Story code: ST-000721
Part 1: The Glare
Kira sat perfectly still on the bare floorboards of her living room, letting the pitch-black house wrap around her like a heavy blanket. Her phone vibrated against the baseboard a few feet away, a rapid, buzzing rhythm indicating another barrage of texts or alerts she fully intended to ignore. She reached out and flipped the device face-down, cutting off the harsh blue glow of the lock screen. Silence returned, thick and absolute. She pulled her knees to her chest, craving the total isolation of the empty neighborhood. She needed the world to simply stop existing for a few hours.
Then, the blinding white glare of dual halogen motion-sensor lights snapped on next door, obliterating the darkness in Kira’s living room.
The sudden intrusion of light painted long, distorted shadows across her walls. Kira froze. Her breath caught in the stillness. The illumination came from the property adjacent to hers, owned by a reclusive older man who never entertained guests, especially not at two in the morning. She stayed low to the ground, creeping on hands and knees until she reached the front window. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed her back against the wall and carefully parted two of the aluminum blinds. The cold radiating from the glass chilled her skin.
Bathed in the unforgiving glare of the security floods, an unidentified man stood squarely on her neighbor’s front porch.
He was not dressed for the freezing temperatures, wearing only a thin, dark hoodie with the fabric pulled aggressively over his head. The man shifted his weight from leg to leg in an erratic, twitchy dance, his sneakers scuffing loud enough for the sound to carry across the frozen lawns. Kira squinted, her eyes adjusting to the harsh contrast of the spotlights. The stranger was clutching an object to his chest. It was a large, rectangular box, completely encased in thick, overlapping layers of silver duct tape. The crude wrapping caught the light, giving the heavy package a metallic, sinister sheen. The man leaned his weight back, his forearms visibly straining as he hoisted the taped box higher, shoving it toward the neighbor’s heavy oak front door.
Kira told herself to let the blinds snap shut. She commanded her legs to stand up, to walk back to the safety of her bedroom, and to lock her own door. It was not her property, and it was certainly not her problem. Yet, the bizarre tension of the scene paralyzed her. She watched the stranger raise his fist and pound on the thick wood of the door, a series of desperate, heavy thuds that echoed through the quiet cul-de-sac. He kept glancing over his shoulder, peering out into the darkness of the street, before turning his frantic attention back to the entryway.
The deadbolt clicked. The sound was sharp, carrying perfectly through the frigid night air.
The heavy oak door swung open with a sudden, forceful motion. The stranger stumbled backward, his boots slipping on the frosted concrete of the porch. Kira pressed her cheek against the cold windowpane, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in her ears. Her neighbor stepped out of his foyer and into the glaring light. He wore a heavy wool coat over sleepwear, standing wide and planted on his own threshold. The halogen lights glinted off the long, polished steel barrel in his hands.
He was holding a pump-action shotgun.
The weapon was held at a low ready, the wooden stock tucked securely under his arm, the barrel angled toward the trespasser’s chest. The older man did not shout. He did not posture. He simply stood there, an immovable force, the rigid set of his shoulders communicating a lethal and absolute boundary. Kira gripped the plastic wand of the blinds, her knuckles turning white. She expected the trespasser to drop the heavy, taped box and run for his life. She expected him to dive into the bushes and sprint down the asphalt.
Instead, the stranger leaned forward.
He thrust the silver-taped box outward, holding it between himself and the barrel of the gun like a shield. His chest heaved as he began to shout, the words tearing out of his throat in a ragged, desperate pitch. The wind died down just enough for his frantic voice to echo across the property line, carrying straight through the thin glass of Kira’s window. He was screaming out a string of bizarre words, ending by violently shouting his Twitch handle at the man with the gun.
A sharp, metallic clack echoed across the lawn as her neighbor racked the shotgun.
Kira sat perfectly still on the bare floorboards of her living room, letting the pitch-black house wrap around her like a heavy blanket. Her phone vibrated against the baseboard a few feet away, a rapid, buzzing rhythm indicating another barrage of texts or alerts she fully intended to ignore. She reached out and flipped the device face-down, cutting off the harsh blue glow of the lock screen. Silence returned, thick and absolute. She pulled her knees to her chest, craving the total isolation of the empty neighborhood. She needed the world to simply stop existing for a few hours.
Then, the blinding white glare of dual halogen motion-sensor lights snapped on next door, obliterating the darkness in Kira’s living room.
The sudden intrusion of light painted long, distorted shadows across her walls. Kira froze. Her breath caught in the stillness. The illumination came from the property adjacent to hers, owned by a reclusive older man who never entertained guests, especially not at two in the morning. She stayed low to the ground, creeping on hands and knees until she reached the front window. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed her back against the wall and carefully parted two of the aluminum blinds. The cold radiating from the glass chilled her skin.
Bathed in the unforgiving glare of the security floods, an unidentified man stood squarely on her neighbor’s front porch.
He was not dressed for the freezing temperatures, wearing only a thin, dark hoodie with the fabric pulled aggressively over his head. The man shifted his weight from leg to leg in an erratic, twitchy dance, his sneakers scuffing loud enough for the sound to carry across the frozen lawns. Kira squinted, her eyes adjusting to the harsh contrast of the spotlights. The stranger was clutching an object to his chest. It was a large, rectangular box, completely encased in thick, overlapping layers of silver duct tape. The crude wrapping caught the light, giving the heavy package a metallic, sinister sheen. The man leaned his weight back, his forearms visibly straining as he hoisted the taped box higher, shoving it toward the neighbor’s heavy oak front door.
Kira told herself to let the blinds snap shut. She commanded her legs to stand up, to walk back to the safety of her bedroom, and to lock her own door. It was not her property, and it was certainly not her problem. Yet, the bizarre tension of the scene paralyzed her. She watched the stranger raise his fist and pound on the thick wood of the door, a series of desperate, heavy thuds that echoed through the quiet cul-de-sac. He kept glancing over his shoulder, peering out into the darkness of the street, before turning his frantic attention back to the entryway.
The deadbolt clicked. The sound was sharp, carrying perfectly through the frigid night air.
The heavy oak door swung open with a sudden, forceful motion. The stranger stumbled backward, his boots slipping on the frosted concrete of the porch. Kira pressed her cheek against the cold windowpane, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in her ears. Her neighbor stepped out of his foyer and into the glaring light. He wore a heavy wool coat over sleepwear, standing wide and planted on his own threshold. The halogen lights glinted off the long, polished steel barrel in his hands.
He was holding a pump-action shotgun.
The weapon was held at a low ready, the wooden stock tucked securely under his arm, the barrel angled toward the trespasser’s chest. The older man did not shout. He did not posture. He simply stood there, an immovable force, the rigid set of his shoulders communicating a lethal and absolute boundary. Kira gripped the plastic wand of the blinds, her knuckles turning white. She expected the trespasser to drop the heavy, taped box and run for his life. She expected him to dive into the bushes and sprint down the asphalt.
Instead, the stranger leaned forward.
He thrust the silver-taped box outward, holding it between himself and the barrel of the gun like a shield. His chest heaved as he began to shout, the words tearing out of his throat in a ragged, desperate pitch. The wind died down just enough for his frantic voice to echo across the property line, carrying straight through the thin glass of Kira’s window. He was screaming out a string of bizarre words, ending by violently shouting his Twitch handle at the man with the gun.
A sharp, metallic clack echoed across the lawn as her neighbor racked the shotgun.