
The rub helped, but he knew within twenty minutes of getting out of
the shower his neck would be back to the way it had been before. A
masseuse was in order, he thought to himself, one of those cute girls
he always passed by at the gym. The thought alone was enough to relax
him.
The little hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. He felt
the unmistakable presence of a man standing just behind him. He
rubbed the water from his eyes to catch the intruder in the act,
ready to pounce on him in a commotion of fists. But he was alone in
the steamy shower, and though the feeling faded the longer he kept
his eyes open, Douglas swore he could feel subtle changes in the
direction of the air- shifts so slight they didn't move the shower
curtain.
Almost like breathing, yet soundless, and cold.
Ready for bed, Douglas turned off all the lights in the house. As he
went from room to room he checked the windows to make sure they were
locked properly, noting with some comfort the wires of the house's
alarm system. He had settled into a decent state after two large
scotches and a hot shower, and he looked forward to a good night's
sleep for a change. He crept into the bedroom, slipped between the
cool covers and let his eyes close of their own accord.
The house was quiet. Secure. A few odd moments in the shower
notwithstanding, Douglas felt the closest to content he could expect.
Already the silken kiss of sleep was swallowing him down, like
sinking into the warm sap of a thousand, billowing trees.
“Tastes like salt.”
A whisper in his ear. He jolted awake at the man's voice, with it the
sensation of breath on his face. A moment later came the loud bang of
something hitting his bedroom window from the outside, first the
impact, then the shimmy of glass dancing in its frame. It sounded
like a fist had pounded at the window. He threw the covers off and
jumped out of bed, looked around the room for whoever had whispered
to him. Once he was sure he was alone, he yanked the curtains open.
No one. Just his front yard, a hill which sloped down to the empty
street, all of it blanketed in yellow-white moonlight. Douglas leaned
in close to look under the window. Possibly the trespasser had ducked
down and was hiding against the house, tucked in behind the azaleas.
A black bird twitched in the grass. Its wings flapped in erratic
rhythms and its legs were two, hardened sticks. Douglas looked for
and found a sign that the bird had hit his window- an impression of
the animal's shape had been left behind, a fine silhouette rendered
in dust, the body at the center and the two feathery wings spread
outward. The bird continued to twitch in the grass until the
movements slowed, its solid, black eyes finally drained of sight,
left to stare unfocused into the sky.
Douglas watched the bird die. Then he returned to bed.
The rest:
http://www.inkitt.com/stories/7444
