The Writer

The line moved slowly, and to calm his growing frustration, Thomas Ferdinand focused his mind on something else. It always unnerved him that the small grocery store had only one cashier using an old model cash register. He tried to avoid making eye contact with the woman ahead of him, who persistently glanced back and smiled. She appeared to be in her sixties, with tarnished coloured teeth, and crow’s feet etched into the corners of her gray eyes. The line moved a little, and he took two steps forward.

“I’m Marge.” The old woman in front of him said. She smelled of mold and cats.

“Nice to meet you.” Although he spoke pleasantly, Thomas refused to offer his name in return. The items on a shelf suddenly piqued his interest, and he pretended to read the labels. Hopefully, Marge would not wish for a conversation. She did.

“I read your novels. They were brilliant!” Thomas smiled tightly as a way of answering.

“Yes they were.” Marge exclaimed, her lily-white hair bobbing as she nodded. “My girlfriends would never believe I spoke to you. They all have crushes on you, you know. They think you’re the handsomest of all the young men here in town.”

Great, now he had a pack of older women secretly admiring him. Judging by the stares he received on the streets, whether from young or old females, he knew she was right.

Thomas had striking electric blue eyes, and a face that perpetually wore a blank expression. At six feet two, he was tall and well-built like an athlete. His clothes, though simply tailored, were expensive and of high quality, the type that could never be purchased in the small town where he resided.

Luckily, he was saved from responding as it was Marge’s turn at the cashier. She became preoccupied with unloading her groceries onto the counter. After paying, she turned to him, expectancy written clear in her gray eyes. She then enquired,

“Did you bring your car?” Thomas nodded reluctantly. Why, oh why, had he chosen that day to go to the grocery store? Because it’s Saturday, his conscience replied.

“You don’t mind giving an old lady a ride home, do you?”

“How could I not?” He gave her the same tight smile, and she grinned broadly. Trying not to grimace at the carnage behind her lips, Thomas paid for his goods and helped her with the bags to his car. She paused to admire the elegant craftsmanship of the vehicle she was about to enter. Thomas placed their bags in the trunk of the Mercedes-Benz, its deep blue colour contrasting sharply with his electric blue eyes.

He opened the door for his bold passenger, and she slid in. With a sigh, he got in the driver’s seat. One thing he loved about Annesterville, there was absolutely no traffic, and today he was particularly grateful for it. He glanced at Marge, and noted how she absorbed every detail of the car, from the comfortable seats to the spacious interior, and the custom-designed dashboard.

“Wow. This car must cost a fortune.”

“It did.” Thomas stated frankly.

“You must make a lot of money.” Since she said it as a statement rather than a question, he remained silent. Marge pointed out directions and within ten minutes, they pulled into her driveway. It was a nice country-styled house, constructed from wood and painted in yellow and white. Dark wooden chairs, as old and unremarkable as their owner, graced the porch. He carefully put her bags on one of them. Out of common courtesy, he lingered until she opened the door. The moment brought back memories of his youth as a bellboy waiting for a tip. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation, but held it in.

The door opened with a creak, and Thomas turned to leave.

“Oh, aren’t you staying for a little tea?” Disappointed, the corners of her mouth drooped. Unaware of her sullen expression, Thomas stared longingly at his car.

“Sorry Miss Marge, but I have to go.” Unexpectedly, her eyes lit and she beamed with delight. It was the first time he had spoken her name. Her friends would never believe she had an encounter with the handsome writer.

“Okay, but you must promise you’ll visit some other time.” He mumbled an incoherent response. “Before you leave-” Marge disappeared inside the house and returned with a book he immediately recognized as one of his own. He had half-expected she would offer cookies and other homemade delicacies, and now he regretted that was not the case, knowing he would definitely have to go home and prepare a meal himself.

“Do you mind giving me your autograph?” Swallowing a sigh, he took the book short of grabbing it, and wrote his signature of twenty years. “Thank you! You’re such a gentleman.”

Thomas bowed slightly and left. Five minutes later, he arrived at his home.

The woods stood several feet from his porch, with no fencing to enclose his property, and no neighbors to encroach on his space. Fortunately, crime was rare in the small town. His home blended seamlessly with nature, constructed from abnormally round stones, and crowned with a slightly slanted shingled roof. To the right, the house protruded with glass walls, which ran from the floor to the ceiling. The two-way glass allowed him to see everything on the outside, while keeping the interior completely hidden from view.

Thomas parked in the driveway, because he hardly ever used the garage, as well as the alarm system. He still locked his doors, though - both from habit, and as a precaution against delinquent children.

