As Estelle pulled into the driveway in her gray station wagon, she was unsurprised to find that Frank had left the garage door open again. His excuse was that he would leave it open for her, which always made her happy, even though she knew it was usually more forgetfulness rather than thoughtfulness on his part. After a half-century of marriage, she was used to Frank leaving doors open, lights on, faucets dripping, and since his surgery, the absentmindedness—or possible blatant disregard from exhaustion—seemed to be accelerating.

“Frank, Frank, Frank, what is it am I going to do with you…?” She uttered as she pulled up the driveway, stopping short as a cat emerged from within. She sat a moment, bewildered, then witnessed several trotting out of the opening, dispersing into the dark.

The garage light flickered as Estelle stepped out of the car and entered the house.

“Frank…?” Estelle called over the unrelenting voice of a distant sports announcer. “I see you got the power back on. I ended up staying a bit longer—Florence wouldn’t let me out the door! You missed a helluva game tonight, too—I won twenty dollars! Oh, Jimmy was asking for ya. Florence had some great news, too. Her grandson is opening up an Irish joint down off Rt. 2, over in—Chesterville, maybe? Just signed a lease and everything! Supposed to have authentic Irish fare and something called crafted beers? She’s so proud of him. He’s a good egg, that grandson of hers.” Estelle went on as she took off her coat and placed it on the wall hanging hook.

“Heavenly, Jesus, is it loud in here. You left the TV blaring, Frank. What’d you do to the living room!?” Estelle walked through, picking littered items off the floor, one thing after another. Spilled snacks and empty cans, the place was a mess.

“Frank?” Estelle called as she entered the upstairs bedroom, noticing it was empty. She then proceeded through the kitchen and out the back door to the deck. Everything was quiet, with only the moonlight shining down, illuminating the still water below. She called out several more times, before noticing the scattered trash. Now growing a little more worried by his lack of response, she walked back inside and started toward the basement.

Estelle opened the door, habitually reached for the switch, flicking it up and down. She called impulsively for Frank before noticing a glimmer of light in the distance. There was delayed confusion, followed by immediate concern as she began down the dark stairwell as quickly and safely as possible, taking each creaky, wooden step lightly. The illumination from the flashlight shined off several stacked boxes at one end of the room, leading her in that direction. She caught the shimmer of the barely lit lamp through her side peripheral, although she couldn’t identify where it was. She couldn’t place anything in the darkness. Arms up, reaching out, fingers spread, moving forward at a comfortable pace, she continued. Her left leg brushed the side of a large, cold, solid object she quickly identified as either the washer or dryer unit. Now, she had an idea of where she was, but beyond that, the room was a mystery. Other than laundry, there wasn’t much of a reason to ever be down there until now.

Estelle noticed the sound of liquid sloshing under her shoes about five feet from the washer as she stepped. Lord, I hope this machine isn’t broken again! The last thing she wanted to do was deal with a leaking appliance in the middle of the night. Annoyed at the thought that there may be a much bigger mess to clean up that she couldn’t even see, she picked up the pace toward the lantern.

The light was within arm’s reach, and as she went for it, her brown loafer snagged something, causing her to lose balance. Almost before the panic of falling into the unknown set it, she was already down. Her left arm broke the fall, but she still hit the ground hard, the upper portion of her body splashed in the dark puddle. Her wrist popped as she cried out from the sharp pain, knowing it was most likely sprained. Thoroughly drenched, she began to quiver; a dump of adrenalin allowed her to slowly pick herself up. With a shaking hand, she finally reached the lamp, picking it up and holding it high while slowly rotating in a circle. Her left arm was folded, tucked under the breast, similar to an injured animal as she ambled along faintly whimpering. Nothing looked out of the ordinary with only so many visible feet ahead, but she was reluctant to continue on with pain setting in.

Finally, she hovered over the area around her feet. Now dreadfully low on fuel, the lamp lacked sufficient light, so she crouched down for a better view. At first glance, she saw a pair of shoes and immediately became angry that she just hurt herself, tripping over her husband’s mess. She continued to pan, and attached to one of the shoes were pants, followed by a shirt. It took a second or two before the pieces came together.

Estelle dropped to her knees and tugged at Frank, who was face down, trying to elicit a response.

“FRANK!! OH MY GOD, FRANK! Are you alright; what happened!? Talk to me! Frank!” She ranted, trying to turn him over, shaking him violently.

Tears welled up and fell from her eyes, thinking he may have fallen, hit his head and drowned, or had a heart attack. Working with one hand was difficult, trying to move Frank’s body weight. Using her foot as a wedge, she was able to pull him over.

“Oh, Frank. Please, say something!” She cried, feeling him over until her hand sunk into a cold, saturated, spongy pit. Still unable to clearly discern, she pulled back her hand, taking a length of the intestine with her as it unraveled.

She slowly stood, instinctually recoiling, and within seconds of the visual, a flood of recognition hit her all at once. She didn’t fall into a puddle from a leaky washer, and Frank wasn’t laying in water—it was blood, and it was everywhere. She motioned the lamp across her body and saw she was covered. Much of her canary-colored floral dress and matching sweater were stained top to bottom.

She waved the lamp over Frank revealing his mutilated torso and mangled face. To her surprise and horrific disbelief, the sight before her sent her into debilitating shock. Frank’s lifeless eyes were open, widely staring up at Estelle. Most of his neck was missing, and his head was cocked to the side, mouth open, hanging by a flap of lacerated skin. Spine and torn cartilage were visible, and ragged flesh layers hung from the stripped chest and throat.

Mortified beyond comprehension, Estelle let out a thunderous, lengthy shriek that could have shattered the Gilt mirror. The lamp swung around and smashed as she slipped backward on the mess below while the pieces fell into a box, instantly igniting its contents. Fire spread quickly, inundating every cardboard box and piece of furniture, illumining the cavernous room. Everything now visible to the terrified woman amid the blaze.

Estelle stood in malaise and watched as the basement lit up. It spread across the Persian rug, up the wall to the drying bed linen hanging overhead. Flames engulfed the curtains and window shade, sending tattered pieces of ignited material into the air. Once the heat started to reach her, she snapped out of her trauma-induced trance and headed automatically toward the densely hazed exit before the smoke finished its consummation. She started up the stairs, moved through the house, out the front door.

A pathway of fresh air entered, and the fire fiercely made its way to propane grill tanks, an old kerosene heater, and a fuel container, which combusted in a violent uproar. The blast blew out the windows causing propulsion flare to violently advance to the house exterior. The wake of the explosion sent Estelle tumbling to the ground, down the front lawn. Covered in soot, blood, and glass, Estelle lay unconscious as flames ravaged her home, blotting out the vivid, stellar sky with the radiating smolder.

Next Chapter: CH. 3 - CURTIS