Secret Within {ON HOLD}

Chapter I

– Mort Rainey –

– Six Months Later –

I stir into consciousness at the subtle knocking on the front door. Deciding against dealing with any form of social interactions right now, I ignore the knocks, drifting back into blackness on my couch. I don't want my soft, snore-filled slumber to be disturbed at the moment.

Then there's the aggressive squeaking of the doorknob coupled with the shaking of the door, the unexpected visitor clearly gaining impatience.

Leave me alone, I think in lazy irritation as his persistence intensifies.

The knocking begins again, more agitated than before, just ensuing the doorknob's wriggles. I open my eyes with a start, and lift my hand, staring in the direction of the front door. I raise my eyebrows, waiting to hear a voice. Not a word sounds out, though; only the continuation of the pestering knocks.

Fully awakened—and utterly annoyed—I groan tiredly, and put on my glasses that rested on the pillow next to my face. I then proceed to get up with great effort.

Knock knock knock knock knock! hammers the door in its beckoning. I throw the silhouette of the hatted figure outside a glare, my slippered-feet shuffling to the door.

I scratch my head and yawn a little, realizing how unprepared I am for guests, only wearing a loose shirt, baggy pajama sweats, and a blue, striped bathrobe with a gaping hole on the right shoulder's seam, the fabric sharing an array of muted colors.

Screw it, I think. I don't bother to fix my ragged appearance or disheveled hair; I don't give a damn what anyone thinks about my habits anymore. Or really, about me.

I open the door, revealing to my increasing disappointment a man taller than me by at least six inches, his height including his flat-brimmed hat. He is donned with a periwinkle collared shirt, buttons clasped to the top; and a loose, black blazer, which matches his hat in color. This man—with mousy features, ears that stick outwards minutely, and a prominent nose—delivers me an even, daring glare as I lean against the doorframe in a bored manner.

I would expect a "good morning" or an "afternoon" from an uninvited visitor that dares to take a step onto my front porch. That's what everyone does when they decide to walk onto your front steps without an invitation, right? But I don't get any form of greeting from him.

"You stole my story," the suspicious man claims in a very southern accent.

His words surprise me, and I open my mouth to respond. But am at a loss for words. I blink slowly and tilt my head, confused. What in the hell does he mean... Have I seen this guy before...?

The odd man keeps his stare steady, not even blinking, which starts to unsettle me, to say the least. "Well?" he demands.

I scoff internally at the weird man before me, trying to recall if he was a fan of my works, or a face I could've seen from around here in the reclusive town of Tashmore.

"I'm sorry... Do I...?" I pause for a moment. "I don't believe I know you," I decidedly admit with a shake of my head and a shrug.

In a collected tone, he condescends with subtlety in one breath, "I know that. That doesn't matter. I know you, Mr. Rainey. That's what matters. You stole my story."

I glance over him, beginning to get a bit freaked out. But I notice a rolled up stack of papers in his right hand—undoubtedly a manuscript for "his" story. I shake my head minutely, raising my brow at him in gained confidence.