Premonition - A Short Story

Harry entered the waking world with a start, head swimming, muscles tense. For a second, he didn't know where he was. Then, as his eyes took in the familiar surroundings, he relaxed. He was in his living room. He must've fallen asleep on the couch again.

The book he'd been reading lay on the cushion next to him - a crime thriller he'd picked up at the bookstore the other day. The title stared up at him with eyes of fancy, gothic lettering: Death Comes As A Friend. He regarded it coldly, unimpressed. A story which put the reader to sleep could hardly be deemed a "thriller".

He sat up from his reclined position and massaged away the cric in his neck with one hand. He got to his feet. He was already dressed, but one look at his exceptionally wrinkled shirt convinced him he needed to change.

In the bathroom, he turned the faucet all the way on and let the water run. He cradled some in his palm and splashed it over his face. The chilly wetness was refreshing, chasing any vestiges of sleep from his cobwebbed brain. He closed his eyes contentedly for a minute and relished the feeling. Then he turned the faucet off and dried his face with a towel.

He changed into a fresh pair of clothes, then proceeded to the kitchen. He turned the dial on the coffee maker to “On”, and grabbed a skillet from the cupboard and began warming it on the stovetop. Two eggs were fried and on a plate and on the table within minutes, accompanied by a cup of coffee. Harry sat down and took a sip. The dark liquid scalded his tongue and throat, but he didn't mind. He liked it that way.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry looked up, surprised. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”

Harry set his cup down hastily and went to the door and opened it. He motioned his friend inside. “Sorry 'bout that,” he muttered apologetically, closing the door. “Didn't even notice the rain.”

“Well, I noticed it,” said Aaron, grinning. “Doesn't look like it's gonna stop anytime soon, either.” He looked up. “You just get up?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I was just eating breakfast. Care for some coffee?”

Aaron shrugged. “Sure.” He stripped off his sopping rain coat and deposited it on the coat rack behind the door, then sat down at the table. “Thanks.”

Harry turned and reached into the cupboard and took down another cup. "So," he said, conversationally, "what's up? Need to borrow somethin'?" He began filling Aaron's cup. The coffee swirled and steamed. "By the way," he added, turning around, "d'you want cream?"

He stopped and his jaw fell and his face turned a pasty white. "Aaron?"

Aaron was standing again. A revolver was in his right hand, his finger curling round the trigger, the bluish barrel pointing straight at Harry's chest.

"Aaron?"

"Bye, Harry."

There was a small thunderclap. Harry dropped and lay shivering in the floor, a blossom of red spreading slowly across the front of his shirt. His glazing eyes focused one last time on Aaron, who knelt beside him, gun in hand.

"Aaron." Harry's lips moved in a low, reproachful whisper.

Aaron watched, listened.

"Wh-why?"

Aaron bent his head down to the dying man's ear and whispered back: "Because, Harry. Because I can."

***

Harry woke with a start. His head was swimming and sticky rivulets of sweat ran down his face and his heart was beating in a fast, panicky tempo. He rose from the couch and stumbled hastily into the kitchen. He snatched a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap and drank. Calm yourself, Harry. It was just a dream. Just a bad, bad dream and nothing more.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry dropped the glass, shattering it into a million winking shards. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Apprehended - A Short Story

Saturday night. Wilson sat hunched at his kitchen table, arms resting on the tabletop. Beside him, a shortwave radio spilled classical music into the air. Bach, he thought it was. He wasn't sure which piece, but he didn't care. To listen, to drink in the richness of the music – that was all he wanted. He relaxed and closed his eyes and buried his head in his arms.

A crackle of static sizzled through the speakers and made Wilson jump. He eyed the radio with annoyance and reached out to mess with the dial. Suddenly a man's voice cut into the air, crisp and authoritative and demanding to be heard. Wilson pulled his hand away and listened, curious.

