Ronald's Night

Ronald finished cleaning his instruments.
He toweled them off individually and ran them each flatly along his jeans to finish his ritual.
Then he carefully picked them all up in his hands like a bundle of metal sticks, and walked down the shag-carpeted steps back into his basement.
The single bulb still hummed with electricity.
He placed each of his tools back into their leather case and wrapped the strap tightly around it.
He placed the leather bundle back on its little shelf.
Ronald hadn’t missed any spots while he was cleaning.
It was a very small room.
Still, a ritual was a ritual.
Better safe than sorry. Words Ronald lived by.
He got out the blacklight and the ammonia spray bottle and searched every inch.
Hadn’t missed a spot.

He put the blacklight and spray bottle away on their shelf up above the leather case.
Then he killed the bulb and trudged back up the steps, closing the door behind him.
The news was on television now.
He flipped to another channel.
A movie was on; a movie he’d never seen all the way through, but had been meaning to watch.
Looked like he’d only missed a few minutes.
Ronald decided to watch it.

Bump-bump-bump!
Ronald jerked awake.
Someone was at the door.
Ronald got up out of his lounge chair and walked out of his living room.
He left the static-blaring television on, so he could see in the darkness.
Bump-bump-bump!
“I’m comin’! It’s late!”
He peered through the peephole to see how many police officers there were.
None.
No neighbours either.
Ronald figured they might be off to the sides of the door.
He quickly pulled his jackknife out of his back pocket, switched it open, and kept it clenched it in his hand behind his back.
With his free hand, he opened the door.
“Hello?! Who the hell’s banging on my damn door in the middle of the night?”
There was no one outside the door.
Ronald tentatively stepped out and peeked around the corners of his house, right and left.
He didn’t see anyone running in the distance or hiding nearby.
Ronald stood still for a moment and smelled the night air.
Nothing unfamiliar.
He turned and went back into his house.

Ronald lazily went towards the living room to turn off his TV and go to sleep.
Whump-whump-whump!
“Goddammit!”
He sprinted back to the door, knife at the ready, and flung it open.
The wind rustled the bushes gently.
A few leaves skittered on the sidewalk.
Ronald’s eyes narrowed.
He reached back into his house and turned off his porch light.
Then he shut the door and slinked off to his right, behind the large front bushes.
He waited patiently in the night with his knife open.
The wind blew again, drying his eyes.
Ronald didn’t blink.
He waited for at least 30 minutes, crouched and hidden behind his neatly-hedged bushes.
He waited another 30 minutes just to be sure the first 30 minutes was at least 30 minutes.
Nothing happened.
He listened so hard, he could hear the static on his television through the brick wall next to him.
He finally peered over the bushes and into the neighbourhood in front of him.
No lights on, except a few scattered porches.
Ronald narrowed his eyes again.
He decided to check completely around his house.
He crept slowly, knife drawn, behind the bushes that covered the corner of his house.
He made sure not to snap even the tiniest twig.
No one on the right side of his house so far.

He looked gently over his wooden fence, then pushed up on the metal latch slowly enough to keep it quiet.
He lifted the fence slightly as he opened it, so the hinges wouldn’t squeak.
Then he stopped for a moment and listened.
No sound.
He closed the fence gingerly and crouched down again.
He kept to the side of his house and moved forward.

The back door was ajar.
Ronald was absolutely sure he hadn’t left it open.
It was all part of his ritual.
He never missed a single step of his ritual.
He cursed silently and eased open the screen door an inch at a time.
It creaked gently, no matter how slowly he moved, but the way he was opening it would sound as natural as the wind.
Ronald entered the darkness of his home.

He smelled the air in his kitchen.
Nothing unfamiliar.
Ronald grimaced and began to chew on his lip.
It took ten full minutes for Ronald to close both back doors silently, one after the other.
He locked the deadbolt and listened for the intruder.
Silence.
Better safe than sorry.
Ronald went to the front door quietly.
It was still shut.
He locked the deadbolt and the chain silently.
All the little hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.
He realized that the television had been turned off.

His eyes grew wider.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, then off his upper lip.
He wiped both hands on his jeans.
Ronald needed something better than this knife.
He needed to go downstairs and get his tools.
He slowly walked to the basement door.
It was already open.
He slid through and closed it behind him.
Now he was immersed in darkness.
He held his sweaty knife in his right hand, and slowly splayed his left hand out in the darkness.
If he felt anyone, he planned to grab them close and stab them again and again.