He walked in the front door and was instantly greeted by the scent of cooking. At first, he thought he was imagining it, driven by his extreme hunger, but then he heard water running in the kitchen. Curious, he went to investigate the source of the intrusion.

With a panther’s grace, Thomas quietly peered around the edge of the doorway. No human form came into view, but a pot bubbled on the stove. Cautiously, he stepped into the kitchen, only to jump involuntarily when suddenly someone popped up from behind the other side of the table.

“Crying shit!” His heart raced erratically, pumping frightened blood through his narrow veins. Thomas dragged air into his lungs as he struggled to compose himself. “Who the hell are you?!” The harshness of his voice, mixed with shock and terror, startled even him. Who was this woman? He did not have a cleaning lady.

“Can’t you tell, I’m your new roommate.” His lips parted slightly in confusion, while his eyebrows dipped into a frown.

“What do you think this is, an apartment, a dormitory? This is my house, and I live here alone, so what are you doing here?”

“I’m cooking.” Eyes twinkling with humor and the confidence of a ballerina, she approached the stove, lifted the lid from the pot, and stirred the contents with a wooden spoon she had nearby.

“And I can tell you live alone from the way this house is decorated. You really captured the bachelor look and feel.” She switched off the burner, and returned the lid to the pot.

“Again, who are you??” She walked over to the porcelain counter, leaning against it, and bracing her palms on the back.

“You promise not to tell anyone?” Her voice was soft and calm, scraping the hairs on his neck. Mesmerized and intrigued, Thomas agreed without protest.

“Okay.”

“My name is Stacey, but you can call me Stace.” She studied him closely, her gaze piercing. Thomas charged every fiber of his being to remain still. How dare she intrude upon his home, and make him feel even more uncomfortable. Lifting his chin, in defiance, he asked,

“You have a surname to go with that?”

“Of course I do, but it’s not to be concerned with.” She chuckled at the look of disbelief on his face, then she took the cloth from the sink and wiped the counter vigorously.

“What’s in the bags?” Her question caught him off guard, causing a brief lapse in memory. Realization struck, and he lifted the forgotten grocery bags clenched tightly in his fingers for inspection.

“You alright?” She stared at him concerned.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then have a seat.” He did.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Thomas Ferdinand.” Why was he speaking to her so casually, and revealing details about himself to a stranger? He studied her quietly, disturbed by her extreme prettiness, which stemmed from an Italian heritage that clearly outlined her features. Her full lips, small nose, and height ranging between five-feet-five and five-feet-six, were complemented by a slim figure, and a creamy caramel complexion. Her eyes, however, are what truly captured his attention, they were almond shaped and a dark brown that was almost black. Penetrating eyes. Without a word, she took the shopping bags, and stored the items away with an unsettling familiarity.

“How long have you been here?” Thomas asked, amazed. How long had he been gone, he wondered. Three, maybe four hours? Was that really enough time for her to commit to memory the ins and outs of his kitchen? Maybe he had unknowingly been transported to another universe. His inner review was interrupted when Stace responded.

“Oh, about three hours.”

“How did you get into my home?”

“Through the front door.”

“It was locked.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“That’s called breaking and entering, and is a criminal offense.” Stace shrugged her shoulders, then opened the chiller and extracted a bottle of wine from his collection. From a drawer, she took out a wine opener and popped the cork. Stace retrieved two glasses, and set both down on the table, along with the bottle. Robotically, Thomas poured himself some of the rich liquid, and drank it in two mouthfuls. It made him wish for something stronger, like vodka or just pure raw alcohol.

“Are you going to call the Sheriff?”

“I probably should.” She smiled, and nodded at her glass. Reluctantly, Thomas poured the dark red liquid into her stemmed glass. Like a cup of coffee, she cradled it between her unmanicured fingers, and took a satisfied swig. Just then his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. He might as well go along with the charade, or if it was a dream, enjoy what smelled delicious before he awoke.

“What’d you cook?” By then the sun had sunk below the trees, allowing the moon to rise and cast its reflective glow.

“A crusted herb fish filet, a spicy tomato sauce, and a Sh’ladda d’el khair, which is a Moroccan-style salad.”

“Okay, uh… well, it sounds edible.” She smiled and rose to serve the food. The fitted jeans hugged her hips snugly, and Thomas forced his gaze to an upper part of her body. Stace gently pushed the long sleeves of the pale blue hoodie higher up her elbows, an action Thomas found enticing. He rolled and averted his eyes, refusing to acknowledge how good she looked in her outfit. He peered into his drink, swirling the half filled glass.

