THREE
Curtis Perry had fallen asleep in his living room watching an old horror movie which had devoted entirely too much screen time to Donald Sutherland’s naked ass.
Perry had awakened bathed in the dim red glow of the DVD’s menu, awakened to the repeated symphonic blurb from the soundtrack that played over the menu screen. The sound of tense strings rose in pitch and tempo only to break off and start again.
And he’d awoken unable to move.
He told his body to stand, but nothing happened.
Thinking he wasn’t completely awake, he tried to shake his head to no avail.
A movement in the kitchen doorway to his left drew his attention, but he couldn’t turn his head or move his eyes to track it.
<I’ve had some sort of neurological event,> he thought. <A TIA, small stroke, either that or I am still dreaming. Dreaming scary because of the movie.> Though he should have dreamed ghost children in rain slickers if it had anything to do with Donald Sutherland…
The change in the light in the kitchen doorway happened again, but Perry was no more successful at getting up or turning his head to see what it was. <A car drove by or a bird flew close to the street light.> He knew it couldn’t have been anything in the house because the only sound he heard was the rapid trill of the strings, just the same phrase of music from the TV. The only light came from the screen and a dull glow from the kitchen window around the corner.
Perry pushed with everything he had trying to stand, but he couldn’t even rock in his seat. <If I can fall to the floor, maybe I can get to the cell phone on the TV stand or the wall phone in the kitchen.>
The change in the light from the kitchen was more pronounced the third time. It didn’t move in a smooth sweep, like headlights passing or an animal shadow in motion. It jerked, shuddered, repeated in an epileptic loop. He thought he saw the hem of a dress or a robe. Could someone be in the house with him?
Perry tried to make a sound to alert them that he needed help, but nothing came out.
In the second or two of silence between the end of one trill of strings and the beginning of the next, Perry heard a mumbling, growling almost-voice. He couldn’t pick out words. He waited for the music to cycle through to the few seconds of dead air and strained to hear. It sounded like someone speaking backwards, a raw rumbling whisper that chilled him to the point of goose bumps despite the heat he was generating trying to move.
Perry didn’t want to hear it again.
The hem of the robe now hovered just within his field of vision. It seemed to hover above the sliver of the kitchen floor he could see and melt into it at the same time.
The music paused; the voice that wasn’t any human voice came again. Perry wanted to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth.
The television screen went black. With a pop the music stopped.
The backwards growl came from just behind Perry’s ear; he realized he could open his mouth.
Finally, with his last breath, he was able to scream.