Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Parlor
The house grew silent as the clock struck midnight.
The rhythmic ticking was a countdown to my execution.
Daniel had fallen into a light sleep in the armchair,
the glass of scotch dangling from his fingers.
This was my chance.
I forced my eyes open,
tearing through the waxy film that covered my lashes.
The light of the dying fire blinded me for a second,
white and searing.
I squinted,
looking up at the lid of the coffin.
It wasn't locked yet.
They had left it unlatched for the final viewing in the morning.
I raised my arm,
my muscles shaking with the effort.
The satin was slippery,
giving me little leverage.
I pushed against the wood,
a slow,
agonizing movement.
The lid creaked,
a sound that seemed to roar through the empty room.
I froze,
watching Daniel.
He shifted in his sleep,
but he didn't wake.
I pushed harder,
my heart hammering against my ribs.
The opening widened,
and the cool air of the dining room rushed in.
It felt like a miracle,
the taste of real oxygen on my tongue.
I pulled my legs up,
fighting the lingering numbness of the drug.
I was weak,
my body feeling like it was made of lead.
I rolled over the edge of the coffin,
landing on the carpet with a muffled thud.
Pain shot through my hip,
but I didn't make a sound.
I lay there on the floor,
staring at the underside of the dining table.
I was out.
I was on the ground.
I looked at the coffin,
the empty void where I had spent the last twenty-four hours.
I was a shadow in my own home,
a spirit returned to haunt the living.
I crawled toward the shadows of the hallway,
my movements slow and serpentine.
I needed a weapon.
I needed a phone.
But most of all,
I needed time.
I reached the kitchen,
the tile cold beneath my palms.
I pulled myself up using the counter,
my legs finally supporting my weight.
I looked at the doorway.
Daniel was still in the other room.
I saw the vial on the counter,
the one Monica had used.
She had been sloppy,
leaving it tucked behind the toaster.
I grabbed it,
my fingers trembling.
Evidence.
This was the proof I needed to destroy them.
I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.
I ducked behind the kitchen island,
my breath held tight.
Steps.
Heavier than Daniel’s.
A man’s voice whispered in the dark.
“Is it done?”
It wasn't Daniel.
It was someone else.
Another voice,
Monica’s,
answered him.
“She’s in the box,
Arthur.
Relax.”
Arthur.
May you like
The lawyer.
The conspiracy was larger than I had imagined.