What was he thinking, entertaining an unknown person in his home? She could be a serial killer or a murderer, God forbid. Shaking his head, he swished another mouthful of the wine about in his mouth. Stacey - or should he say Stace - placed a plate in front of him. Thomas noted that she had no trace of perfume. She returned to her seat with a plate for herself, said a quiet grace, and picked up the fork. The utensil never touched her food.

He realized she was staring at him with those penetrating eyes, as he regarded his meal with unease. Sighing with patience, she leaned over and dug her fork into his food. At another time, he might have considered her behaviour unmannerly, but now he was simply relieved she wasn’t trying to poison him. Thomas ate enthusiastically, grateful to finally satisfy his hunger.

Dammit, what if she was one of those crazy stalker fans? And here he was dining with her as if it was absolutely normal. But man could she cook! It may not be a bad idea to hire her, he thought. Or maybe he should try to get to know her a bit first. Nope, what he should do is have her committed, and then himself! They ate in silence, tension floating in the air like a grenade.

“So, what’s your profession?” She asked. It seemed she was intent on pulling the ring to let it explode.

“I’m a retired writer.” This reminded him of why he actually went into town that afternoon.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

“You’re young. Why have you retired?”

“What are you, an interrogator?” She smiled, and lifted her eyebrows

“No, I’m just a wanderer as of the last four months, but was a nurse before that. And I’m thirty-two by the way.”

“What made you choose the latter as a career?” Her smile transformed into a grin.

“You’re funny, I like that. Are you finished?” She pointed at the plate, and he pushed it towards her. Taking their dishes to the sink, she washed them thoroughly. At her seat again, she poured more wine.

“How many people does Annesterville have?”

“A couple hundred.” Thomas responded drily. Now that his stomach was filled, he was gradually losing interest in the conversation.

“What dragged you from the comfort of your house today?”

“You know, you ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure you have a supply yourself.” Thomas bore his eyes in hers and held it. It was definitely time to send her on her way.

“I don’t answer to you, have not answered to anyone in a long time, and I’m not about to start with someone who enters my home uninvited and unannounced.” Taking a deep breath he prepared for a rebuttal.

“You’re right. I know I’d be mad if I came home and met someone who did not belong there.” Her gaze softened and she smiled. “But trust me Thomas, I’m the safest person you could ever have under your roof.” And the most dangerous, his mind warned. She drank the remnants of her wine slowly, then continued speaking in an even quieter tone.

“I read your mail. It seems your publisher wants you to write another book.” He closed his eyes briefly. No matter what he did or how far he moved, he was unable to regain a private life.

“Only because my fans demand it.”

“How long has it been since you wrote a book?”

“Five years.”

“How many have you written?”

“Twenty-four, and yes they were all bestsellers.” Stace whistled under her breath.

“So, are you going to write a new book like they want you to?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Probably what? Probably you would.”

It was none of her business, but for some reason Thomas wanted this chestnut, curly haired woman to understand why.

“Well, you see, it’s like this. I got that letter two months ago, and ever since then, an idea formed in my mind on how I want my next book to be. However, when I try to type or write it, the flow of words doesn’t come together as I envisioned.”

“Hmmm. What do you really want, Thomas?” Stace rested her elbows on the table, and clinging to the empty glass, she observed him intently. He felt an uncontrollable urge to stand and pace, not out of frustration but excitement. It was as if she truly grasped what he was trying to convey.

“I’m a fiction writer, right, but this time I want to write a bit of both. A mixture of non-fiction and fiction. All in one novel.”

“Okay, then what’s this book about?” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, and unconsciously his followed suit.

“About killings. Done by a mysterious person. No one knows whether it is a man or woman, they just wake up one morning and it begins.” She inhaled sharply.

“Sounds like another bestseller.”

“Yeah well... I can’t seem to put it into words.” He drained his glass and restored the cork to the bottle. “Listen, you can spend the night as a favor for the lovely meal you made,” A smile touched his lips but quickly vanished, leaving no evidence it had ever been there - no left over residue. “But tomorrow you have to wander on. I’ll go prepare the guest room for you.” She shook her head when he moved to rise.

“That won’t be necessary. I already unpacked my things in one of the rooms.” Shocked, he plopped heavily onto the chair at her remark.

“Seems you know how to adapt.”

“Of course. And concerning when I’m moving on, it won’t be tomorrow. But I give you my word, I’ll tell you when.”

