There was no light in the room. The night was a cloudy one, with rain in the forecast, so I could count on no help from without the windows. The only light was a sliver from under the door of the guest bathroom, and I didn't want to use the hall light lest I should waken any of our guests, to none of whom I cared to speak.
I went back to my bedroom for a flashlight, and returned to find that the door to the guest room I had approached was closed, whereas I had left it open. I listened at the door, but no one betrayed his presence by a sound.
I tiptoed to the middle room, which was the quarters of the pacific and amiable one, and listened for the sounds of a sleeping man. Hearing none, I gently pushed the door a little wider open, just enough for me to squeeze through, and shone the flashlight towards the bed. It was empty. The covers looked like someone had lain on top of them, but they hadn't been turned down. I shone the flashlight about the room, and saw only the pile of the transient's original set of clothes, washed and folded, atop the dresser to otherwise indicate an occupant. I thought that perhaps he was in the bathroom.
I moved down to the third and last of the guest rooms and likewise entered. Careful to keep the direct light out of the loud and gruff man's face, I observed him. It seemed that he was having a nightmare, his face was twisted so. I moved closer and saw that his eyes were wide open, staring in panic at the ceiling, and he wasn't breathing. He was dead! A red line around his neck indicated that he'd been strangled.
I was horrified. I had never seen a victim of foul play before, and to see one in my own home made it doubly terrifying. I stared at the frozen corpse in shock, unable to believe what I was seeing. After several seconds it dawned on me that with a murdered man in my house, there must also be a murderer!
I was seized with a sudden fear, general in its implications, and then by a greater fear: fear for the safety of my wife. I had left her alone! I rushed back to our bedroom in a powerful state of agitation, and turned on a lamp that rested on a table by the door. She was safe. I looked around the room, and everything was in order.
I walked over to the side of the bed whereon lay my wife. She rolled over sleepily, and asked if everything was all right. My wife is a deep sleeper, and it usually takes her a long time to recover from her slumber. That was why she didn't notice the sweat upon my brow, my pale face, or the nervous manner of my speech when I replied that everything was all right.
Stupid egotistical man that I am! I should have told her what was wrong so that she could defend herself properly, so that she could face the dangers ahead with what faculties she could muster at her disposal. Instead I kissed her on the forehead and told her that nothing was wrong, and she rolled over and went back to sleep, trusting me. At the height of my vanity, I thought I could protect her; I thought I could deal with the situation and tell her about it when it was over, when she had nothing to fear. How could I tell her? How do you tell the woman you are constantly trying to protect and cherish, the truth in such an awful situation? How? I didn't know how to tell her, I didn't have the courage, and so I didn't tell her, and have regretted it ever since.
I felt that I needed my revolver to deal with this situation with some measure of security, and it was in the desk downstairs. I locked our bedroom door from the inside and called the police, using the telephone on the nightstand by my side of the bed. They said that they'd send someone out right away. I hung up, looked about the room to make sure that everything was in its place, and unlocked the door.
With my flashlight, and a pair of scissors for a weapon, I stepped into the hallway (instead of staying put like a smart man, and waiting for the police), locked the door behind me, and flipped the switch on the hall light. The bulb was burned out, or unscrewed. I headed for the stairway.
I quietly opened the door to the first guest room and looked inside. On a crumpled heap on the floor was the body of the quiet and pensive one of our homeless guests. Nothing else but he and the bedsheets were out of place. Trembling, I left the room, constantly looking in all directions.
At the top of the stairs I paused to listen, but I heard nothing unusual. Very carefully, extremely quietly, I started down the stairs. I tried the stairway light, and it worked. Halfway down I stopped. Something had been dropped on the first floor. Our servants didn't stay with us in the house, so it couldn't have been one of them. I hardly dared to breath. I shone the flashlight into the darkened corners, and everything looked like it should. Many times while watching movies I'd seen one of the characters walk into a room, knowing that it was dangerous, and I had called him a fool; and there I was doing the exact same thing for which I had derided the character.
I continued down the stairs, quieter than a whisper, and I stepped over to the library. I examined the room from without. Casting the beams of the flashlight around the otherwise darkened room I saw the cat lying on top of the desk, and a book on the floor next to the desk. The noise that I had heard while coming down the stairs must have been the book being knocked off the desk by the cat. I sighed with relief and took a step in the direction of the desk when I was stopped by the sound of glass breaking upstairs. I dropped my scissors in surprise. My wife! She was in danger! I moved towards the stairs and then halted, not knowing whether I should go and get my gun first. Torn by indecision, I lost a precious second before I dashed up the stairs.
I heard the sound of something being hit, and the sound came from the direction of my bedroom! I couldn't run any faster than I was already moving. I arrived at my bedroom what seemed an eternity later and I tried to open the door, forgetting in my hurry that I'd locked it. I fumbled for the key, and my shaking hand dropped it. In mad desperation I kicked the door, and the metal of the lock tore through wood as the door flew open.
I looked in and saw that fiendish devil whom I'd thought pacific and amiable strangling my wife with a rope! I raced over to him and punched him in the face. He hardly noticed. I hit him again, and again. He released his hold on her and she slumped to the ground.
He backed up and looked at me, blood dripping from the side of his mouth. He smiled a smile that did not belong on the face of a sane human being. He looked hungry. Putting one foot forcefully in front of the other, he approached me. I backed up. He laughed.
He grabbed the loose end of his rope and snapped the cord between his hands, laughing viciously as he advanced towards me. The courage with which I had assaulted him was gone, and fear reigned supreme. I backed up some more, looking for a weapon. I had dropped my flashlight at the door. He laughed again, and jumped. He forced me up against the closet door, which slammed shut. He had the rope against my throat, choking me against the door. I kicked at him, ineffectually.
The madman pulled me away from the wall and twisted the rope around my neck. He jerked me down to the floor and sat atop my torso, pinning my arms with his knees. The fear of death loomed large in my sight, blinding me. I could sense death's presence near me. Panicking, I managed to free my arms and grab his wrists in an attempt to loosen his grip upon my life, which he was fast throttling away. Had I been able to think rationally I could have halted his assault with a blow to any one of a number of places, but the fear of death had overridden my reasoning. I struggled vainly for my existence, when all of a sudden he lost consciousness and tumbled to the floor beside me.
Gasping for air, I felt the rope being removed from about my neck. I looked up and through my blurry eyes I saw my wife, lamp in hand, bending over me. After several breaths I managed to stand up and embrace her. The police arrived shortly thereafter.
Much to my relief my wife survived the incident with no permanent physical damage. Later that night, I learned upon discussion with the police that the madman had been hidden in the closet when I locked my wife in our bedroom, and that the other two of our guests were certainly dead, by strangulation.
That was forty years ago. Since then my wife has passed away, taken by cancer. Now I find it hard to believe
the terror with which I was possessed on that unfortunate night, for since the departure of my dear wife I dream of the day when I will be relieved of the burden of life.
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