The Open Window
Stephanie shifted her weight, stretching her legs across the couch in search of something resembling comfort.
Brandon had arrived earlier with a twelve-pack and a bag of weed and had barely moved since. He was glued to the television. He did not even notice when she yawned.
On-screen, a blonde girl, naked except for high heels, stumbled through the woods.
Stephanie snorted.
“Why doesn’t she just kick the shoes off?”
“Hm?” Brandon did not glance away. His attention was fixed lower on the screen.
The girl tripped and fell. She rolled onto her back, screaming, as a man in a goat’s head mask stepped over her with an axe raised.
“At least use the heels for something,” Stephanie muttered. “Kick him in the balls.”
“Yeah. Kick him.” Brandon drained his beer and frowned at the empty can. “Hey, babe, grab me another?”
“Sure. I need to check on Miranda anyway.”
“Sucks you got stuck babysitting.”
“Oh yeah. Real tragedy.” She picked up the air freshener and tossed it at him. “I babysit. You get surround sound and a giant TV instead of that shoebox apartment. Spray that. I do not want the Petersons smelling weed.”
“They will not notice.”
On-screen, two teenagers were making out in a Volkswagen while the killer watched from the trees.
Stephanie shook her head and headed down the hall.
The instant she opened Miranda’s door, cold air brushed her face.
The window was wide open.
Miranda lay curled beneath her blankets, trembling.
Stephanie hurried inside, shut the window, locked it, and pulled the blanket tighter around the girl.
“Miranda, why is your window open?”
“The bad man opened it.”
Stephanie crouched beside the bed and brushed hair from the girl’s face. Miranda’s milky eyes were red from crying. She stared toward Stephanie without seeing her.
“What bad man?”
“He told me to be quiet. Said he would cut out my tongue.”
From the living room, a woman screamed. It was the movie.
Stephanie exhaled.
“I am sorry. I did not realize you could hear it in here. It is just the TV. You probably had a bad dream.”
“He is still here,” Miranda whispered. “I can hear him breathing.”
“There is no one here.”
“I hear him.”
Stephanie hesitated. Miranda could hear things most people could not. Still, this was impossible.
“If I check your room and no one is there, will you go back to sleep?”
“He is not in my room. He is in the hall.”
Stephanie stepped into the hallway.
Empty.
“See?”
“Not anymore,” Miranda said. “He is in the kitchen.”
Stephanie listened.
The refrigerator door thudded shut.
“That is Brandon.”
“No. Brandon is dead.”
“Miranda,” Stephanie snapped, sharper than she intended, “do not say that.”
“It is true.” Miranda’s fingers tightened around her sleeve. “He is going to kill you next.”
“That is enough.” Stephanie stood. “We are going to see Brandon so you can calm down.”
They walked into the living room.
The couch was empty.
On the television, another couple writhed on a bed. Behind them, the axe lifted.
Stephanie shut the TV off.
“Brandon?”
“He will not answer,” Miranda said quietly.
A toilet flushed down the hall.
“See?” Stephanie said quickly.
“That is not Brandon.”
Stephanie ignored her and walked toward the bathroom.
“I have had enough of this. I will leave the hall light on and your door cracked.”
“I am blind,” Miranda said softly. “I will not know.”
Stephanie bent and kissed her cheek anyway.
“I love you, Mandy Bear.”
The bathroom door was closed. Steam seeped from beneath it.
She knocked.
“Brandon?”
The shower ran steadily.
She opened the door.
“Okay, very funny.”
She pulled back the curtain.
Water sprayed into an empty tub.
The room suddenly felt too small.
“Brandon?”
She shut off the water and stepped into the hallway.
Miranda’s bed was empty.
Her pulse quickened.
“Miranda?”
She found her standing in the kitchen.
“The bad man is here,” Miranda said calmly.
“Where?”
Miranda lifted her hand and pressed it to her chest.
“He is here.”
Stephanie took a step forward and stopped.
Miranda was holding a knife.
“Sweetie. Give that to me.”
Her voice shook despite her effort to steady it.
She reached out slowly.
Miranda released it without resistance.
A sharp yowl split the silence.
Stephanie jumped.
“Brandon?”
She hurried into the living room, pulling Miranda with her.
The television was back on.
Brandon’s arm hung over the side of the couch.
The Petersons’ black cat was at his hand.
Licking.
Then biting.
Stephanie stepped closer.
Brandon’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
His abdomen was split open.
The cat tugged at something inside him.
Stephanie screamed.
She scooped Miranda into her arms and ran for the door.
Headlights flooded the driveway.
In the glare, a tall silhouette stood at the window.
An axe hung loosely in its hand.
Stephanie did not sleep that night.
The police searched. The killer vanished into the maze of backyards the moment the Petersons arrived.
Her father brought her home.
Now she lay in her bed with the light on.
Outside her door, a floorboard creaked.
She froze.
A shadow blocked the thin line of light beneath the door.
“Daddy?”
Silence.
The handle began to turn.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
From the other side, she heard breathing.
