Nobody’s Home
The kitchen phone rings. A scream cries out from the basement. A window on the back door is broken; glass shards rest in the sunlight, ignored. A note is taped to the refrigerator door. It reads: At the Elks. Sloppy joes for dinner. Back by bedtime. XoXo.
The scream in the basement grows quieter, muffled by a sleeve. It smells of marijuana smoke down there, though the joint’s already gone out underneath the toppled ashtray. A camcorder is placed on the coffee table. Bare, brown feet scuff against shag carpeting and a pair of black leather boots. The phone stops ringing.
The bare feet stop scuffing and start cringing. A pillow is gripped tight. The boots stomp. The bare feet fall limp. The pillow is lifted and tossed aside.
Clothes are removed; some are put back on. The camcorder is shut off. The boots clomp up the stairs. The bare feet stay still. The door with the broken window hangs limp on its hinges, creaking slowly with a sunset breeze.
The phone line in the kitchen rings again. The machine picks up, and a voice calls out, shrill and angry that nobody’s home to answer.