The air was cool and musty.
He walked down a stair, and felt around in the darkness.
He walked down another stair and repeated.
With every step, he felt more sweat gather on his brow.
He lost track of how far down he had come.
Surely he didn’t have this many steps.
He stopped feeling for a moment and listened.
Silence.
Nothing but the sounds of his lungs emptying and his neurons singing.
Ronald knew someone was down here.
He could feel them.
This was HIS room; his special place.
Just by being here, this person was violating his sanctuary.
He walked down another step, feeling in the darkness.
And another step.

He put his foot down gently again, but the floor shoved it back; he had finally reached the bottom.
Ronald hunched down, in case the intruder was also feeling around in the darkness.
More than likely, he was waiting; listening for any movement at all.
Listening for Ronald breathing.
Ronald held his breath
He waited, crouched with his hand out, in the ink of the basement.
He couldn’t hear anyone breathing, but the feeling was stronger than ever now.
Ronald was almost positive of where the man was.
The slightest noise meant his death.

Ronald moved silently along the right wall of the tiny room, shielding his body to the wall in case he was suddenly struck.
He felt in the air with his left hand for anything solid.
He finally felt the back right edge of the room.
His tools were in the other back corner, just a few feet away.
The man was either in the middle of the room, by his special little chair, or along the opposite wall.
Instinct would tell him not to stay in the corners.

Ronald took a step closer to his tools.
He paused to listen.
Someone else was breathing very very carefully in the middle of the room.
Ronald grinned.
He’d be able to get his tools.
He moved with patience, but confidence toward his leather satchel.
He felt the other corner of the room.
He gently reached up and felt for the handle of his long-bladed steel knife.
He was able to slide it out of its leather case without even a creak.
The breathing in the middle of the room grew faster.
Ronald felt his own heart beating more quickly.
He squared himself with the middle of the tiny room he knew and loved, and crept a step towards his favourite child-sized chair.

He stepped again silently, both arms closer to his body, ready to strike.
He was right behind the tiny chair now, poised and ready to strike.
Ronald heard the quickened breathing of the person right in front of him, and he leaned closer.
Ronald slowly raised his arms up and out into the blackness on either side of him, like a bat stretching its wings.

Like a flash, he swung his arms forward and stabbed both hands into the darkness.
His arms passed quickly through thin air; cold air.
He broke out in goosebumps as he retracted his hands through the freezing pool of nothingness sitting in the children’s chair.
Ronald distinctly heard a whimper, not six inches in front of him.
The very pit of his stomach froze and the hairs on the back of his neck curled upward.
Ronald heard soft crying as a violent pain broke into his left shoulder.
Instinctually, he arched his back and reached behind him.
One of his own knives was stuck through his shoulder up to the handle.
He pulled it out and realized with horror that it was the jackknife he thought he was still holding.
He felt another pain pierce through his belly.
He doubled over and pulled out his long-bladed steel knife.
He slashed through the air with both knives, striking nothing.
The cold spread from his wounds throughout his body.
He fell to the floor, realizing that his hands were both empty.
As the cold completely enveloped him, he heard his leather kit being opened.
He drooled blood onto the stone floor.
“Please… please don’t…”
No words.
Only breathing.
Upstairs, the television turned back on, filling the house with the sound of static.

