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Please sign my
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I don't know what inspired me to
write this strange little story, but it's
HOUSE OF SILENCE by Sharon Kizziah-Holmes
A noise. Something had drawn Bailey from a deep sleep. She squinted into the darkness. Was it her husband coming to bed? "Ken?" When he didn't answer, she listened for movement. Nothing. Only silence. Glancing at the digital clock, she wondered what was keeping him. He always came to bed before this time of night. "Ken?" she yelled. She turned on the bedside light and threw back the covers. It irritated her when he fell asleep at his desk. She slipped on her house shoes and started down the stairs to the study. He'd said months ago that the mystery he was writing was his best work yet. Now it was close to completion. He thought he'd finish it in the next couple of days. Experience told her he would labor over it until his fingers fell off, but this was ridiculous. She stopped on the bottom step. "Ken, are you coming to bed?" Things were quiet, too quiet. "Ken?" An eerie hush echoed in her ears. Her scalp crawled. Something was wrong. Her feet refused to take that last step. "Honey, is everything okay? She drew in a long breath. Why did the serenity of the night scare her? Of course. Ken was right, this must be one of his best creations. He had told her of the thickening plot earlier, and now she was letting her imagination run wild. They had lived in this old country home for years, it was always quiet. That's why she loved it so much. Why should this noiseless night be any different? Still, there was something. "Oh, you're being silly," she whispered. She forced herself to take the last step then walk to the study. From the doorway, she saw Ken. His arms were folded and rested on the desk, making a cushion for his head. "Ken, honey, why didn't you answer me?" She smiled when she got no response. He was so tired. This wouldn't be the first time she had to shake him awake after a full day's writing. A cold draft whooshed from behind tugging at her hair. Goose flesh rose on her skin and she straightened. She turned and approached the window. "You're going to catch your death of cold. It's mid-winter out there," she scolded. The curtain lay still. She pulled it back slowly. The window was closed. Where had that frosty air come form? She glanced about the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Except the silence. It surrounded her. Quiet. She felt so -- alone. She turned toward her husband once again. "Ken, wake up." He didn't move. "Ken!" She grabbed his shoulder. There was still no response. She shook him. Her heart sank. What was wrong with him? He had to wake up. Grabbing a handful of his blond locks she yanked his head back. "Ken! Wake up!" "What the. . ." He jerked upright.
His deep voice was
different, probably strained from being waken, but it was
music to her ears. She leaned to embrace him. "Oh, honey, you scared me."
Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly speak. "Bailey, everything's all right." He slowly stood and pulled her to him. She searched his face. His eyes, something about them seemed--unusual, lifeless in a way. "Are you feeling okay? You're freezing. And your eyes..." He chuckled. "You scared the hell out of me when you woke me up. I'm fine. Funny, I feel better than I have in years. Free, alive. What a power nap, plus the story's done." She allowed him to lead as they ascended the stairs to the bedroom. Feeling a strangeness behind them, she glanced over her shoulder. "Ken, does the house seem . . . I don't know, silent?" "Silent? Were you expecting it to talk to you?" "Smart ass." His teasing lightened her mood. "So your stories done?" "Yeah," " I didn't see the manuscript. Where is it?" "You'll know soon enough. Hey, the main character got murdered at the end." She swallowed hard. "What? The mystery writer you characterized after yourself?" "That writer is me, Bailey. I want you to listen now, and listen closely. You might need to know this some day." She shuddered. He was trying to frighten her by making the tone of his voice almost--ghostly. "His agent sneaked into his house, then into his study. There was no struggle because the agent slipped in behind him and slit his throat. Then he stole the completed manuscript." Her stomach churned. She could have gone all night without hearing that. "Oooooh, that's creepy, let's not talk about it. After the scare I just had, I don't need to hear anymore." * * * Bailey's eyes fluttered open. She glanced at Ken's side of the bed. He was gone, but the noise from down stairs kept on. "Okay. Okay, I'm coming." Bailey glanced at the close bathroom door where her husband probably was. "I'll get it the door." she said, then yawned and put on her robe. "After the lovemaking you did last night, you need your rest. Go back to bed." Again, the beating from down stairs reached her ears along with a vague voice. "Mrs. Harris, are you all right?" Was she all right? What was going on? She rushed down the stairs, past the study and to the door. The incessant hammering was giving her a headache. "Just a minute! Damn, I can only get there so fast." She looked through the peephole. "The police?" Quickly she twisted the lock and opened the door. Seeing concern on the man's face, her apprehension heightened. "What in the world is wrong, officer?" "I'm sorry it took us so long to get here, ma'am." "So long to get here? For what?" "Could we come in?" She partially closed the door and blocked them from entering. Her mind was in a whirl. "Not until you tell me what this is all about." "Mrs. Harris, we got a phone call earlier this morning. The man on the line said there'd been a--well--a murder at this location. We're here to investigate." "A murder? Why, that's absurd. Everything's fine. You must have the wrong house. Did the person who called give their name? It's easy to get lost out here." She knew she was rambling, but the mention of murder made her blood run cold, especially after Ken's story on the way to bed. All she wanted was to get rid of these people. "We're not lost, ma'am. The man identified himself as Kenneth Harris. Is that your husband?" "Ken? Yes. But h-he's upstairs. He didn't make any calls this morning. I'm sure of it." "Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone hanging around? Any strange noises?" "Of course not. Nothing's been out of the ordinary." Noises? She pushed back the memories of the previous night and the eerie silence that filled the house. That was silly, the place was quiet now as well. "We need to check the premises, ma'am." This was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard of, but anything to get them out of her hair. All she wanted to do was get back in bed and have Ken's protective arms around her. "Oh, all right. You wait here, I'll get my husband." If they claimed Ken made the call, then she'd let him deal with them. She closed the door, turned and walked toward the stairs. Just like last night, the silence of the house engulfed her. Her skin bristled when a cold draft, identical to the one the night before, swept by her. Where the hell was it coming from. Oh, well, she didn't have time to look for the source right now. "Ken? Honey come down here. Hurry." As she walked by the study, she glanced through the door way. Her feet filled with lead. She could go no farther. Her throat constricted, suppressing the scream that tried to escape. "Ken?" He sat motionless at his desk, exactly as she had found him the night before. Dressed in the same clothes, same lifeless position. This was impossible. He'd gone to bed with her. He made love to her like never before. He said loving things to her and told her secrets he'd never divulged in the past. Why was her mind playing these tricks on her? Damn this quiet house. With all the talk of murder mystery novels, and the police at the door, she was losing her sanity. Her racing heart slowed. She understood now. It wasn't her mind playing tricks on her, it was her unrelenting husband. Ken was surely playing a joke on her. That sly dog. "Okay, Ken, this has gone far enough." She advanced toward him. "Don't you think the police have better things to do than come out here so you can scare your poor wife half to death?" His hair shone in the sunlight streaming through the window. She reached down, and grabbed it. "You are so bad, honey." When she pulled his head back, just like she'd done less than twelve hours earlier, his body slumped to the floor. Blood marked his clothing and seeped into the carpet. A scream ripped at her insides. Violently, it fought to escape, forcing its way upward as if it were a living entity. Opening her mouth, her shriek shattered the silence.
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