“We interrupt this program,” said the voice, “to bring you this important news bulletin. One hour ago, convicted murderer James Laarson escaped from police custody and is now at large in the city. Laarson is five-foot three, black-haired, clean shaven, and carries a scar above his left eye. He is armed and extremely dangerous. The police advise -”

Wilson flicked the radio switch off – silence. He sat back in his chair and ran one hand through his hair thoughtfully. An escaped convict was roaming the streets of his home city: that didn't happen very often. Not that he needed to be alarmed. He had no reason to think the killer was strolling up and down this particular street in this particular neighborhood. There were hundreds of streets and hundreds of neighborhoods. Why should he choose this one?

Why not? The counter-question buzzed insistently at the back of Wilson's brain. He tried to ignore it: it wouldn't be ignored. He sighed and pushed back his chair and got to his feet. It couldn't hurt to be cautious.

He inspected all the downstairs windows and made sure each one was closed and locked. Then he checked the front and back doors, both of which featured two bolts. Wilson generally used only one; tonight he used both. Having satisfied himself on all accounts, he turned off the lights and went upstairs. The radio sat on the kitchen table, cold and quiet and in the dark.

Upstairs there were two bedrooms – Wilson's own and one intended for guests. The latter was seldom used, but Wilson checked it anyway. The window on the far side of the room was open, ushering in a cool night draft. He slid it shut, then tried the locks. They were stuck fast. He swore. They'd been that way for months, and he hadn't bothered to get them replaced. He drew the curtains closed. Nothing he could do about it now.

Wilson entered his own room, locking the door behind him. He locked the window, too. Then he undressed and pulled on his pajamas. Before crawling into bed, he opened the drawer of his nightstand and took out the revolver he'd stashed there. He had bought it years ago at a local gun show, never used it except on the shooting range. He held it in his hands for a minute, then slipped it under his pillow. Just in case.

Darkness. Silence.

Noise.

Wilson's eyes shot open. He blinked, getting accustomed to the blackness, and then looked around the room. The bright red digits on the clock face showed two forty-one am – five hours since he'd retired to sleep. Something had woken him – he wasn't sure what, but something had. He listened, straining to catch the slightest sound.

Noise.

His heart beat quickened. He felt under his pillow and grasped the gun.

Noise.

It was right outside his bedroom door now. The tread of feet trying not to be heard. Impossible, he thought. The noise ceased. He listened. He could hear heavy breathing. The door knob clicked as an unseen hand tried to turn it.

Wilson pointed the revolver at the door and fired. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Click.

The air trembled as the reports gave way to screaming silence. Wilson sat frozen, hardly daring to move, the gun smoking and empty in his trembling hands. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he stirred himself and threw off the covers and switched on the lamp beside his bed. He reloaded his gun, then stood up and edged cautiously toward the door. Six holes riddled the thin plywood frame. He shuddered. There was a click as he drew back the hammer on his gun.

He listened for a full minute without hearing a thing. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped out, gun held at arm's length. All was quiet. Nothing stirred in the darkened hallway. He flipped the light switch, flooding the place with an intense yellowy whiteness. He looked.

Blood spatters decorated the wall and carpet with lurid crimson brilliance. Less than five feet away, at the head of the stairs, lay the body of the intruder. His expressionless face stared up at the ceiling and one hand clutched a small semi-automatic. His chest was a mess. And above his left eye was a scar.

Wilson sank to the floor in relief, only to be hit by a wave of nausea. He vomited all over the red-stained carpet, vomited until he had nothing left, until his stomach was empty. He dry-heaved for a full-minute. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got up and staggered back into his bedroom. He picked up the phone and began punching the numbers with his forefinger.

“Hello, operator?” he rasped. “Get me the police.”

There was a pause, then a voice: “Officer Harrison speaking. What -”

“Officer,” Wilson said, weeping his words into the receiver, “this is Wilson Donaghue, one thirty-six South, Chancery Street. I've just shot James Laarson.”

No response.

“Don't you hear me?” Wilson was almost hysterical by now. “I've just shot James Laarson! I've killed him, dead, on the floor, do you hear?”

“Sir,” Harrison cut in sharply, “that's not possible.”

“What? What d'you mean 'not possible'!”

