You’ll Be Sorry #2
He hesitated. Stopped once more to listen for the sounds of ordinary family life, maybe the clamor of two adults and four kids getting ready to sit down for dinner. Or, given the chills racing up his spine, perhaps a soft moan or muffled crying.
But still, nothing.
He unsnapped his holster, drew his weapon.
Chief Grady had been a cop all his life, from big city to small town.
He knew instinct mattered as much as anything when it came to returning home alive.
Given he’d left urban policing for the sake of his wife and five-year-old daughter, no way he was going to ignore the warnings screaming through his head right now.
Staying to the hinged side of the door. Pushing it slowly open with the barrel of his service pistol. Peering into the dusk-washed interior, muscles tense, gaze intent.
Dog had disappeared. Just a clack of nails on hardwood as the canine swept his way through the house. That soft, anxious whine. The occasional low huff.
Chief Grady opened the door all the way, fully exposing the vast living area, with its high vaulted ceiling and impressive timber beams. The room was dominated by a stone fireplace, framed on both sides by walls of glass that were angled forward like the prow of a ship, as if the home itself were ready to sail off the cliff into the great unknown.
Even this time of evening, the first blush of pink staining the horizon, the windows let in enough light to illuminate the interior.
Grady could discern an obviously well-loved leather sectional dotted with embroidered pillows, a rectangular coffee table half-covered by a recently started jigsaw puzzle, as well as a clutch of strategically placed candles next to the table lamps.
A normal family room scene, sans the family.
Dog’s steps, now clacking from the second floor, where a long hallway led to the bedrooms.
Grady carefully swept his way through the main living area, sticking to the perimeter to minimize contamination.
He noted many things at once: The smoky scent of a recent fire in the fireplace.
Drinking glasses dotting various surfaces—four smaller cups, probably belonging to the kids; two wineglasses, probably belonging to the adults.
A cluttered dining room table, one end covered in an assortment of metal building pieces he recognized from his own days with Erector sets.
The other end bore a cheese and cracker platter, partially consumed.
As in started. But not finished. Because…
Grady shivered, mentally chided himself not to be an idiot, shivered again.
It wasn’t just the silence that was getting to him now. The house felt wrong. Too empty. There were signs of family everywhere and yet no family. Like the house was no longer a home, but theater staging from a particularly ominous play.
He already knew he wouldn’t like how this one ended.
Exploring the kitchen with its butler’s pantry and walk-in dry goods room.
Carefully working his way down to the basement, quickly inventorying the unfinished space.
One last section of the house to sweep, up, up, up to the second-floor bedrooms. He eased down the long, increasingly shadowed hallway.
Six bedrooms in total. Two of those were outfitted with bunk beds.
One for the girls, one for the boys, with a Jack-and-Jill bath in between.
The entire adjoined space was a study in chaos, with clothing, shoes, towels, and toys strewn in every direction. Kids at work, no doubt about it.
The corner master suite was tidier, clothes hung, bed made, but still, toothbrushes plunked next to the double sinks, hairbrush positioned to one side, a small collection of moisturizers lined up before the mirror.
If anyone had packed up personal possessions for a road trip, Grady wasn’t seeing it.
Easing back out of the room. Feeling his heart pound harder, though he couldn’t have said why.
The two rooms at the other end of the hall were shuttered, shades tightly drawn. Guest rooms, Grady deduced. Same with the final bathroom. Final check, same empty result. Which left him with…
Nothing.
Grady retreated down the stairs. Time to make a call. County sheriff? State police? Hell, local medium? He honestly had no idea what resources one needed for a scene such as this.
Dog had headed back outside. No longer whining. No longer woofing. It made Grady feel worse, like he failed a concerned family member. There was nothing about this that was good.
Dammit.
The sun was almost all the way down now, casting the entire interior into shadow. Grady returned to the entryway, holstered his weapon, snapped on the overhead lights. Least power seemed to be back.
Which was when he spotted the first stain, what he’d missed from the beginning given the dark hue of the hardwood floor. It looked almost like a splotch of mud, except there was another and then another and then another.
By the time Grady hunkered down and truly understood what he was seeing, he was doubly grateful he’d kept to the side during his search.
Because now, clearly illuminated by the overhead lights, he could see zigzagging patterns, as if someone had dashed pell-mell through the house.
Leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints.
Grady glanced around the empty great room one last time. The half-eaten snacks. Recently poured drinks. Barely touched puzzle.
As if a family of six had been sitting right here, eating right here, laughing right here.
Then, in the next instant…
Grady got on his radio and reported in to dispatch.
On the front porch, Dog began a mournful howl.