“How sweet.” Sarcasm dripped from his every word.

“So Thomas, tell me more about this book of yours. What’s supposed to happen first?”

“You can buy yourself a copy when it comes out in stores.”

“Oh, I plan to,” She said, “but it seems it might never arrive on any bookshelf if you can’t even write the first word.” Her reply hit its mark on his ego, and unconsciously his fingers drummed a controlled beat on the tabletop. With a hint of impatience, he conceded to his unwelcome guest.

“It begins with an old couple being the first victims of the killer. They’re killed with a butcher’s knife that is longer and thicker than usual, but of course the officials who arrive at the scene don’t know that. There’s blood everywhere, in the bedroom alone I mean. The old man dies first while he’s asleep, and his wife, despite her attempt to scream upon waking, dies too. The killer leaves with the weapon.” By now he had calmed down, his earlier agitation replaced by a thoughtful demeanor.

“What color does the murderer wear?” Thomas found it an odd question, but answered anyway.

“Brown. Boots, pants, turtleneck, gloves and a knee-length coat with a hood. The coat is a dark chocolate brown made of leather.

“Why leather?”

“Because it’s easy to wipe away the blood, and the killer always cleans off at the scene of the crime before leaving. I never thought it would be important whatever the killer wore, since the people who see the killer are usually the victims, and they always die.”

“And a dead man tells no tales.” He looked at her skeptically.

“Well, yeah. Exactly.” Stace leaned against the backrest of the chair, poured more wine, drank deeply, and then placed the glass soundlessly on the table.

“I think you just found yourself an assistant.” Thomas almost laughed, but bit it to pieces for fear she might take offense.

“Thanks for the offer, Stace, but I can handle this myself. I don’t need a co-author.”

“Do you know that’s the first time you used my name?” She grinned lopsidedly. “Don’t worry, I don’t want a share in your profits. I’m talking about being your critic, helping you express yourself, opening that narrow trail you’ve let your mind force itself into.”

“I don’t need you.” Thomas grated through clenched teeth.

“Oh, but you do Thom, and in more ways than one.”

****

Later that night, a pregnant gray cloud crept over the full moon, sluggish and heavy, yet too indolent to release its burden of rain. It drifted slowly across the sky, but the absence of moonlight went unnoticed, as the dominating street lamps cast their glow over the deserted streets. On Pine Street, at house No 147, four houses away from the corner that led to the main road, someone pushed through the French-styled gates, and strolled up the porch steps.

There was no need to hurry. Residents nor the police patrolled the streets that hour in the morning. It was somewhere after two o’clock and minutes to three. The setting was serene, void of dogs barking, and cats meowing every five seconds.

The stranger entered the always unlocked front door. The house was dark with only a slim light shining through the window from the street lamps. There was a narrow staircase and the stranger ascended. The first door on the left proved to be the correct one. An elderly couple slept on their backs, snoring heavily.

At the foot of the bed, the stranger stared at them and felt no regrets for what was about to happen. Moving silently to the side where the husband lay on the queen-sized bed, the stranger studied him intently. The elderly man, like his wife, appeared to be in his seventies, fragile and unaware of the danger lurking beside him.

The stranger withdrew a blade from the depths of a worn coat, and plunged the stainless steel into the chest of the old man. Instantly, his snoring ceased, replaced by a desperate gasp for air. The killer removed the blade and sunk it in the man’s chest several more times. Blood spurted and splattered against the headboard, the sheets, and the wall. Unfazed, the killer walked around to the other side of the bed, where the dead man’s wife stirred. Unknown to her, blood dotted her face and arms.

“Theodore?” When he didn’t answer, she put a hand on his chest, only to pull away as if she had been burnt. The cloud finally crossed the moon in its turtle haste, providing the elderly lady with light to examine her hands. When she realized what was sticky on her fingers, her breathing grew ragged. Rising on shaky elbows, she instinctively turned her head in the direction of where the stranger stood, finally sensing another presence in the room. Seeing someone standing there she tried to scream, but the cry for help never left her lips, as the blade plunged in her throat, extracted, then punctured her chest several times.

After wiping the blade clean on the sheets, the killer went to the kitchen. Using a kitchen towel, which hung from the stove, the killer opened the faucet, and cleaned the blood off the leather jacket. With a gloved finger the killer removed a smudge of blood from the hidden face and tasted it. As usual, it tasted like iron. The cloth was dropped into the sink, then the blade wielding, leather clad, hooded stranger left the way arrived, through the front door.