“Sir, we apprehended James Laarson over two hours ago. He's in custody now.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Prologue from Work in Progress - In His Hands

Alright here is that promised excerpt. This is kinda long but it is the entire prologue to the book I just finished the rough draft on last week. This is the rough draft writing so please excuse it. This wasn't written for children so please exercise discretion with who reads it, there is nothing graphic here, but I am dealing with mature subject matter and there is a bit of violence toward the end of the excerpt. The novel was primarily a drama, but this scene is required for the rest of the novel to work.

PROLOGUE


MAIA SHUDDERED as she turned over in the bed, pulling the blanket closer over her in the darkness. She didn’t need to for the temperature, it was the middle of summer after all, but still she pulled it close—while she knew it did little good, she felt that she needed to.

     Her eyes moved around in the near total darkness, spotting small reflections given by the dim bar of light coming under the door. The same light that had been turned off hours ago, and stayed that way, until just a few moments ago when someone had turned it back on. It hadn’t always been turned off at night, she used to sleep with the door cracked, but that was a long time ago. The sound of movement in the living room made her wish she could curl tighter into the blanket and never come out…she knew it could only mean something awful. Sweat began to break on her brow, warm and sticky like a bath in sweet tea. The smell of laundry detergent on the freshly washed sheets was at once pleasant and sickening—in most cases it would be pleasant, but she found it at the moment sickening.

     She felt a twist in her stomach as more movement sounded in the kitchen, that familiar sound of a wineglass being pulled from the cabinet above the fridge, slowly withdrawn and placed on the counter next to the liquor cabinet.

      She turned over again, meeting once again that smell of laundry soap, like fake flowers, and the soft pillow that was beneath her head.

       Maia could see in her mind a bottle being pulled out of the cabinet, and a small glass being poured, not enough to make him drunk, just enough to give him a shot of energy—just one.

     The knot in her stomach twisted tighter.

     Maybe not tonight…maybe he won’t.

     She knew that was too much to ask, but hope was all that she had to hold on to. She felt painful tears sting her eyes and pushed them back. She couldn’t get upset yet, she might be clear, maybe he wouldn’t…maybe he wouldn’t.

     The ticking clock on the nightstand sounded louder than ever before, and the stupid black face drawn on it to contrast the pink background stared at her menacingly. Those little eyes had seen a lot since she had gotten it for her seventh birthday—soon after her three-year torture began.

     12:27 it said. Every second felt like an hour.

      She wished she could close them, or turn them away or something—anything. The thought of someone watching was unbearable. It was bad enough without something else watching and taking part in the torment.

      Her head pressed harder into the pillow, and her eyes locked shut for a moment, just a moment, but when they opened again, the clock was still staring. Watching. Waiting. It would continue watching the whole time, and it wouldn’t say a word because it couldn’t help her. Nothing could help her.

      Maia was glad that it was dark, and she couldn’t see the expression on the face of the clock. She used to be afraid of the dark—but that was a long time ago too, before she found other things to be afraid of. That was before she knew that the real monsters didn’t hide under the bed or in the closet, but that they walked around in broad daylight.

       Her hand slipped out of the blankets and she tapped around silently for the locket hanging on the headboard. The metal chain met her fingertips after only a few seconds and she found her way down to the main pendant, stroking the soft golden surface—the one that she’d stroked so many times. She wished she had her light on so that she could open it up and have a look inside. She wanted to look at her parents’ faces again. Grandma had kept the locket for a while and gave it to her just before she died. She’d looked in the locket a million times in the last six months, and had a feeling that she would continue to. She’d almost told Grandma that last time, but she had looked so happy Maia didn’t want to ruin it—that’s all that it would have done, ruin it. She couldn’t tell Grandma then and she certainly couldn’t tell her now. She couldn’t tell anyone, if she did she would die. She knew it.

     The sink turned on in the kitchen, and a new slice of fear tore into Maia and she withdrew her hand. Her hand was shaking, so she shoved it under the pillow as she turned over yet again, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket, and building a cocoon around her though it would not help. Her heart was thundering within, like a hammer against her chest, rumbling even in her throat. She tried to control her breathing, but she couldn’t. She knew that she had to fake it. Try, at least try.

