SEVENTEEN
***
Lenore moved from her kitchen into the hall for the thousandth time. She couldn't stop. Every time she thought about ceasing her movement, another thud would sound from somewhere else in the house and she would have to go and investigate.
She knew she should leave; should get out, but each time she had moved to the door, she found herself back in the house again, as though she had descended into a fugue state and sleepwalked back to the depths of her domicile.
She had tried to call the police once, had tried to reach out for help through the telephone, but when she went to dial all she got was a strange, high-pitched tone and the realization that if she was talking on the phone that meant that at least one hand was occupied. And that was one hand less than she felt she would need to fight off whoever - or whatever - was in her house with her.
She looked down suddenly as she realized she was holding something.
It was a piece of paper. Dark writing filled its space, the same word written over and over again.
FeAR
Lenore shivered. She didn't remember writing that. Remembered precious little of the last few hours, in fact. It was all a nightmare blur of movement from one room to the next in an endless circuit that never comforted her, but only heightened the feeling of terror that now threatened to overwhelm her.
She felt like she was there again. The place it had happened.
The parking lot.
She squinted and suddenly the lighting in her house changed. It was no longer the cool, sterile light of the neon bulbs she had installed, but was now the flickering yellow of a parking lot lamp, making everything around her appear sickly and jaundiced.
The paper dropped from her nerveless fingers.
What the hell is going on? she wondered, but the words were not angry, or even defiant. Just frightened. Terrified, in fact.
She at last felt whatever chains had bound her to this place during the last hours shatter, and hurried to the front door, intent on leaving. The door had a small window inset at eye level so she could see outside in the event of a knock at the door.
She couldn't see anything out there.
Not her porch, not the street.
Nothing. Just a pale, uniform gray that bespoke the presence of a thick fog. She knew that running into such weather could result in her getting lost within inches of her home, but she didn't care. She had to get out.
She ran to the door, sparing a quick look at the security device next to it. The LED still glowed green. "No intrusions detected."
Then a muffled thud sounded.
She turned, feeling the world dilate around her as though she had stepped into a hole in time-space that would elongate this instant in this place into an eternity of suffering and despair.
She turned, feeling an icy hand grip her heart and begin constricting it.
She turned, and couldn't breathe.
Then she found her breath. She inhaled deeply, then screamed louder than she ever had before, loud enough that she could feel the insides of her throat slough of in an instant under the pressure.
Because he was there.
He was just as he had been, those years ago. Still, impossibly, the same. Mid-thirties, with a face that would have been handsome had it not been so obviously cruel. His eyes were dark pits to Hell under the bushy brows that were now drawn together in a nasty leer.
"Hey, beautiful baby," said the man, and licked his lips.
Lenore shook her head in disbelief. How could this be happening? He was in jail. He couldn't have gotten out, and even if he had, he could not have found her. It was impossible.
As she shook her head, she saw something from the corner of her eye: her hair. It had been drawn back in a severe bun when she got home. She knew it was because that was how she always wore it now. But somehow it was down, hanging loosely around her shoulders, falling in a low sweep of loose, beautiful curls.
Feeling cold, she looked down at herself. Like her hair, her clothing had changed. Gone were the gray skirt and blouse, and her formless gray sweater had also disappeared. Instead, she was now wearing a short skirt that had been cut to show off her legs to maximum effect, and a brightly-colored tank top that dipped low enough that little was left to the imagination.
She started shaking. Her hair, her clothes...even her shoes, which were now spike heels. They had all changed to what she had worn on that night, so many years before, when she had last faced the maniac who even now was walking toward her.
"Beautiful," he said, and licked his lips with a tongue that was dark and scabbed as though leprous. He pulled out a knife, a long, wickedly gleaming blade that she knew could cut through nearly anything.
He rushed at her, his hands outstretched, fingers clutching spasmodically, grasping at her.
Lenore turned to flee, but found the door locked. Triple-locked, in fact, and there was no time to unlock it before the man would be upon her. Indeed, even as she realized that fact, the thug slammed into her from behind, his heavy, hot mass driving her into the wooden door. She hit her face on the door and saw stars, her vision temporarily going black at the edges before she regained her senses. She put one foot up on the wall in front of her and used it to push back, throwing both herself and the thug off-balance.
They fell to the ground in a tumbling pile of thrashing legs. Lenore was on her feet first, having been ready for the sudden movement, but she could see that the man would follow suit in an instant. Again, she had no time to unlock the door and escape into the street, so she took the only avenue left to her.
With a scream of fear and despair long-buried but now somehow resurfacing, Lenore turned and ran deeper into her house, a madman close behind her.
***