He awoke to the sound of violent pounding, could not locate it for a moment, then realized it was coming from the front door. He hurried downstairs, pulling on his robe but hesitated when he came to the door. The pounding was steady and hard and he could hear muffled curses. It did not sound at all like someone in need of help.
He flipped on the porch light and there was a moment of silence. He wished he could see out without being seen but the front door did not have a peephole. Evelyn had nagged him about putting one in but he had never gotten around to it. He wanted to say, “Who’s there?” but his throat constricted and his mouth wouldn’t open. The pounding resumed but now the intention seemed to be to break down the door.
He looked around for something that he could use as a weapon but there was nothing that seemed appropriate. Whoever it was might be armed and a kitchen knife or golf club might only get him into more trouble. He backed away from the front door quietly, hurried into the garage and locked the adjoining door behind him. A moment later, he realized that he had left his cell phone on the kitchen table before going to bed. He thought of running back inside to get it but was afraid the front door would give before he could get back to the safety of the garage.
He heard the jam splinter and the door smash against the wall, imagined the knob punching through the sheetrock where Evelyn had asked him to put a stop. One more small reason among many that had added up to her giving up on him. There was another moment of silence, then heavy footsteps, more curses, the sound of a dining room chair thrown across the floor and other noises that he could not identify, then silence again. He pressed his ear to the door. Had the intruder gone upstairs? If so, this might be the time to make a break for it but what if he was wrong about that?
He wondered if it could it be someone who had the wrong house. An escaped convict or drug-crazed vagrant? He didn’t owe anyone money, had never done anything seriously illegal and had no enemies that he could think of. Well, there was that ignorant bigot he’d traded insults with on Facebook but he lived on the other side of the country. There was the ongoing argument with the neighbor over the compost pile in his back yard, the Dodge minivan he’d sold on Craigslist without mentioning the burnt valves; the small sum he’d extracted from the proceeds of the Elks Club auction a few years ago when he was treasurer. Sure, there had been a few small indiscretions but nothing to explain this kind of attack. He heard the footsteps approaching the garage door.
It was pitch black in the garage and he was glad he had not turned on the light because it might have shown beneath the door. He tried to control his breathing, sliding it in and out as quietly as possible. His only escape would be out the front of the garage. He could easily find the button in the dark but feared that the sound of the overhead door opening would alert the intruder in time for him to rush back out the front door and intercept him. The first heavy thud against the door between the house and garage told him that it would not take long before it gave. On the other hand, the noise being made now would probably cover his escape. He hit the button, heard the electric motor and the metallic impact of the door’s first upward lurch. He dove, rolled under and was on his feet running in one motion.
He had no idea what time it was but the street was dark except for a light in one house half way down the block. He knew the couple that lived there but would Sandra answer the door in time for him to get inside before he was overtaken? Would she answer the door at all this time of night? Fred probably would but was he there? In his panic he couldn’t remember what day Sandra had said Fred would be back from Altoona though he could clearly remember her replacing an earring as she told him. He continued running as hard as he could past their house and into the night, the rasping of his breath making it impossible to tell if there were footsteps running behind him.
Dirk Kortz is a writer, fly fishing guide and artist (oil painter) and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He recently finished a novel and is working
on a collection of short stories.