Five years ago, my husband Mark died from what the county coroner ruled a fatal domestic accident—a slip down our basement stairs.
Arthur heard Arthur’s footsteps growing louder, drawing closer to the utility room door. He was coming.
My mind raced, frantically searching for an option. There was no escape through the basement, not with the jammed deadbolts and the storm.
I could still hear the faint *clink* of glass from the kitchen, the sounds of him preparing his deadly script.
Suddenly, a piercing, deafening shriek erupted from the ceiling above.
*EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!*
It was a sound so loud, so unexpected, that it made my teeth ache. It wasn’t a smoke alarm. It was something else.
Something electronic, high-pitched, vibrating through the very structure of the house.
It was Leo’s tripwire alarm. He’d built it, talking for weeks about hacking into the house’s smart circuit board, “just for fun.”
The sound filled the entire house, bouncing off the walls, a sonic assault that disoriented completely.
Upstairs, Arthur swore loudly. I heard the crash of glass, a bottle hitting the tile floor.
His footsteps faltered, then stopped. He was blinded by the noise.
This was my chance.
I flung open the utility room door, bursting into the kitchen. The high-pitched shriek was almost unbearable here, ringing in my ears.
Arthur was standing by the medicine cabinet, hunched over, his hands clamped over his ears, his face contorted in pain. A glint of metal—the syringe—lay on the floor near his feet.
He was momentarily incapacitated.
I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted past him, a blur of motion in the near total darkness.
The noise was pure agony, but it was also my shield.
Arthur lurched, still clutching his head, trying to turn. His eyes, wide with surprise and pain, barely registered me.
I shot through the kitchen, into the main hallway. My goal: the front door. The only other exit.
I reached for the deadbolt. My fingers fumbled, slick with sweat.
Just as I grasped the cold metal, the piercing shriek abruptly cut off.
Silence. A ringing, agonizing silence that left my ears throbbing.
And then, Arthur’s voice, cold and furious, cutting through the aftermath.
“You think that’s going to stop me?”
He was recovering. Fast.
I spun around. Arthur was already moving, regaining his composure with terrifying speed. His eyes, now clear and sharp, fixed on me.
He took three long strides and was at the front door. Before I could even turn the deadbolt, he slammed his hand against it.
A heavy *CLACK* echoed through the hallway. He had locked it from the outside.
My last escape route, gone.
He smiled, a grim, predatory curve of his lips. “Ninety seconds,” he rasped, his voice raw from the noise. “That’s all your little trick bought you.”
He moved toward me, his hand reaching for my pocket, for the micro-drive.
“Now, where is it, Laura?” he growled, his eyes fixed on my jeans. “The drive.”
I backed away, stumbling blindly in the darkness of the hallway. I was cornered.
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