The End

Chuck's House

THUD!
Chuck heard the newspaper slam against the front of the house.
“He isn’t even trying to hit the front door anymore,” Chuck muttered to his wife.
“I don’t see what difference it makes whether the paper lands at the door, or a few feet from the door, Charles, you can read it just the same.”
Chuck grumbled to himself, hoisted his 71-year-old body out of his chair, and lumbered over to the door.
“Charles O’Henry,” he stated clearly.
“Voice pattern confirmed. Front door opened,” the house stated equally clearly.
Chuck was struck briefly by how businesslike these verbal transactions were, as he pushed the door open.
His wife Helen had wanted this “upgraded” house computer. He had personally grown accustomed to the voice of their old house, a mature woman with a warm nature, and had been disappointed at the choices in voices for the new house.
At first, they had tried the new cheerful young boy who reminded Chuck a lot of the classic Leave It To Beaver show.
After a few months of overly cheerful pre-puberty however, they both decided the cold, default female voice was the best of the new options.
He walked onto the porch, closing the door behind him.
The newspaper had bounced off the front siding and landed atop the big plastic bushes his wife had wanted “to make the house stand out a little, dear.”
Chuck could see the grayish mark on the siding where the newspaper hit.
“It left a damn mark Helen!” Chuck hollered inside.
“What?”
Chuck muttered to himself and grabbed the paper brusquely.
He smudged at the mark violently with his thumb, but it did nothing, so he walked the two 71-year-old steps back to the door.
“Charles O’Henry,” he stated clearly.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry denied,” the house stated equally clearly.
Chuck stopped pushing on the door and cleared his throat.
“Charles O’Henry,” Chuck said, making sure to enunciate every letter.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry denied,” the house stated again.
“Now dammit, you just said you recognized me two minutes ago!”
“To permit access, please state your name clearly.”
“Charles O’Henry!”
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry Denied. House under lockdown. Warning: further attempts may result in police action and housing defense activation. Have a nice day.”
“Let me into my damn house! Helen!” Chuck yelled.
“What’s wrong now Charles?”
“This damn house of yours locked me out!”
“What?”
“For God’s sakes Helen, come over to the door so you can hear me!”
Chuck very faintly heard Helen pull herself out of her chair and shuffle over to the other side of the door.
“Charles, why are you outside yelling?
“Helen, the front door locked me out. I’m locked out of my own house in my damn pajamas,” Charles spat.
“Why don’t you just say your name, dear?”
Chuck closed his eyes and sighed audibly.
“Helen, why don’t YOU say YOUR name.”
“Don’t be angry with me Charles, you’re the one who wanted this new house computer. I was happy with the old one.”
Chuck took a deep breath and turned away from the door, sighing to himself.
All around the neighbourhood now, the younger neighbours were all waking up and starting their day.
Chuck decided to sit on his uncomfortable foamwood porch swing and read the paper.
He could hear his wife chattering away through the door at him, about now she was probably blaming him again for the faulty alarm bed settings, even though he’d explained that it was a manufacturing defect at least a dozen times. He’d even clipped out the article with the company’s public apology and complete lack of desire (or “inability” as they put it) to make up for their faulty alarm beds.
Chuck noticed that one of his neighbours was lying on his own porch swing, a real comfortable wooden one, a few houses away across the street.
It looked as if he was sleeping in his suit for some reason.
Chuck was fortunate enough to see his flurry of waking with a start, looking at his watch, jumping into his car, and driving off.
Helen was yelling now.
“-do you mean not recognized?!” he heard her shout.
Chuck folded his paper neatly, stood up, and walked back over to the door.
“Helen, is it broken for you too?”
“Charles, it said it didn’t recognize me!” Helen grumped from inside.
“Voice pattern not recognized. House under lockdown. Authorities have been alerted. Have a nice day.”
Chuck was angry now.
“What on Earth do you mean? You’ve called the cops?!”
“Charles, why won’t it open?”
“Helen, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing on the porch in my skivvies!”
“Well, it certainly is an inconvenience Charles.”
“I’m sure the police will be able to help. Just go back to your puzzle and I’ll talk to them when they get here.”
Chuck went back to his swing and opened his newspaper. He heard Helen complaining quietly to herself inside.
A few minutes later, two squad cars showed up on the street.
The officers inside got out and both pointed their shotguns at him.
“We received reports of an unauthorized entry into this residence. Put your hands in the air and prepare for arrest.”
“It’s my own damn house! No one’s unauthorized here.”
“He’s resisting arrest! Activate!”
Chuck started to reply, when all of an instant, he was hit by an electric shell and fell to the ground, convulsing with pain and more volts than his body knew what to do with.
The two officers swarmed onto his porch, one of them handcuffing him, while the other kept his shotgun aimed at Chuck’s head.
Chuck was still convulsing as they moved away from him and towards the door.
Chuck’s ears barely discerned Helen at the door.
“Has my husband told you everything officers?”
Before they could answer, the door chimed in.
“Good morning officers. This is house 148-F. There have recently been numerous unauthorized attempts from two individuals. One individual outside the house and one individual inside the house.”
“Good God Johnson! The burglar has already gotten inside!” one of the officers yelled, even though they were standing right next to each other.
“Load that geezer into your squadcar Evans, I’ll deal with this perp myself!” the other officer yelled, even though they were still standing right next to each other.
Chuck’s ears began to normalize again and he heard Helen pleading.
“I’m not a burglar! Charles, tell them I’m your wife!”
Chuck heard the computer respond.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry Denied. House defense system activated. Have a nice day.”
“Good God Johnson! The burglar has turned the house against us!”
“Let’s get outta here Evans!
Chuck was roughly picked up, slung over one of the officer’s shoulders and rushed to a squadcar, where he was thrown in the back like a sack of laundry.
Chuck heard the house’s defenses firing plasma beams at the squadcar, where they were deflected by the car’s plating.
His tongue and lips were still too numb to speak when he heard the officer spit into his radio.
“This is officer Johnson, we need an immediate firebombing of house 148-F. repeat, immediate firebombing of house 148-F. over.”
Chuck’s tongue was still swollen, and his mouth wouldn’t open.
The radio blasted “Roger that. Immediate firebombing of house 148-F in progress. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
They drove away and Chuck began to cry, hearing the sounds of explosions behind him.