The Waiting: A Supernatural Thriller

“Ah, it’s okay,” Evan said, clearing his throat.

“I wouldn’t have come in, but the door wasn’t shut completely and came all the way open when I knocked.”

He cleared his throat again and sat up, acutely aware of the straining bulge in his jeans. What the hell had he been dreaming about? He crouched over his erection, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

“That’s fine.” He frowned. “I’m sure I shut the door tight.”

He traced back through his actions before lying down, and couldn’t remember if he had or hadn’t. Evan rubbed his face and looked around. Shaun still slept, although he’d turned over and one arm dangled out of bed and into the shadow below it. Something could grab him like that. Grab him and pull him under the bed if it wanted to. He shuddered, blinking at the sun that now sat above the mainland.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Four o’clock.”

“Oh, wow, we’ve been sleeping for four hours.”

“Well, you must have needed it,” Selena said, turning away from him.

Evan began to rise off the sofa and paused, her words striking a nerve. Elle used to say that whenever he overslept on a weekend or when Shaun would sleep sometimes for five hours or more right after his accident. Even the way Selena said it reminded him of his wife, the caring tone telling him he could’ve slept all day if it pleased him. Brushing off the déjà vu, he stood, thankful that his arousal had dissipated enough for him to move normally.

“I thought I’d drop by and check on you guys, make sure you were doing okay today.”

“We’re good, thanks. I appreciate it,” he said, moving toward the kitchen. “We got back around noon from Shaun’s therapy—”

He halted halfway across the threshold of the kitchen, his eyes widening as he stared at the floor.

Three watery footprints trailed across the linoleum.

Evan swallowed and jabbed his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them, sure that sleep still clung to the lids and made him think he saw— But when he opened them again, the footprints were still there. Their forms were drying, beginning to shrink, becoming baby prints, but still very much real. He knelt and reached out, touching one of them. His finger came away wet. He heard Selena move closer and step into the kitchen behind him.

“And then what’d you guys do?” she asked.

Had his feet been wet when he put away the groceries? No. His shoes might’ve been, but he’d taken them off at the door, like he always did. His sock-covered feet were dry. Besides, the shape of the tracks couldn’t be denied. They weren’t shoe prints. Whoever had walked into the kitchen had been barefoot.

“What are you looking at?” Selena asked.

“You didn’t come into the kitchen, did you?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the small puddles.

“No, I shut the door and came over to wake you. I probably should’ve just let you sleep.”

His jaw worked for a moment, and then he grabbed a dishtowel that hung off the nearby counter.

“No, that’s fine. I needed to get up anyway,” he said, swiping the tracks away with the towel.

He felt the cool water soak into the fabric, and it repulsed him on some base level. Evan stood and opened the trash lid, then tossed the towel inside, glad to be free of its touch.

“Are you all right?”

He turned and saw the concerned look on her face, maybe the way she looked at a client who sat, no doubt, on a heavily padded leather love seat in her office.

“I’m fine, just a little wonky from the nap.”

“‘Wonky’?” she asked. “Are we British now?”

He shook his head and chuckled, the laughter feeling good after the touch of the dishtowel. “Yeah, what of it?”

Selena smiled. “Oh, nothing. I always liked British guys, their accents are a turn-on.”

He blushed but couldn’t help returning her smile. “I’m half English.”

Selena giggled and tilted her head in a way that made him want to go to her, put his fingers in her hair, and pull her close. Their eyes locked for a second, and time stretched out like pulled taffy, elongating while their gaze welded solid. Selena finally dropped her eyes, smiling again, this time to herself.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” she asked.

“No, go ahead, the loo’s down the hall, on the right,” Evan said, in his best English accent, which wasn’t very good.

She laughed again and disappeared into the living room. Evan walked out to the kitchen’s boundary and turned around, expecting the tracks to be back on the floor, but it was dry. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. What the hell was happening to him? Hallucinations? He hadn’t imagined the wetness of the towel. Was there any other explanation?

An idea came so quick and clear to his mind, his head almost snapped back with its arrival. He had the urge to slap his forehead, like a character in a classic comedy show. The grocery bags—he’d set them right where the tracks had been. There were cold items in there, things that would cause condensation. A little moisture had leaked out and only looked like footprints.

The explanation felt so good, so right, that he almost sagged with relief. That was it, definitely and most assuredly. He pulled a chair out from the table and heard the wind chimes outside spring into life, as if slapped by someone passing by. At the same time, movement to his right drew his eyes to the wooded backyard.

A dog crawled across the grass, its front legs straight and jerking with effort to drag the rest of its body, which slouched low because of its missing hind legs.

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