Chapter 9 - THE INTIMACY OF FEAR
CRASH.
The sound of thick, double-paned glass exploding into a thousand tiny fragments echoed up the open stairwell. The high-pitched, metallic chime of the house’s independent entry alarm began to blare, a loud, pulsing beep-beep-beep that filled the air.
On the old phone screen, the video feed of the backyard showed the porch was now empty. The intruder was inside.
Lily retreated into the deep recesses of her walk-in closet. She pulled a heavy stack of thick winter blankets and sleeping bags over her, hiding herself completely under a mountain of wool and down. But she left a tiny, two-inch gap in the closet door, giving her a clear, unobstructed view of her bedroom door and the barricaded dresser.
She held the old phone tightly in her hand, watching the screen, but her ears were now her primary sensors. She began to track the intruder’s progress through the house by the subtle, damp sounds he made.
Squelch. Squelch.
The sound of wet, rubber-soled boots stepping over the broken glass in the kitchen.
A pause. The alarm was still blaring. The intruder didn't run; he knew the neighborhood was dark and the police would be slow. He was calm.
The wet footsteps moved out of the kitchen, transitioning from the hard tile to the soft, thick carpet of the living room. The sound became a muffled, heavy thud.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He was searching the ground floor, checking the study, the dining room, looking for valuables. Then, the footsteps stopped at the base of the grand wooden staircase.
Creak.
The first step of the stairs groaned under his heavy weight. Lily squeezed her eyes shut, pulling her dad's heavy steel laser level tight against her chest.
May you like
Creak. Creak. Creak.
He was coming up, step by step, ascending into the amber-lit hallway. The heavy, wet thuds reached the top landing. He paused, his shadow cutting through the dim amber light under Lily’s door. He was standing right outside.
