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Excerpt from Dark Waters
by Lawrence Weinstein
The sound woke him. Water screaming from a faucet. He wore nothing but boxer shorts. Where was he? Thighs and back slick with sweat. No sheets or blanket tangled around him. His feet slapped hardwood floor, the blackness of the room shifting into something familiar. Waves of recollection surged through his damp body, pumped from the floorboards through the pores of his feet. He remembered. Fran's curses. Sarah's quiet sobs. He was alone now.
Or was he?
The sound of running water too loud and too distinct to be coming from an adjacent apartment. Adrenaline sparked his veins, burned the mist of sleep. He scratched crud from his eyes.
Two cardboard boxes against the wall, outlines in the darkness. He navigated past them, careful not to knock anything. Not to make a sound. Stepped through the bedroom doorway into the short hall, braced for an attack. Blind, deaf, senses canceled by the blackness and the din of water surging in the sink. He squinted to his right, the blackness of the bathroom. To his left, more blackness, living room and kitchenette. No one leapt from the shadows.
There's no one here.
He stepped into the bathroom, stood in ink-black darkness and stared at the pillar of water rushing from faucet to drain. The water glowed, radiated ghostly luminescence.
copyright (c) 2002 by Lawrence Weinstein. All rights reserved.
Originally published in The Edge: Tales of Suspense #16