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Authors: Anthony Barnhart
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his left. The hill curves around several apartment complexes. He reaches the bottom of the hill. The metal plate on the telephone pole is still bent by his impact four years ago. A long time ago , he thinks; back when I was dating Julie . He turns right on State Avenue and pulls into the driveway. He sits in his car, unmoving. His girlfriend’s car sits in the driveway, cool and quiet. Bird droppings stain the side window. He bites his lip, suddenly overcome with panic. His heart drums like a gong in his chest. I’m here, Kira, he thinks to himself. I’m here .
IV
The front door is locked. He takes his keys off his belt and puts them into the lock. He twists, realizing his hands are shaking. He is terrified of what he may find. The doorknob clicks as it unlatches, and he pushes it open. The aromatic scent of her perfume washes over him as he stands in the doorway, gazing into the parlor. He fights off a swell of emotions and steps inside. He slowly turns and shuts the door, quietly, so as not to frighten her. He stands rigid and unmoving in the parlor. He looks into the kitchen beyond the parlor. The back door to the porch is shut, and through the slits in the blinds over the door he can see downtown Cincinnati beyond. He walks into the kitchen. An empty tea kettle sits on the stove burner. Packets of teabags sit on the counter beside it, next to her purse. He walks over, places one hand on the purse, feels its leather side. It is heavy. She always keeps too much in the purse. He eyes the tea bag; it reads: PURPLE JASMINE. He turns his head slightly. His neck still hurts. “Kira?”
The sound of his voice frightens him. Why, he doesn’t know.
“Kira?” he repeats again. Nothing.
He leaves the kitchen.
He trudges upstairs. The wooden stairs creak with each step. He moves slowly, hand on the wooden railing to the right. To his left, along the walls, are framed pictures of the two of them: standing outside their home when they first bought it, their first Christmas dinner together, her sitting inside his old truck when they first started dating. The caption under it read, in his handwriting: I FOUND
THIS CUTE GIRL AT THE GAS STATION AND STOLE HER. In the picture, she was leaning out the driver’s window and smiling widely.
He reaches the top landing. He turns and, drawing a breath, opens the door to the bedroom and steps inside.
Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
40
Sunlight comes in through the twin windows. The bed is made, the comforter stretched smoothly and without wrinkles, the pillows fluffed and sitting ready at the end of the bed. There are two dressers in the room and a high-backed chair in the corner. Kira’s dresser is adorned with framed pictures of him and her family back home in Illinois. His has a framed picture of his first plane—an Airbus for Air France—and a picture he took when they went out to a fine restaurant with some friends. He walks over to the bed and sits down. The mattress sighs under his weight. She is here. Her car is here.
What if she left the house?
Why would she leave the house? She wouldn’t leave the house.
She’s looking for other survivors.
No. She wouldn’t leave. She knows I am coming back.
He looks over to the bathroom door. It’s shut.
She never shuts the door.
His hand touches the knob of the bathroom door. With momentous effort, he twists and opens it. It swings open, creaking on its hinges. The mirror is directly in front of him. He sees his own haggard reflection, the cuts from the glass swollen across his face. The edge of one of his eyes is puffing up. He gently touches it; painful to the touch. He steps onto the linoleum tile and turns. The drape around the bathtub/shower is drawn. He can hear the dripping of water. He approaches and sees the linoleum around the tub glistening with pools of stagnant water. He grabs the drape between aching fingers and pulls it aside slowly.
His breath escapes him. Strength evaporates.
He collapses to
IV
The front door is locked. He takes his keys off his belt and puts them into the lock. He twists, realizing his hands are shaking. He is terrified of what he may find. The doorknob clicks as it unlatches, and he pushes it open. The aromatic scent of her perfume washes over him as he stands in the doorway, gazing into the parlor. He fights off a swell of emotions and steps inside. He slowly turns and shuts the door, quietly, so as not to frighten her. He stands rigid and unmoving in the parlor. He looks into the kitchen beyond the parlor. The back door to the porch is shut, and through the slits in the blinds over the door he can see downtown Cincinnati beyond. He walks into the kitchen. An empty tea kettle sits on the stove burner. Packets of teabags sit on the counter beside it, next to her purse. He walks over, places one hand on the purse, feels its leather side. It is heavy. She always keeps too much in the purse. He eyes the tea bag; it reads: PURPLE JASMINE. He turns his head slightly. His neck still hurts. “Kira?”
The sound of his voice frightens him. Why, he doesn’t know.
“Kira?” he repeats again. Nothing.
He leaves the kitchen.
He trudges upstairs. The wooden stairs creak with each step. He moves slowly, hand on the wooden railing to the right. To his left, along the walls, are framed pictures of the two of them: standing outside their home when they first bought it, their first Christmas dinner together, her sitting inside his old truck when they first started dating. The caption under it read, in his handwriting: I FOUND
THIS CUTE GIRL AT THE GAS STATION AND STOLE HER. In the picture, she was leaning out the driver’s window and smiling widely.
He reaches the top landing. He turns and, drawing a breath, opens the door to the bedroom and steps inside.
Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
40
Sunlight comes in through the twin windows. The bed is made, the comforter stretched smoothly and without wrinkles, the pillows fluffed and sitting ready at the end of the bed. There are two dressers in the room and a high-backed chair in the corner. Kira’s dresser is adorned with framed pictures of him and her family back home in Illinois. His has a framed picture of his first plane—an Airbus for Air France—and a picture he took when they went out to a fine restaurant with some friends. He walks over to the bed and sits down. The mattress sighs under his weight. She is here. Her car is here.
What if she left the house?
Why would she leave the house? She wouldn’t leave the house.
She’s looking for other survivors.
No. She wouldn’t leave. She knows I am coming back.
He looks over to the bathroom door. It’s shut.
She never shuts the door.
His hand touches the knob of the bathroom door. With momentous effort, he twists and opens it. It swings open, creaking on its hinges. The mirror is directly in front of him. He sees his own haggard reflection, the cuts from the glass swollen across his face. The edge of one of his eyes is puffing up. He gently touches it; painful to the touch. He steps onto the linoleum tile and turns. The drape around the bathtub/shower is drawn. He can hear the dripping of water. He approaches and sees the linoleum around the tub glistening with pools of stagnant water. He grabs the drape between aching fingers and pulls it aside slowly.
His breath escapes him. Strength evaporates.
He collapses to
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