Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Barb’s suspicious, too, I think. She says I shouted out the word “murder” as I fled church last week. I know I didn’t say that, I was trying to warn her of the woman. It’s funny under the circumstances that she should hear that, though I can’t recall what I did say.

I haven’t been in to work all this week, either. The office has phoned several times and left messages on my answering machine, but with Barb gone I just can’t seem to find the energy to lie about being ill. Barb used to do that for me sometimes. In fact, I can’t seem to summon up any energy at all. Perhaps they’re draining me. Maybe that’s how they’ve grown in strength. By sucking out my strength and resolve, they leave behind a vacuum that draws in all the weaker emotions, like guilt and remorse. I can almost feel them forming a lump in my chest. Something hard yet brittle. If I press down on my rib cage I can feel it crack and slide from underneath the pressure of my palm. Tears spring to my eyes, and my muscles become weak and flaccid, unable to support me. It’s a sickening feeling. Mostly, I just lie here and pretend not to notice.

It’s a bright, sunny day out, though it rained most of last night. The rain made me wakeful as I kept thinking that I could hear voices just beneath my bedroom window. The gurgling of water through the gutters was the cause. Still, I was expectant. Several times the sound of the rain blowing through the shrubbery put me in mind of women in long dresses strolling through the yard. Dresses that would trail across the grass as they walked, rustling slightly. It was a peculiar thought and I guess that’s why I dreamt so strangely afterwards.

I must have fallen asleep close to dawn. In my dream, the sun was rising above the drenched earth. My house had that clean, windswept but slightly drowned look that it probably has this very moment. I was lying in my bed, dreaming, when there was just the slightest of sounds. The soft scrape of a tiny shoe on the walkway leading to my front door. Barely audible, yet instantly recognized.

I felt myself trying desperately to wake up, but I couldn’t seem to open my eyes! Even though I was dreaming, I couldn’t see! Somehow, I managed to sit up in bed and I began to force my eyelids apart with my fingers. Then I could see again.

My room was flooded with the morning sun and I could see that I was alone, but as sometimes happens with dreams, I could see outside my house as well. As if I were floating, disembodied, above my home looking down at the vacant scene. There was no one there, only an empty, concrete pathway leading to my front door, which was standing wide open!

I wanted desperately to rejoin my body, which was hidden beneath the roof now, and warn myself! There was someone in the house with me! Then, as is the nature of dreams, I was there. Sitting up in bed, staring at my bedroom doorway. Waiting for them to step into my vision. There was a loud bang in the hallway, followed by silence. I choked off a scream. Then the whispering began. Just outside of my line of vision. Hushed, conspiratorial tones, as if a course of action was being discussed. Finally, the conversation ended and I could hear small female laughter drifting away.

I awoke sitting up in bed, staring at my bedroom doorway. I could feel a cool, fresh breeze blowing into my room. I slept with all windows and doors closed and locked.

When I went into the hall, I could see small patches of damp leading to my room and returning to the front door, which stood open. I noticed the hall closet was also open and a shambles. An old briefcase lay on the bare floor in front of it. I recognized it. This was what had made the loud bang in my dream. It had been flung from its shelf. It would contain my samples.

I picked it up, carried it into the kitchen, and set it on the table. I didn’t need to look inside. They were still there. I had never bothered to remove them. The police would never connect me with the scene and even if they did, I had thoroughly cleaned the instruments. Even so, I don’t know why I’ve kept them. Easier than getting rid of them, I suppose.

I walked into the living room and closed the front door. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel so much frightened as disappointed. I was weak, after all. They could now come and go in my life as they pleased and I was powerless to stop them. I knew what they were waiting for. My wife and children were gone, my career as good as finished. Only one thing was left and they were waiting for it. Confession. Humiliation. But I think I know something that they don’t want me to.

Confession only occurs if there’s guilt and conscience and they are drawing mine out and nurturing it. It’s become a cancer that I can’t ignore or trust, yet it’s mine! That’s the key! Ultimately, I can remove it. They may have underestimated me, after all.