Wayne Michaels, murmured in his sleep. In his dreams, he again struck the fatal blow. He watched his wife tumble, in slow motion, down the stairs for the last time. Her mouth formed a round O of surprise; her reaching hands scrabbled for a hold.
While he slept, Wayne clutched his hands behind his back. Clutched them tightly as he had on that night as his wife bounced from wall to stairs. Each thump echoed in his brain.
He could have saved her!
But Elizabeth crashed to the bottom with one final thud.
From his place at the top of the stairs Wayne heard her gasp out her last breath: saw her chest rise once before she lay motionless forever. Her once beautiful face locked into an angry mask of death so hideous Wayne looked away.
In his nightmare, Wayne's eyes moved from the fresh corpse to the window where the late afternoon sun swept golden rays across the carpet.
The day darkened abruptly.
Chills rippled through Wayne.
"I'm coming,” a tiny voice grated in his ear. "I'm coming for you, Wayne."
Wayne needed to wake up now. But as he turned toward the window again, a huge dark shadow swept by . . .
He hadn't had a problem with grinding his teeth at night since he had been a child. He really hated sleeping alone. Damn Elizabeth. Why did she have to be so weak?
Continued . . .
Link to Wrenge (1)
Riddle me this... - *?* When is a writer not a writer? *A * When he doesn't write. Despite my best intentions, I'm no longer compelled to wri...
2 days ago