No sooner had Sylvie walked through the door than she realized it wasn’t any warmer inside than it was outside. The house was freezing. She locked the door, then slid the chain in place and turned the dead bolt. No one was getting in through that door! Sylvie turned up the thermostat to 90° and walked over and added three more logs to the glowing embers in the woodstove. As long as she kept the living room and kitchen woodstoves burning, this side of the house was warm enough; but the back was like an icebox. In order to get the bedroom, office, and bathroom warm she had to crank the thermostat way up. She’d talked to the contractor who was here today about it. He only did exterior siding, windows, and doors. He suggested she call the electrical contractor who’d installed the heating system to see if anything could be done to fix the problem. He admitted that if it was him, he wouldn’t spend the money. That a cheaper, quicker fix was to install some doorway fans to move the warm air from room to room and to get a couple of space heaters. He laughed and told her she needed to get herself some thermal underwear. That was the only sure way to keep away the mountain chill. He also advised her that in light of what happened last night, and because she was living out here alone, he thought Sylvie should get a home security system put in. He’d given her the name of a local company that did that kind of work. Home ownership wasn’t the picnic she thought it would be.
She hung up her jacket and walked to the kitchen to tend the woodstove there. Sylvie added three wax-covered pine cones and couple of logs to the coals. The pine cones ignited almost instantaneously. A moment later ribbons of flame began to dance around the wood. She closed the stove’s heavy glass and cast iron door and focused her attention on the new, wooden back door. It certainly looked substantial enough and every lock was engaged. All was well! She was about to return to the living room when she noticed something on the counter. She stared at it a moment before she realized what it was…an iPod and a mini speaker. Meagan had one just like it. One of the workmen must have left it. She reached for the wall mounted cordless phone to call the contractor and tell him; but before she could pick it up she noticed a black leather duffel bag on the floor. Next to it were four pieces of two-by-two, each about three feet long, each with an L-shaped metal bracket affixed at one end. A long metal nut was fitted into one of the brackets and secured by a nut on the other side. The bolt was long enough to go through all four brackets at once. Sylvie couldn’t think what it was for. Even joined together, the pieces were too short to fit the door jam. She eyed the wood trying to envision what it would look like when it was screwed together. Like a big X she thought. Sylvie shook her head and picked up the phone to call him. The phone was dead. There was no dial tone. Her eyes quickly went from the phone to the jack. It was plugged in. What the hell? Had they accidently cut the line when they were doing the work today? She needed a phone!
Sylvie was startled when music began coming from the iPod. She could hear kettle drums and a choir singing the ominous sounding O Fortuna from Carmina Burana. She had to strain to hear it at first, but then the music swelled. The frenzied staccato rhythm of the strings was soon joined by horns and woodwinds. The tone of the singers seemed somber and threatening as their voices rose to a crescendo. The beating drums, the pulsing tempo, made the piece sound macabre, almost maniacal. She struggled to catch her breath. Something was wrong! Very wrong! Sylvie pulled the largest knife she owned from the rack on the counter. With trembling hands she bent and unzipped the duffle bag. Christ! Though she couldn’t see everything it contained, what she did see terrified her. On top was what appeared to be a pocket-sized Taser or stun gun with two small prongs protruding from one end. She could see box cutters, duct tape, a black satin sleep mask, cigars, rope, and clear plastic trash bags.
The son of a bitch was in the house! How had he gotten in? Had he snuck in while she was outside trying to get her cell phone to work? In broad daylight? She’d underestimated him. He was more brazen than she imagined! He knew she wasn’t expecting him till after dark. In the light of day, she’d let down her guard. Just as he hoped she would. Her body began to shake. She could barely breathe. Keep your head Sylvie! Don’t Panic! Think! She needed to get out. Now!
She hurried to the door and was ready to unlock it when she noticed two small, white plastic things wedged between the top of the door and the jams. Shit! She could see a tiny red light blinking on each. She decided they must be some kind of miniature alarms. The minute she tried to escape they’d go off and he’d come after her. You could see the back porch from the bedroom window. Was he standing there watching to see what she’d do? She had to calm down. Think rationally. If she ran and he caught her, he’d drag her back and use those things in the bag on her. She needed to get rid of them. But how?
