right corner where Kingsley
Avenue met Highway 41. Across the highway, past the light, Kingsley
turned into Parker, and on the corner of Parker was the A-Plus gas
station.
The deputy watched and waited from inside
number 947 for the two detectives to arrive. He was sure they would
come, they had every time before. They were on to him, or his
trail, so to speak. But this time would be different, the game was
all but over, and tonight he would make it personal.
The bald one arrived first. It was easily
apparent (even from a hundred yards away) that the fat man was
scared to be alone in the poorly lit parking lot with the heavy
rain thumping down upon his shoulders. He paced the front entrance
of the gas station observing each passing car, hoping the next one
would lift the fear from his back.
Just when the fat man looked to have given
up hope, the Charger arrived.
The deputy watched the detectives enter the
gas station and tried to imagine their surprise. Sometimes he
wished he could be a part of it, for once be on the receiving end
of the illusion. Moments later, he abandoned the warehouse parking
lot (his voyeuristic view) and headed down Kingsley Avenue. His
loss of immortality fueled his desire for retribution.
2
From inside the house, the thundering rain
sounded like giant footsteps on the roof, or so at least Amy
thought. She had left Randy’s house just before the brunt of the
storm arrived. She actually felt lucky to have the house to herself
tonight so she could read in peace, though she wished the storm
would move on and torture someone else.
She picked up the latest issue of Seventeen from the coffee table and found her place. As she
began reading, there was suddenly a knock at the front door, a very
loud knock. She looked over at the door and listened. Perhaps the
wind blew something into the door, she thought. Why would someone
be standing out in the storm anyway?
After a few seconds, she convinced herself
that something must have flown into the door and focused her
attention back on the magazine, but before she could flip a page,
there was another knock. The second knock was even louder than the
first.
Amy got up from the couch and inched toward
the door. When she was close enough to see, she checked to make
sure she had locked the door when she came home. Thankfully, she
had. The importance of locking the door was something her father
had drilled into her head time and time again, especially when
she’s home alone.
She continued toward the door, careful not
to make too much noise passing over the large white sheets of tile.
She imagined someone standing on the other side of the door.
Rainwater drenched his body. He laughed at her apprehension,
mimicked the fearful look on her face. She had given in to her
imagination, and now it had taken over.
When she arrived at the door, Amy wasted no
time flipping on the porch light and putting an eye up to the
peephole. She hoped to dispel any thought of an unwanted visitor
and clear her running imagination immediately, and evidently, she
had. The peephole allowed for a view as wide as the front porch,
and from what she could see nobody was out there. Either they had
left in the time it took her to reach the door, or her initial
belief was true.
She calmed.
Her imagination was in check.
Maybe something really did slam into the
door, she thought.
She twisted the bolt to the right and slowly
opened the door. The rain was coming down even harder than she had
thought. The front yard already looked flooded with large pockets
of water. She glanced around the ground near the door but didn’t
see anything that could have caused the loud bang, and other than
some scattered mulch from the side of the house, the entire porch
was clear.
A quick flash of lightning sliced through
the sky as Amy stepped out of the doorway. She jumped back and
braced herself on the door while the thunder roared. Once the
resonating bellow dwindled to nearly nothing, she pried her
Avenue met Highway 41. Across the highway, past the light, Kingsley
turned into Parker, and on the corner of Parker was the A-Plus gas
station.
The deputy watched and waited from inside
number 947 for the two detectives to arrive. He was sure they would
come, they had every time before. They were on to him, or his
trail, so to speak. But this time would be different, the game was
all but over, and tonight he would make it personal.
The bald one arrived first. It was easily
apparent (even from a hundred yards away) that the fat man was
scared to be alone in the poorly lit parking lot with the heavy
rain thumping down upon his shoulders. He paced the front entrance
of the gas station observing each passing car, hoping the next one
would lift the fear from his back.
Just when the fat man looked to have given
up hope, the Charger arrived.
The deputy watched the detectives enter the
gas station and tried to imagine their surprise. Sometimes he
wished he could be a part of it, for once be on the receiving end
of the illusion. Moments later, he abandoned the warehouse parking
lot (his voyeuristic view) and headed down Kingsley Avenue. His
loss of immortality fueled his desire for retribution.
2
From inside the house, the thundering rain
sounded like giant footsteps on the roof, or so at least Amy
thought. She had left Randy’s house just before the brunt of the
storm arrived. She actually felt lucky to have the house to herself
tonight so she could read in peace, though she wished the storm
would move on and torture someone else.
She picked up the latest issue of Seventeen from the coffee table and found her place. As she
began reading, there was suddenly a knock at the front door, a very
loud knock. She looked over at the door and listened. Perhaps the
wind blew something into the door, she thought. Why would someone
be standing out in the storm anyway?
After a few seconds, she convinced herself
that something must have flown into the door and focused her
attention back on the magazine, but before she could flip a page,
there was another knock. The second knock was even louder than the
first.
Amy got up from the couch and inched toward
the door. When she was close enough to see, she checked to make
sure she had locked the door when she came home. Thankfully, she
had. The importance of locking the door was something her father
had drilled into her head time and time again, especially when
she’s home alone.
She continued toward the door, careful not
to make too much noise passing over the large white sheets of tile.
She imagined someone standing on the other side of the door.
Rainwater drenched his body. He laughed at her apprehension,
mimicked the fearful look on her face. She had given in to her
imagination, and now it had taken over.
When she arrived at the door, Amy wasted no
time flipping on the porch light and putting an eye up to the
peephole. She hoped to dispel any thought of an unwanted visitor
and clear her running imagination immediately, and evidently, she
had. The peephole allowed for a view as wide as the front porch,
and from what she could see nobody was out there. Either they had
left in the time it took her to reach the door, or her initial
belief was true.
She calmed.
Her imagination was in check.
Maybe something really did slam into the
door, she thought.
She twisted the bolt to the right and slowly
opened the door. The rain was coming down even harder than she had
thought. The front yard already looked flooded with large pockets
of water. She glanced around the ground near the door but didn’t
see anything that could have caused the loud bang, and other than
some scattered mulch from the side of the house, the entire porch
was clear.
A quick flash of lightning sliced through
the sky as Amy stepped out of the doorway. She jumped back and
braced herself on the door while the thunder roared. Once the
resonating bellow dwindled to nearly nothing, she pried her
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