A Murder Lurks

The stranger dressed in a black coat parked his car a block away. He wore sunglasses and pulled a black scarf around his neck. He walked down the street, one hand on his hat, in case the wind blew it away. The man stood waiting at a bus stop. Minutes passed with his hands in his pocket. Few cars passed. He was alone.

When the sun began to set, and the mist began to fall, the man turned around and opened the gate in the fence. The way along the creek ran behind the houses. The man was unseen, and alone.

In the dark, in the growing storm, the man trekked through the tall grass. He passed bushes and trees and kept to the wooden fence along a familiar path. In the dark the man struggled to find the stump, and from there, the fence board he’d loosened days ago. With gloved hands he removed it, then slipped into the yard behind the old shed and waited.

Occasionally he’d peek his head around the corner to look at the window. To see if the bedroom light was still on.

The night drew on and the wind worsened. The bushes banged against the side of the house. The trees tapped the top of the roof. Rain began to fall. The man hardly moved, though inside his pocket he fiddled.

Inside the house a young man sat at his desk. He dipped the pen in ink, then scribbled it across the page with a flourish, like his sister had taught him when they were kids. The ink pot too was hers. His tears threatened to spill on to the page again. He struggled to keep his hand from shaking.

At the height of the storm lightning danced across the night and thunder boomed. Wind rattled the windows, and somewhere, a power line was downed and the house was plunged into darkness.

The man grew tense, but still he waited. Inside the young man stubbed his toe blindly searching his kitchen for candles. He found one, and matches, and lit his sister’s vanilla scented candle. He felt guilty about using it. His eyes became watery, and he told himself halfheartedly it was because of the smoke. The young man found more candles and lit those as well. He carefully took them back to his room, and placed them on his desk, dresser, and bedside.

The little flames shone through the window, and the strange man saw the brother sit back down and return to his writing.

At last, the man crept out from his hiding spot. He pulled the knife from his pocket, and began to pick the lock. With the sounds of the storm to cover him he snuck inside. He kicked off his shoes, and slowly moved towards the back of the house.

In his room the brother suspected nothing was amiss. Inside the wind was still. He was safe from the storm, and from danger. He was alone, though his sister’s memory kept him company in his heart.

When the man with the knife stood outside the door something strange happened. Although the candles were secure, one bent at the middle and fell with a soft clatter, which made the brother turn around to face the door.

The brother was on his feet when the man burst open the door wielding his knife. Both men were surprised, but the brother was young, and he ducked the blade and swung his fists at the man. The carpet bunched and caught the man, sending him to the ground. Th brother fell upon him. They wrestled for control of the knife, until a blow to the hand sent it flying, nearly impossibly so, to the far side of the room beneath the dresser.

Smoke filled the air as the fire kept burning. One of them threw the other off him. A kick. A grunt. One tried to rise and the other bore him back down. A head hit the side of the desk and split. Then he moved no more.

The brother stood over the man for a moment before stomping the flames still burning. He took up a candle and brought it cautiously towards the man’s face.

“So you’re the man who murdered my sister…”