She looked around the room. Her eyes settled on the stove. Sylvie put down the knife and quietly opened the oven. She tried to force the heavy bag inside, but it wouldn’t fit. It was too bulky and long. She wouldn’t be able to close the door. She started pulling things from the bag and putting them into the oven. She slipped two rolls of duct tape and several lengths of rope under the rack along with all the plastic bags and box cutters. She felt around and found what appeared to be a gynecologist’s speculum and two hard plastic boxes at the bottom of the bag. One held thin-bladed scalpels and syringes. The other was a small tool chest containing screwdrivers, pliers, clamps, a small tack hammer, and a variety of picks. She put them in the oven too.
There were three small bottles in the bag. Each nestled in its own bubble wrap sleeve. Sylvie had no idea what they contained, but suspected it was something awful. She had to get rid of them, but was fairly certain putting them in the oven would be a bad idea. She opened each bottle slowly, taking pains to hold them as far away from her as possible, so she wouldn’t breathe the fumes. The first looked like clear water. Hydrochloric acid maybe?. She dumped it in the drain and turned on the faucet. The liquid in the second was slightly yellow in color. She didn’t realize what it was until she poured it out. It reeked of rotten eggs. Sulphuric acid! She turned her head and held her breath as the water flushed it into the pipes. The third was thick and brownish. It had the consistency of motor oil, but smelled like ammonia. Lye perhaps? She emptied it into the sink and continued running water down the drain. She was worried that if the liquids weren’t sufficiently diluted, they might produce a lethal chemical reaction in the pipes causing an explosion or release of deadly gas. What exactly had this monster planned to do to her?
Sylvie turned her attention back to the contents of the bag. She shoved as much as she could into the oven and set the temperature to 475°, hoping it would catch fire and burn; or, at the very least, get hot enough to melt the plastic, rendering most of his implements unusable. But there was still more. How could she dispose of the rest?
She thought about filling a pot with water and boiling the Taser. But if he could use it as a weapon, so could she. Sylvie just had to figure out how it worked. It had a switch which she assumed turned it on and off and a button which when pressed delivered a shock. Simple enough…she could do that.
Her hand frantically searched the bag for anything else he could use against her and came across a small pink rectangle and a large flat rubbery feeling one. More Tasers? No! Only one was a stun gun. The other thing was a cell phone. She touched the side and the screen sprang to life. It was turned on. She looked at the top, there was a bar. It was picking up a signal!
She tapped in 911 hoping the music was loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice. When someone picked up the phone at the other end she whispered her address and told the person that there was an intruder in her house, a serial killer.
The person sounded skeptical, almost dismissive, like he thought she was a nut case. Worse still, he didn’t seem to know where Sundown or Peekamoose Road was. ‘Where are you? Give me your exact location,’ he demanded.
Sylvie kept repeating the address, but the man seemed flummoxed.
‘What county are you in?’ he asked in exasperation.
‘Ulster, I’m in Ulster County,’ she told him, ‘the police were here last night they know where I live.’ A second later the call ended when the bar disappeared.
Had he gotten enough information? Would he send someone to help her in time? She didn’t know.
The voice inside her was shouting instructions. Keep your cool! You won’t survive this if you go off the deep end. You have to prepare…use your head. She searched through the bag some more, but couldn’t find anything she thought might be lethal. Sylvie pocketed the cell phone and both the stun guns. If she could just get down to the road she might be able to get some bars. Her eyes fell on the wood. What was he planning to do to her with those? She didn’t want to know. She opened the woodstove door, picked up the two-by-twos, and jammed them in as far as they would go. She angled them, forcing the wood up into the flue. She threw in three handfuls of pinecones. Everything ignited, fire shooting out the door. About a foot of the wood was hanging out of the stove, but there was nothing she could do about it. Thankfully, the floor wouldn’t burn.
She picked up the knife and stared at it. In order to stab him with it, or shock him with the stun guns, she’d have to get close enough to touch him. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She needed a better weapon. Where were her guns? Her heart started pounding. All the guns were in the bedroom. That’s probably where he was now, lying in wait for her. Her head suddenly cleared. No, not all the guns. One was in the drawer in the coffee table. As the music blared in the background Sylvie made a dash for the living room. Her peripheral vision caught sight of something big and black running toward her from the other side of the house. Sylvie ran around the couch; and dropping the knife, dove at the coffee table, pulling the drawer from its tracks. She grabbed the Smith & Wesson .38 and struggled to her feet to face him. She gasped. He looked like an alien or something from a horror movie.
