Something Dark and Wicked: A Collection of Short Stories

Without a Care

Without a care in the world, he would walk down those grey stairs at exactly eight o'clock, the same each Thursday morning as he moves closer towards the dimly lit storage closet of the basement floor. Without a care in the world, he would unlock that dark grey door, slip inside and not return for at least half an hour. Without a care in the world, he would storm out past my hiding spot, up those grey stairs and suddenly he would be gone. With a care in the world, I would continue to search for him each Thursday; my luck never prevailed.

It is the eleventh Thursday I've followed him down here. He unlocks that storage closet door, he disappears and once more, I will most likely fail to find him once he is gone. Maybe I won't. The harsh twinge in my stomach only heightens when his schedule changes; he has been in that small, miniscule closet for over an hour by now. The silent vibration of my phone awakens me from my thoughts about him; the ever-changing style of his light blonde hair and the imperfect way he dresses each and every day. Each day an abrupt change in style. I ignore the phone call as he peeks his head into the thin corridor surrounding me. He flashes his white teeth. There are three droplets of blood on his forehead and his ruffled blonde hair is spiking out as if suddenly windblown or like bedhead. I have never seen his face up close. Only portions or from a distance. I don't know what he looks like very much.

I couldn't see who or what he is looking for, but without further warning, he shuts the dark grey door behind him and whispers four words barely loud enough for me to understand him. "You shouldn't follow me," he mumbles abruptly. I can feel my heart sink in my chest. Busted. His footsteps are almost silent as he inches closer and closer in my direction, a wide grin smeared on his pale face. For eleven weeks, my plan had been ingenious. He'd pace down the staircase to the basement and I would follow him, ensuring I could protect myself if he ever considered turning around to face me. The very first Thursday was an accident. I'd been fooling around with my friends, having a laugh, until Miles stared deep into my pale green eyes. His words are invincible to me. I beg myself to refuse anything he offers to me but I cannot say no to him. You could almost say I'm in love. He forced me to venture down to the basement- the one place in this decaying building with enough history and depth to write an entire library of books. Our medium-sized, barely used library, mostly filled with this exact history.

I could no longer run from this brute of a man. I should have known not to follow the flickering light of an eternal flame, but something felt so mysterious and yet largely adventurous this whole time.

Then again, I should have known someone else would be following the distinct timeline of this man's life too. He clutches his bare palms on her shoulders, dragging her porcelain figure further down the dim corridor. Her scream is non-existent as the dark-coloured door swings on the hinges; his bruised fingers gently brushing against the silver handle. He thrusts her forward and without a care in the world, he laughs. The kind of laugh that a man without humanity would possess.

I collapse back against the brick wall behind me; the thought of screaming with the voice of someone who witnessed murder racing through this brain of mine. No. I can't scream now. The bile rises in my throat. I can only feel the highest remorse for that girl. He could have caught me. Imagining every single action he could do to her forces me to rise to my feet in lighting speed. Without another word or sound or thought, I run. Up those grey stairs. Away from that dark grey storage closet door.

For five weeks following the eleventh Thursday, I didn't care for his eight o'clock routine. For those five weeks, my exterior ignored the mental images of my interior and I found myself enjoying life without creeping down that staircase. At eight o'clock every Thursday, I sipped coffee with my closest friends. We'd talk about everything- everything that didn't relate to whatever the hell that creep is doing down in that basement closet. He didn't even cross my mind once. I'd walk by those exact basement stairs. I'd stop; I'd stare. I would wonder if I should return to his path. If I should follow him once more. Until today my answer would always be no. Until Miles accidently found out that I was a stalker, my answer would always be no.