Murder at Your Door by Stephen V. Ramey

Imagine a man outside your apartment door. Imagine his tentative knock.

“Sally? Open up, Sally. I want to see your face.”

Your first impulse is to look through the peephole. You don’t. Curiosity kills the cat. You’ve seen that movie where the killer drives a 40 penny nail through the portal bridging him to you.

“Sally? Come on, Sally. We have to talk.”

You wonder about his voice. You’ve heard it many times. Yet, it could be a recording. Digital. Is that static along its edge?

“Come on, Sally!”

Emotion boils through you, a volcano of the stuff. Your hand clenches. Knuckles and tendons and blood. It is made of these materials. You are made of these materials.

Is he?

“All right, Sally, have it your way.” An envelope slides under the door. You hop back. Your panicked gaze fixes on the intruder, so slick, so innocent on its surface, deadly within. One touch of Ricen and you will die.

Footsteps in the hall. A pause. They return.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Sally.” The door rattles, then a sigh. “Sally!”

Footsteps recede. He’s gone. You imagine him emerging from the building, a swat team waiting atop the roofline opposite yours. You imagine bullets descending, the subsonics and angles they create. A red hole penetrates his forehead. You recall a rose, cologne, the touch of someone’s hand on yours.

2011 Stephen V. Ramey

Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania, home to not one, but two pyrotechnics manufacturers. His work has appeared in various places, including The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Bartleby Snopes, and Caper Literary Journal. http://www.stephenvramey.wordpress.com

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