Protector - Laurel Dewey [180]
Emily looked closely at the masked man. He appeared highly agitated. Emily watched as he peered into the closet, let out an aggravated grunt, spun around and checked under the bed. Realizing no one was hiding there, he struggled to his feet. In doing so, he knocked over a box of colored pencils that sat on the bedside table. Emily watched as the pencils bounced to the ground and spread out on the carpet. The man got to his feet, slammed his gloved hand against the side of the bed and mumbled under his breath, “Goddamn fucking kid! Where the fuck are you?” Emily listened carefully, realizing she had never heard his voice before that moment. “Shit!” the man said, pulling at the nylon mask around his face.
Emily, eyes wide open and heart racing, focused on the distorted face underneath the black, nylon disguise.
“Fuck!” the man said tearing at the mask, approaching a panic state. Emily never took her eyes off the man. In one fell swoop, he grabbed at the mask and rapidly peeled it off his head. He turned toward the closet, standing in full view of Emily and rubbing his cheek frantically with his gloved hand. Emily etched every inch of his face into her memory. “Goddamnit!” he said loudly, plunging the bloodstained knife into the sheath on his belt buckle.
At that point, Emily stared at the man’s sturdy cloth shoe coverings. She instantly realized that they were not naturally dyed red. The original beige color could be seen underneath the moist scarlet top layer. She watched as the man’s feet turned toward the open bedroom door and walked out of the room. Emily listened intently as his footsteps creaked and then pounded down the stairs toward the front door. She waited to hear the front door slam but heard nothing. So she waited, still silent and not moving a muscle. A branch from the sycamore tree outside her bedroom window tapped against the glass. Another strong gust of wind swooped across the yard. Emily watched as her closet door gradually swung back and forth. She sat silent and motionless. Waiting . . . Waiting. The wind roared outside and her closet door creaked open several more inches. Sitting there between the bright light of her bedroom and the dark recesses of her closet, Emily realized that the front door was wide open and funneling a draft of air up the stairs and into her bedroom.
Gradually, she moved forward, dislodging her body from the massive pillows that surrounded her. She crept along the closet floor on her knees, stopping every few inches to listen for anything that sounded suspicious. She crawled outside the closet and knelt at her open bedroom door, bending her head around the edge. The front door was, indeed, wide open. All the lights in the living room were on, casting an odd shadow across the stairway that led to Emily’s bedroom door. The wind howled outside, moaning and whirring like a distant siren. Her eyes glanced down at the carpeting that led from her door down the stairs. Cherry juice, she kept thinking