In The Dark, Dark Night

PETE

Pete jumped at the cold touch.

But when he turned there was nothing there. Nothing but an open door to the garage, light spilling through into the laundry room. But it had been locked when he tried, hadn't it?

He followed the light to the bottom of the door and covered his mouth with the palm of his hand when he saw that the floor of the laundry room he'd been standing in was covered in more blood, blood that trailed through into the garage. He couldn't look in, couldn't bear to see what was in there. And then he saw, laying on the floor just beside the door, a bloodied, dismembered finger. He scrambled away from it, but his eyes wouldn't move away from it. He knew it was hers—the nail was painted with a glittery green polish.

Then he heard giggling, and footsteps. Footsteps that sounded like a group, running and jumping. Like a group of children playing in the garage. He inched backwards, watching his feet as they stepped through the crimson smears on the ground.

As he realised that he'd been standing in them for so long, he also began to notice the smell. How had it passed him by this whole time?

Feeling like he was going to vomit, Pete made the choice to leave the laundry room back through the house. He opened the door and bundled out, stumbling his way down the short stretch of hallway back towards the open kitchen and living room area. The lights were now off, though they were on when he'd entered the house. He felt his heart jump into his throat.

All the while the sound of the weeping woman continued to flood the air, filling his thoughts. It seemed to surround him completely, rather than come from anywhere in particular.

He slowed as he fell into the kitchen.

It looked empty enough. There was no one there, no crying woman. He found his phone sitting on the counter, grabbed it, and ran for the door.

But before he could reach it, he fell. His leg hit something on the ground and sent him tumbling down, his outstretched arms barely breaking his fall, his head cracking against the white tiles. His breathing was heavy and painful for a moment, and there was a metallic taste of blood on his tongue, as he adjusted to what had happened, and when it started to go back to normal he tried to look up.

His right leg, which had hit whatever tripped him first, was in agony, a searing pain shooting up and down from his shin to his thigh.

There was a throbbing in his head, across his temple. His eyes were blurry, like an out-of-focus camera, and as hard as he tried to look at what was happening around him, he couldn't. The world was spinning in circles around his head, Sophie's house nothing but indistinguishable blurs in front of his eyes.

The woman had stopped crying.

Pete stretched out his arm to find what had tripped him, but other than the side of the sofa—which was at least two feet away from him—there was nothing. He knew he hadn't tripped over his own feet, too; his right shin had definitely hit something cold and sharp, before he had a chance to register it.

He tried to hold his head steady, but it wasn't working. He could see vague, hazy outlines of the living room, but nothing came into focus.

The pain made him almost bite his tongue to save himself from screaming out.

Pete forced himself to sit up, still feeling the excruciating pain in his right leg. He rubbed his hand against the top of his head, feeling it come away damp. It was either sweat or blood, but there wasn't much of him that cared which right there and then. As long as he could get up and out of the house, he didn't care. He'd fix anything later. If his head was bleeding, he'd go straight to a hospital.