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Shades of Night; Collected Short Stories: 1996-1999
What the Dead May Do
Chapter 5 Page 14
Shades of Night; Collected Short Stories: 1996-1999
What the Dead May Do
Chapter 5 Page 14
With unbelievable stealth and skill, the man arrived on a bedroom ledge that opened into Sol's oldest daughter's bedroom. The veranda doors were unlocked. He eased inside like a black cat, shutting the glass behind him. I followed.
Past the sleeping girl, through a doorway and along a hall, through another doorway and up a flight of stairs we went, arriving at the master bedroom without deviation or hesitation, as though the man had lived in Sol's house all his life. I found it strange that, after all the trouble he had taken to arrange entry to the house and gain access to his victims, the man only replaced a bottle of pills standing on a bedside night table. Having apparently completed his errand, the intruder returned the way he had come.
I wondered why a man of his obvious talent would do such a strange thing . . .
. . . and next it was the following morning. The sun was shining through Sol's open bedroom windows. His son and daughters had left for school. Sol was sitting on the edge of his bed, half dressed, running his long fingers through his thinning hair. Beside him, his wife Mary lay stiff and still. On the night table, the bottle of pills was opened, its cap missing. A half full glass of water was sitting on a finely crafted doily.
Sol's bedroom telephone rang and rang and rang. I thought he might not answer, and when he did, it was with a tired, listless voice. 'Who is it?'
Past the sleeping girl, through a doorway and along a hall, through another doorway and up a flight of stairs we went, arriving at the master bedroom without deviation or hesitation, as though the man had lived in Sol's house all his life. I found it strange that, after all the trouble he had taken to arrange entry to the house and gain access to his victims, the man only replaced a bottle of pills standing on a bedside night table. Having apparently completed his errand, the intruder returned the way he had come.
I wondered why a man of his obvious talent would do such a strange thing . . .
. . . and next it was the following morning. The sun was shining through Sol's open bedroom windows. His son and daughters had left for school. Sol was sitting on the edge of his bed, half dressed, running his long fingers through his thinning hair. Beside him, his wife Mary lay stiff and still. On the night table, the bottle of pills was opened, its cap missing. A half full glass of water was sitting on a finely crafted doily.
Sol's bedroom telephone rang and rang and rang. I thought he might not answer, and when he did, it was with a tired, listless voice. 'Who is it?'
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