Haunted

The pound on my kitchen door out-hammered the thunder. Through the part in the curtain, only a porch light dulled by the storm, but I knew who was there.

Otto.

The dead don’t knock, I reasoned, even as instinct filled me with dread subtle as a tsunami.

The second blow made the hinges rattle. I spun round in desperation. The front door was blocked by the boxes I’d packed.

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!

A breeze from the living room beckoned, gossamer curtains floating as if in a dance. A tight fit but I could make it…

I’m not leaving my dog.

Halfway up the staircase, Bowser whimpered. I crept up and crouched beside him, knee dampened by the puddle he’d made, and stole a glance at the shadowed upstairs hall. Bowser was not a shimmy-down-the-drainpipe kind of hound—the living room window was our only shot.

I curled my fingers around his collar and urged him to follow. Down the stairs, past the TV, almost there. Five steps. Four. Three.

Otto pummeled the door again—a kick this time, powerful enough to splinter the oak. I dropped to the floor, one arm wrapped around Bowser, the other around my head.

“I know you’re in there, Marsh!” The voice was hollow. No bass, no treble. 

No soul.

Cold shivered through my body like a late December wind. A little sound like the mew of a kitten escaped my throat. Then silence. 

Silence more pure than possible. No fists, no boots, no voice. No sound. 

And then my heart beat. 

Once. 

Twice.