      The water turned off, and the cabinet door closed.

      Sweat ran more freely on her brow, she didn’t bother to try and wipe it away. Her hands tightened into fists and she tried to calm down enough to fake it—

     Maybe it’ll work, maybe it’ll work.

     —But she knew she couldn’t fake it well enough. It wouldn’t matter either way. Nothing could change it. Nothing.

     Footsteps trailed down the hallway, and each one echoed her heart thumping. Her hands gripped and loosened, matching almost exactly her erratic pulse. She held back tears as best she could, and tucked her legs closer to her. The smaller she made herself the better chance that she had.

     The footsteps stopped outside of the door, not slowed, stopped, the silence, broken only by the ticking, staring clock. She opened her eyes and saw two towers of shadow under the door—looming pillars that heralded his awful arrival. The awful towers of darkness that, to her, meant only pain.

      The doorknob slowly turned, metallic grinding that sounded like a tin can rolling on hot sidewalk sand.

     Her uncle entered the room slowly.

     She shut her eyes quickly.

     Yellow light flooded the room as the door slowly opened, and the irregular breathing that she knew all too well broke the near-silence of the bedroom. Excited breathing, breathing that meant nothing good for her.

    She tried to stay calm.

    Fake it. Fake it. Fake it. 

   The figure closed the door slowly and made his way to the bedside opposite of her face. She was glad she was facing away from him. Maybe he would buy it if he couldn’t see her face. Perhaps he would go on, even though he had already had his drink, even though he had followed the same schedule almost every week—even though she knew that it was too much to ask.

      He sat there for a minute, just breathing, slow and heavy. Every breath was a new stab of fear into her. Every inhale made her want to jump, and each exhale begged her to scream.

      A cold, slimy hand stroked her blonde hair, pulling it away from her face, still sticky with sweat. She forced herself not to flinch.

      Please, please, please, please, please…

     The hand stroked again, his finger ran the corner of her ear, cold and wet, rubbing fear in with every motion. The jellyfish fingers raked her hair again, and then slid beneath the covers, tracing her thin arm, and running the length of it to her hand and back up again. Slowly and torturously rubbing.

     Please, please, please…

     The bedsprings creaked as he leaned forward, and a fire of anxiety burned in her chest when he inhaled slowly, like a savage beast sniffing his prey. She had seen that on TV once, a lion sniffing the corpse of an animal that it was about to eat. Shining teeth, glittering in the light, reflective because of the rich drool that ran down the feline’s awful jaws.

      Oh, please…

      Lips parted, loud and moist. “Maia…” The scent of alcohol stung her nostrils like smoke. Her stomach turned over. “It’s time to wake up.” His voice was soft and strong, but she knew that the man behind it was cold and hideous.

     His hand gripped her thigh, the other her shoulder and turned her over to face him.

     He grinned in the dim light, like the lion.

     She began to cry.

     The pink clock watched.

(-) (-) (-)

     WHEN JEFFERY Dalton left the room Maia was crying harder, and he really didn’t care. He rolled his sleeves back down, and stretched as he turned around, “You go to sleep now.” He said softly.

      She didn’t stop crying. He ought to shut her up.

      He pulled the door closed and rubbed his face with his hand and stepped out into the hallway, slowing his breathing from the excited pace it had been at for the past half-hour. He looked at his watch.

     1:00.

     Good grief, he had to go to work in five hours. Where did the time go?

      He glanced up and saw Jessica, his wife, standing there, wrapped in a bathrobe and the cute pink slippers that she loved so much. He smiled at her, “Hey, babe.” Convincing. “Couldn’t sleep and needed a drink. Maia made a little noise so I went to see what was…”

     She held up a hand. “Don’t.”

     He rubbed his arm and grinned, she didn’t. “C’mon, what’s the matter? Let’s go ahead back to bed, she’ll calm down in a minute, just a bad dream that’s all.” He walked closer and she stepped back.

