Genre
Short Stories
The Collection
Sam was less than two feet from the Cinderella staircase when a sudden gust of air sent dust
Sam was less than two feet from the Cinderella staircase when a sudden gust of air sent dust particles dancing in his flashlight beam. Had someone opened the front door? He spun around, flashlight cutting through the dark, but the massive double doors were still as shut as he’d left them moments ago when he made his way in.
He shook his head. No cameras, no alarm, and a heavy lead key tucked conveniently under the doormat. Fools. They were surely asking for it. And he was the answer.
Mask comfortably off, he swept through the first floor, past the disapproving gazes of the stern family portraits lining the ballroom, past the cupboards stocked with priceless china in the ornate dining room. Ugh. Nothing he could use. The real prizes had to be upstairs.
His watch vibrated. Five-minute mark. No alarm in the house. Still, best not to dawdle, Sam reminded himself.
Despite the thick rug runners, the stairs greeted him with a reluctant creak so loud he hesitated mid-step, his left leg searching for a safe space to land. Shaking his head again and ignoring the slight tingling in the back of his neck, he made his way up, gloved hands tightening on the wrought-iron railing.
He felt another gust as he finally stepped on the second-floor landing. Where was that draft coming from? An open window, maybe? The hair on his arms prickled. He clenched his hands into fists, forcing it down. Stop it, Sam. He made a perfunctory scan of what looked like a child’s bedroom: butterflies on the walls, a dozen or so dolls arranged on the bed, and a train set on the floor, but kept moving down the hall to a spacious master suite, perhaps a dozen more steps.
Scanning the room with the flashlight revealed a king-size canopy bed, wood-carved mahogany poles rising seven feet or more, side tables encrusted with mother-of-pearl. But there was nothing of value on them. No golden watch, no jewlery box. He rifled through those drawers, then the ones in a large wooden chest opposite the bed. Silk and linen. Nothing of use, not so much as a cufflink.
He checked the large gilded mirror hanging where a TV should have been. It was glued to the wall; if there was a safe behind it, he saw no way of getting at it without breaking the glass.
A search of the marble-floored bathroom, complete with a bronze standing tub and a large, decadent vanity, didn’t yield anything either. He found himself thinking about where they hid the toothbrushes. The place looked empty. Was the evening going to be a total waste? He shook the thought away, checking his watch. Twenty minutes and counting. He should be out in another ten, max. Sighing, Sam resolved to give a final check to the children’s bedroom.
He retraced his steps down the dark hallway, which suddenly seemed longer, well past the twelve steps he thought it took earlier. Fatigue must be getting to him. He paused to give his cheeks a vigorous rub, the gloves feeling oddly sterile as they scraped the day-old stubble. Get it together, man.
He finally got to the room with the butterflies, giving it a quick scan before entering again, his flashlight lingering on the painted walls. He blinked. Did that critter’s wings just flutter? He checked again. The artist had done a marvelous job; the wings shimmered in the flashlight beam, unnaturally vivid, brighter than they had any right to be. But they weren’t moving. It must have been one of those stupid optical illusion tricks. Sam took a confident step into the room.
A sudden gust of wind hit him mid-stride. It knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling over the toy train as the door smashed closed behind him. His flashlight flew from his hand, clattering across the floor and plunging the room into total darkness.
He landed hard, cursing as sharp bits of the train tracks dug into his ribs and thighs. He rolled onto his side, groaning. Something was lodged in the muscle of his upper right leg, a tiny railroad crossing sign, absurdly detailed.
Was the room getting lighter? He glanced at the ceiling. The light fixture wasn’t on, but an eerie orange glow permeated the room, casting stark shadows. The painted butterflies seemed to catch the color, insect eyes aglow, wings aflame. It was as if he were sitting inside a bonfire, flames dancing around him.
He felt something hot pushing against his knee. Glancing down, he saw that he was blocking the toy locomotive, which was belching curls of orange-tinged smoke and straining forward, trying its damnedest to roll itself and its passenger cars down the tracks. Its sharp whistle shattered Sam’s stupor; he scrambled to his feet, eyes darting for an exit. He lunged for the door and twisted the knob. Locked.
Limping, Sam hurried towards the window, gingerly stepping over the train set, where the locomotive was picking up steam, wheels churning faster, smoke pouring out in steady bursts.
The window frame wouldn’t give; its twist handle was rusted shut. He grabbed his mask out of a side pocket and put it over his gloved right hand, smacking the glass with as much force as he could muster. He might as well have been hitting granite.
Hunting for something heavier, he darted back and forth across the room. Was there anything heavier? A bookshelf, a table lamp, anything? Wait, was that a new doll on the bed?! It looked familiar. No, it can’t be. It must be a trick of the light!
Sam felt his knees buckle. Collapsing in front of the train tracks, he strained to keep his eyes open as his cold sweat appeared to mix with the room’s orange-tinged darkness. There had to be a way to get out of here. Had to be!
It was then that he saw the tiny people inside the toy train’s passenger cars, their faces pressed to the windows, their fists pounding them in despair. And it was going to be the last thing he saw.
From the outside in.