Do you like thrills and chills? Below is an excerpt from our Suspense Short Story Collection KILLER AT THE DOOR
Doris
must make a life-or-death decision when a blood-splattered stranger pounds on
the door of her isolated cabin. Is he a desperate victim or a deranged killer?
She had left Sioux
Falls three weeks ago, right after the funeral, car
filled with stacks and stacks of her husband's notes. It seemed natural that
she would return to the district Jim and she knew best, on the edge of the Pine
Ridge Reservation. Jim's work had started here; here she would find the
solitude it would take to finish it. She would herself complete his book, the
culmination of his vast and brilliant study of Native American culture, a work
that would keep him alive. Doris , alone,
understood his message well enough to give his book real form and meaning. She
knew she must publish it at once while the memory of the young professor still
glowed brightly in the minds of his colleagues.
The knock became louder, a pounding. Total return to
reality brought with it the familiar headache, the stiffness caused from long
hours at the computer. Probably a stranded motorist wanting to use the phone,
she thought.
Almost midnight‑‑she wasn't surprised; often she
lost track of time. She switched on the porch light and lifted the heavy gray
drape from the glass panel.
Eyes, close to the glass, frantic, glazed, bored
into hers. Blood, all over him, sprang from a deep, jagged gash on his head.
Blood flowed into the sandy hair, drenched the white shirt. He raised a large,
imploring hand, leaving splotches of blood on the pane.
“My God!”
The pounding started again. The erratic banging of
fists frightened her more than the silent phone.
“You must... ” he gasped. “You must help me!”
Even since her last glimpse of him, he had grown
weaker. What if he died and she had not even tried to assist him? No matter how
she felt about it, no matter how frightened she was, she must open the door.
She had to admit him, attempt to stop the flow of blood that if not quelled
soon would surely kill him.
With stiff, nervous motions, she whirled, slammed
the door shut and clicked the lock. Turning back to him, she spoke with voice
as muffled as his. “Who's out there?
His answer was impossible to comprehend.
Plaintively, like a child, he stretched out his hand to her. The effort seemed
to exhaust him. As his arm dropped, his eyes fell shut.
The cold water momentarily revived him. “I stopped
to change a tire.” Ragged intakes of breath cut into his words. “When he
stopped, I thought he was going to help me. He hit me with the tire iron.” A
gurgling sounded deep in his throat. “My wife started screaming. He struck her
down right in front of me. He killed her.”
“She's dead? Are you sure?”
His moan and the word, “Yes,” ran together.
“How did you get away?” Doris
gave him no time to answer. “Did he follow you?”
“I'm on foot. This is the only house anywhere
around. He knows that. He has to kill me.” His voice shook with pain. “I can
identify... ”
You had better not try to talk.”
“Janet's dead!” His hands clutching at her possessed
overwhelming strength. He clung to her, desperate sobs racking his body.
“No matter what's happened,” she said, “you must be
strong. Janet would expect that of you.” She continued talking to him softly,
her words comforting, but untrue, the way she had talked to Jim. After a while
his raspy breathing began to grow calmer, more rhythmic. She eased him back
against the carpet, wiping at damp blood on her blouse.
His eyes opened again, helpless, entreating. “Do you
have a gun?”
Jim and she had spent many an afternoon at target
practice competing for first place. She had become as good a shot as he,
and she had stuffed the revolver that
they shared into her suitcase before leaving the university. Obediently, she
went into the bedroom and with trembling hands placed shells into the cylinder
before returning to the front room.
Had his breathing become dangerously faint? She
knelt beside him, listening. His breath was barely audible, but steady. Doris laid down the gun and searched his clothing for
some clue to who he was. Her fingers shook as she opened his billfold‑‑a
picture of a pretty, dark‑haired woman, lots of cash, a South
Dakota driver’s license: Gordon Litel, born l959, Mission , South
Dakota . She didn't know much more about him than she
had before, except that the picture of the sweet‑faced wife made her hear the
screams and envision the brutal blows.
A sharp rapping sounded at the door. The gun felt
icy as she gripped it, rising. She could sense the presence of the person who
stood on the other side. She felt her heart begin to beat irregularly and the
strength drained from her legs. “Who's there? Who are you?”
“You must let me in!”
“I know he's in there! There's blood all over the
porch.”
Bargain Deal: Purchase Killer at the Door on Smashwords 8 short stories for $1.99!