     “Don’t come any closer.” She sounded scared.

     He felt a twinge of worry for a split moment, but blew it off. She didn’t know anything. “Oh, come…”

     “Stop!” A knife flashed out in her hand. Sharp, chef’s knife that was supposed to be in the kitchen.

      “Seriously? Jess, what’s goin’ on?”

      Her eyes beheld him as they had never before, with a hate that he didn’t think that Jessica could ever feel. He began to worry for real.

      “How—how could you, Jeff? She’s your niece! What are you?”

       Better move fast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Maia was having a bad dream and I went to see what the matter was, that’s all. Now let’s go to bed…”

     She backed up again. “I’ve been here a little longer than you think, Jeff. Plenty long.”

     He stopped.

     “How long has this been going on? What have you done to her?”

     “This is nothing, Jess. Just put the knife down.”

      “No!” She shouted. “This is not nothing…”

      “Put the knife down—”

      “She’s a ten-year-old girl for crying out loud!”

      “Just put the knife down.”

      “No.” Her voice fell from a shrill shout to a growl.

      “I can explain everything—”

      “Shut up, Jeff, I don’t want to hear it!” Shouting again.

      “Put the knife—”

      Jess yelled louder, topping his voice: “I will not put the knife down!”

      He said, “You stupid—”

      “You’re right I was stupid, so stupid I trusted you!”

      He stepped closer. Jessica backed into a wall. Cornered.

      “Put it down…”

      “How long has this been going on? How many others have you done this to?” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and the knife was tilted a little to the right. “How many other things don’t I know about?”

       “We don’t have to do this.” He whispered. He stared her straight in the eyes, and saw that she didn’t seem to recognize him, like he was a foreigner. In reality he was, she had never known who he was…and because of that she had never been able to fill that gap in his life.

      Sirens pierced the air in the distance.

      She swallowed and looked at him. “It’s already done.” A phone emerged from her pocket—someone was still on the line. Three free guesses.

      He went for the knife and slammed her brittle wrist against the wall as hard as he could, shoving her into the wall behind her with his shoulder, wielding his brute strength to it’s fullest.

      He felt the plastic handle switch to his hand as he snatched it from her.

      Jessica screamed—and then was forever silenced.

(-) (-) (-)

MAIA HAD moved off of the bed when the shouting began. She didn’t want to move because of the pain, the bruising that was already happening on her back, the agony on the inside. It felt like very part of her hurt. However, somehow she eventually made it to the door.

     From the open door she watched the knife be knocked from her aunt’s hand and soon, wielded by the hand of a lion, and it stabbed into her chest. Aunt Jessica fell to the floor in a pool of blood. It hissed as it left her body, as the air in her lungs was released through the new hole.

     Her uncle kicked the body a few times and screamed like a madman. Screams she wouldn’t forget.

     Then she heard the sirens. Lights shone in the front windows and rubber squealed.

     She knelt down on her knees, and looked into Aunt Jessica’s eyes, wishing she could cry but found that she couldn’t.

     The pain. 

      She watched as Uncle Jeff turned around and looked at her, his own face contorted by anger. He cut her down with a dagger stare, and pointed a bloody finger at her.

     “You! This is your fault, dirtbag!” He screamed, and took the knife out of Aunt Jessica’s chest, and began to move for her. “If you just woulda stayed quiet!”

      A door burst open and he turned, holding up the knife.

      “Drop it!” One voice yelled.

      A shot rang out, and a twitching body fell to the ground.

      Maia realized that she was screaming.

     “Mrs. Dalton!” A man shouted into the house. “Mrs. Dalton! Police!”

      Maia watched the body of her uncle—her monster—twitch for a few more times, before everything went black.


Thank you for reading this far, if you would like to obtain the full rough draft I would be more than happy to email it to you. Any feedback from that would be much appreciated for when I rewrite the draft. Contact me here: michaelrwright92[at]gmail[dot]com and I'll reply with the rough draft attached. All I ask is if you want to share it with anyone else then please let me know. I would really like to keep track of where this document goes.

Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21