Aliens on Aventine Hill

Ghost Stories [Part 8]

The roar of the engine pierced the silence as he stomped the gas pedal. His eyes flicked up, watching Joseph's silhouette—which had been joined by another (Sam, probably)—grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

Anger made his muscles tense; regret made his blood hot and thick. He could hear Joseph's words ringing in his ears, and he could see those bright blue eyes staring up at him from the pavement. Gray thought again of the feeling of the soft skin of Joseph's throat beneath his hands—the heartbeat thudding in the cords of his neck, fluttering with fright.

Rain splattered the windshield as he pulled onto the old logging road. His hand drifted to the radio; he turned it on and cranked up the volume so that it drowned out the engine and his drunken thoughts.

He almost didn't see the deer as it leapt into the glaring light of his high beams. His foot slammed down on the brakes, but the rain—coming down in buckets now—had made the road slick: The tires skidded and screeched.

Gray felt his stomach seize up as fear jerked him awake. He scrambled with the steering wheel as the Rambler fishtailed and the two left tires lurched off the ground. For a moment, he thought it was going to flip, but then the left side came crashing down again, suspension squealing.

Gray blinked and watched the deer wander lazily off the road.

His skin had broken out in gooseflesh; every hair stood on end. Prying his fingers off the steering wheel, he ran a hand through his hair and let out the breath he'd been holding for the last minute.

Rain pitter-pattered quietly on the roof of the car. The engine hummed beneath the hood. Everything was fine. Shuddering, Gray took a deep breath and set his foot back on the gas pedal, trying not to think about what could have happened.

What had almost happened.

He kept his grip on the steering wheel iron tight until the house appeared from the trees. A tired smile graced his face as Gray looked up at it—today is finally over—but his smile quickly foundered beneath a frown.

All the lights were off. Roman always kept the lights on when he was home alone. Was the power out? Gray jammed the gearshift into park. The gravel crunched beneath his feet as jogged around to the back of the house.

He set the car keys gently down on the counter and flicked the light switch. Bright yellow light illuminated the kitchen and breakfast nook. Gray looked up with a perplexed expression. Did he go to sleep already...?

He wandered through the downstairs hallway, glancing guiltily at the grandfather clock. I shouldn't've gone to Sam's. The throbbing in his nose and upper lip agreed.

Gray hesitated on the first step of the staircase, feeling a cold draft nip at his ankles. His gaze followed it to its source and his heart stopped. Fear vaporized his ethanol haze, boring down on him like a torrential rain.

The front door was ajar.

Just slightly so. It hadn't been thrown open. It wasn't dangling from the hinges. No, it was just slightly ajar. Carelessly closed, Gray chided himself as he pulled it shut and twisted the deadbolt.

He just hadn't closed it properly this morning. Dread snaked through his gut like a worm. Had he gone out the front door this morning? He almost always went out the back, but it was possible, wasn't it?

No, it was more likely Roman had just gone outside to get something (mail maybe?) and hadn't... but that wasn't like Roman. Cold terror splashed over his lungs, filling them up like freshwater.

Roman. Where was Roman?

He opened the door again and looked around the front yard. All around him the woods were eerily calm. The rain was still falling. It soaked into his hair and clothes—and washed away the last traces of four sets of footprints.