He Never Left
Shannon shut the book. It was not drawing her in at all. A woman having an affair in the middle of nowhere, waiting for her lover. A storm. Someone watching through the window. It was all such a cliché.
It would have been funny if it had not felt so familiar.
Only in her case, Stephen had left his wife and married her.
Rain streaked down the glass. She checked the clock. Twenty minutes since Stephen had gone out for pizza.
He should have been back by now.
Across the street, lights flickered in the old house. Stephen had told her about that place. Years ago, the babysitter had gone insane and killed her boyfriend. Then she went home and murdered her own family. She claimed ghosts and possession. Said the housing development had been built on ancient burial ground.
Now she was locked in the state hospital.
Shannon started to close the curtain, then stopped.
A girl stood in the window across the street.
Staring at her.
Shannon gave a small wave.
The girl did not move.
After a moment, Shannon let the curtain fall.
Headlights flashed across the wall.
Relieved, she hurried to the door and flung it open.
“It is about time. I am starving.”
The words died.
It was not Stephen.
A sheriff’s cruiser sat in the driveway. Two officers approached.
“Is this the home of Stephen Anya?” the tall one asked.
“Yes. I am his wife. We moved in today.”
“Is he here?”
“No. He went out for pizza.”
The shorter officer cleared his throat. “Does he drive a Ford Taurus?”
Her stomach tightened. “Was he in an accident?”
“May we come in?”
She nodded weakly.
Inside, they explained. The car was found on Petersburg Road. Headlights on. Driver’s door open. No damage. No skid marks.
Empty.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
“We were hoping he was here.”
Shannon shook her head. “He used to live down the street years ago.”
“Which house?”
“The one at the end.”
The shorter officer frowned. “That house belongs to the Stevensons. Their son disappeared seven years ago. Bryan Stevens.”
“You think my husband is him?”
“We are asking questions.”
She handed over their wedding photo.
“If your husband is not Bryan Stevens,” the officer said carefully, “he could pass for him.”
The rest of the night blurred.
Seven years earlier, a young woman named Stephanie had been babysitting across the street. By morning, her boyfriend was dead. Later, she was found hanging in a hospital room. Her last visitor had been Bryan.
“And you look just like her,” the officer said quietly.
Later, Shannon sat alone, pretending to read.
Every sound made her jump.
She looked out the window.
The girl was there again.
About twelve years old. The age of the blind girl Stephanie had been babysitting.
She seemed to be staring directly at Shannon.
But that was impossible.
She was blind.
A patrol car idled across the street. Officer Duncan had arranged for protection.
“He is not Bryan,” Shannon whispered. “This is coincidence.”
She must have drifted off.
A scream shattered the silence.
Sirens followed.
She ran to the window. Police cars crowded the end of the street. Officer Duncan hurried toward her house.
“There has been a murder,” he said. “Bryan’s sister. And the officer outside.”
Shannon’s mouth went dry.
“You should come with us.”
“Let me grab a few things.”
Upstairs, she packed quickly.
A thud sounded below.
“Officer Duncan?”
No answer.
She crept downstairs.
The front door stood open.
Outside, police lights still flashed. Officer Duncan stood at the sidewalk speaking with the tall officer.
Relief washed over her.
She returned upstairs.
She was placing her nightgown into her bag when a floorboard creaked in the hall.
She turned.
The girl from across the street stood in the doorway.
Her dress hung loosely. Her hair was long and stringy, covering her eyes.
She held a knife.
She stepped forward.
As she moved into the light, Shannon saw the face beneath the hair.
It was Stephen.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wife
The storm came without warning.
Less than an hour earlier, when Zara arrived at the cabin, the sky had been clear.
Now lightning split the darkness.
In the brief flash, she saw the road had washed away completely.
“So much for tonight,” she muttered.
Her phone rang.
Joe.
“The roads are washed out, babe. I cannot make it.”
“I figured.”
“There is always tomorrow.”
They never had enough time. Stolen weekends. Secret nights.
His wife made sure of that.
After the call, she lay in the dark.
The power flickered and went out.
Perfect.
She found a candle in the kitchen and lit it.
Lightning flashed again.
For a split second, someone stood outside the window.
She blinked.
Gone.
Her phone rang again.
“You are going to die,” a distorted voice said.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then glass shattered in the kitchen.
Heart pounding, she grabbed the fireplace poker.
The kitchen window was broken. A tree branch jutted through the frame.
“Get a grip,” she whispered.
Her phone chimed.
Shame about the window. I would not count on Joe to fix it.
Cold spread through her chest.
She dialed Joe.
Behind her, a phone began to ring.
Joe’s ringtone.
Inside the cabin.
She turned.
Joe’s wife stood in the doorway.
Older than the photos. Hair gray and wild. Eyes dark and unhinged.
“Karen?”
Zara raised the poker.
Karen lifted her hands.
In one, she held a butcher knife.
In the other, Joe’s severed head.
“I told you,” Karen said softly. “You were going to die.”