He was covered head to toe in buffed black leather, which fit him like a second skin. The mask he wore had dark, green-colored disks covering his eyes, slits for the nostrils, a small silver zipper where the mouth should be, and what appeared to be a cylinder of some sort protruding from the thick collar he wore around his neck. He stopped when he saw the gun. ‘That won’t save you, Sylvie. Put it down,’ an eerie, ghostly-sounding, electronic voice commanded.
‘Shoot him,’ her brain screamed. ‘Shoot him now! Sylvie hesitated. Could she really kill him? Maybe she should just shoot him in the leg or the shoulder? Suddenly the specter bolted for her. The decision was made! She pulled the trigger, aiming for his heart. She hit him square in the chest. His body jerked backward and slammed into the wall. He slumped, but didn’t fall. He was still standing! How was that possible? Sylvie couldn’t believe it. He should have gone down. His hand moved to his chest and she could hear him wheezing and gasping for air. He looked to be in terrible pain; but then, that was the point! She wanted the prick to suffer. Sylvie continued watching him in disbelief. The shot should have killed him. But he didn’t appear to be mortally wounded. He was moving!
Without warning, he pushed himself away from the wall, straightened up, and charged at her. She squeezed the trigger again, this time aiming lower at his belly. Once again the force of the bullet drove him back, but didn’t take him down. He was wailing and groaning, the electronic voice sounding like a bellowing, discordant moog synthesizer. If he was saying actual words, she couldn’t understand them. Howls of pain and rage reverberated through the room. Sylvie’s first instinct was to run. But there were three locks on the door and she didn’t dare turn her back on him. He was stunned, but even though he was injured, he was still dangerous. Sylvie didn’t think she could get the locks undone and out the door without him making another lunge at her. Sylvie didn’t understand. Why wasn’t there blood pulsing out of his wounds? She could see gaping bullet holes in the leather. She’d shot him in the gut and the chest. He should be bleeding out! He should be dying!
She tightened her grip on the gun. He let out a terrifying growl and came at her again. She squeezed off four shots, sending him crashing to the floor. She kept pulling the trigger, but she’d emptied the cylinder. She was out of bullets. He was down…but was he dead? His chest was heaving. But he was taking fewer and fewer breaths, like the life was slowly slipping out of him. But as long as he was breathing, he was a threat. How could he still be alive? She’d emptied the gun into him. It didn’t make sense. And where the fuck was the blood? He should be covered in it. The hackles rose on the back of her neck. Every shot had been to his torso. Suppose he was wearing a bullet proof vest? Suppose he was only momentarily stunned? She had to get to the bedroom. Get to the guns and the ammo. She should have taken the head shot. Why didn’t she? Stupid, Sylvie! So fucking stupid! He might be playing possum right now, pretending to be hurt, and plotting his revenge.
He was sprawled on the floor. How was she going to get around him? Sylvie swallowed hard. She had to get to the guns. She didn’t have a choice. If he was alive and found them he could just as easily use them on her. She looked at the huge vulva perched on the edge of the coffee table. Maybe she should drop it on his head and end this once and for all. That would crack his skull and kill him. Could she do that, even though he wasn’t a threat at the moment? She’d be killing him in cold blood. She’d be no better than him. Sylvie didn’t think she could live with that. A voice inside her was screeching. Are you nuts? Do it! Now, before it’s too late! She envisioned herself picking up the heavy ceramic piece and shattering his skull with it, splattering his brains all over her pretty new floor. No, she couldn’t do that. That would be murder! She couldn’t, wouldn’t! What a fucking idiot! This was no time for an ethical debate. The bastard hadn’t dropped by for a friendly chat or a cup of tea. From what was in the duffle bag, she could only assume he was planning to torture and kill her. Don’t be a fool! Kill him now!
Sylvie didn’t want to think any more. She plastered herself flat against the wall and inched her way past him. He was stirring; she could hear him moaning. She got to the bedroom and was startled to see the shotgun and rifles on top of the bed. He’d found them while he was in here. There were bullets on the bed. Jesus, he’d unloaded them! Her fingers fumbled as she hurried to reload the shotgun and one of the rifles. That’s all she could carry. Sylvie grabbed the other two, then hurriedly slid open the window and punched out the screen. She threw the rifles out into the yard. She went from nightstand to nightstand and retrieved the three handguns. After reloading the empty revolver she tossed the tin with the bullets out the window. She grabbed a couple of shotgun shells out of the remaining tin and tossed that one out the window as well. If she couldn’t kill him with all this…she couldn’t kill him. Grabbing it by the strap, she slung the rifle over her shoulder. Her pockets were filled with stun guns and cell phones. Where was she going to put everything? She spied her purse, dumped the contents out, and put in the guns. She threw the car keys in too.
