Chapter 3
The pull of the string is followed immediately by the electric hum of a single sixty-watt bulb dangling from a wire. It flickers once, then twice, before settling into a yellow glow too faint to reach the corners of the room.
I step over the threshold and grab the white five-gallon pail, heavy in my right hand.
The wire handle digs into my flesh, cutting off the circulation to my fingers, turning them a mottled purple.
It’s the kind of bucket you buy at a hardware store to mix grout, rigid and industrial, but the weight shifting inside isn't grout.
It sloshes with a thick, viscous movement. Like slop.
My sneakers squeak against the concrete floor. I hold my breath, counting the steps to the far corner where the shadows are thickest, huddled together like frightened children.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The muted sound hammers from the front door.
Someone’s here. My heart hammers back, and for a single precarious moment, the bucket tilts.
In that second, time stretches as I watch the rim of the bucket dip.
The liquid inside surges toward the edge, cresting like a miniature tidal wave.
My free hand shoots out to grab the rim.
The liquid laps at the edge of the plastic lip, a single droplet trembling there, held back only by surface tension.
Do not drop it!
The knocking ends but the doorbell chimes.
My visitor’s impatience is going to cost me my life, if I’m not careful.
Because if this bucket tips over, it’s not just a mess.
It’s the end for me. It’s police tape and handcuffs and a Breaking News banner across the bottom of every TV screen in America.
It’s my face on the cover of the Doomwood Falls Daily.
It is the total and complete annihilation of the life I have carefully constructed over the last year.
The droplet rolls back into the depths of the bucket and I slowly exhale. For now I leave the bucket in the corner. It looks innocent enough in the shadows, just a bucket. I back away and yank the string again. Click.
Darkness swallows the room instantly, eager to hide what I’ve done.