Sylvie took a deep breath and tried to come up with a plan. She stared at the four windows in the room, they were all narrow sliders, set higher on the wall than normal. Nearly five feet off the floor. She remembered someone saying they were 30 inches wide but only 12 inches high. She’d have a hell of a time trying to fit through there. Not unless she could pull out both windows and widen the opening. She yanked on the framed pane, but it didn’t budge. Maybe she could pry it out of the channel. But with what? All the tools she had were in the laundry room and his tools, hopefully, were on fire in the oven. No, the only way out was through the living room. New plan. She’d go back in there and if he moved she’d shoot him with the shotgun. She didn’t know much about bulletproof vests; but even if he was wearing one, she didn’t think it was any match for a shotgun blast at close range. And if that didn’t stop him, she’d blow his fucking head off! That worked for her. She’d go in there, open the door, get in the car; and, God-willing, get the hell out of here. It sounded like a good plan. But wait…what about him? He might be able to get away. And if he did, this nightmare would never end. She could stand guard with the guns on the outside of the house. If she positioned herself just to the side of the shed, she’d be able to watch both porches and both exterior doors. He wouldn’t be able to get away without her seeing him. He’d have to come out one door or the other because there was no way in hell he could fit through the bedroom or office windows on the other side of the house.
She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Holding the shotgun out in front of her, with her finger poised against the trigger, Sylvie slowly made her way back to the living room. When she came near him, she lowered the gun and aimed it right at him. He didn’t stir. He was still breathing, but in shudders, as though every breath was an agony. Once Sylvie got by him she hurried to the front door. She stopped when she saw the knife on the floor. Retrieving it she dumped it in her purse. She was taking no chances. She slid back the deadbolt when she heard the music start again. She immediately knew what it was…Ravel’s Bolero! She and Connor had made love to it. The breath caught in her lungs. She turned in alarm and studied the figure on the floor. She could feel a lump suddenly growing in her throat. He was tall: about 6’2′ or 6’3′. Same as Connor. His chest and shoulders were broad and his belly flat. His torso was long. He had muscular thighs, bulging biceps, and his leather covered ass, what she could see of it, was tight and well-muscled. Everything about him, even the shape of his head reminded her of Connor. If she were to hug him, her head would tuck under his chin and her breasts would press against his hard chest just the way they did with Connor. No, it couldn’t be! He’d never do such a thing! And yet…
She had to get out of here now! She turned back to the door and fumbled to undo the chain. She was unlocking the door when she heard a sound like something big scurrying across the floor. She looked to where he’d been laying…he was gone. Sylvie felt her legs being pulled out from under her. Her shotgun and purse went flying. She stared down in horror as she fell. He was on the floor, right beside her. Her leg kicked out at him as she landed. She was lying on the rifle; she couldn’t get it out from under her. She kept kicking him in the head. Trying to knock him out, break his nose, something. He grabbed for her ankles, but she wriggled away and struggled to her feet. She picked up the vulva from the coffee table and tried to smash it down on his head, but he pulled away at the last minute and she missed her target. It slammed into his back instead. He growled in rage, but the blow didn’t seem to faze him at all.
He got to his feet and lunged at her. She tried to put the coffee table and couch between the two of them. But he kept grabbing for her. She reached behind her, and as hard as she could, swept the mantle with her hand, sending linga, Venuses, oil lamps, and Aunt Tizzy’s urn at him. When that didn’t deter him, she kicked at the coffee table; lifting it up into the air and lobbing the firecracker tin toward his head. It missed him, crashing to the floor, and spewing its contents everywhere. She pulled the rifle from her shoulder and tried to maneuver it around so she could take aim and fire, but he was too close. He grabbed the barrel and forced it up into the air. She kicked at him frantically, trying to get him in the balls so he’d let loose the gun, but he was turning and twisting, deflecting every kick. All the while managing to keep his hold on the weapon. They continued to struggle, but Sylvie was no match for him. With a violent, forceful push, he let go of the barrel and sent her crashing back into the book shelves, causing pottery to rain down from the shelves onto her head and shoulders. She was momentarily disoriented. With trembling hands she lifted the gun and took aim at his head; but before she was able to pull the trigger, she saw him swing the poker. It caught her in the temple. Sylvie heard bone crack as an explosion of pain ripped through her skull. Her knees buckled as the rifle fell from her hands and she descended into darkness.
