same spiteful and raging force as the previous one. The fog was so thick it pressed incessantly against each window of the mansion, leaving the grounds outside obscured and filled with dark shadows.
Dave rang his parents as he went about making toast for breakfast. His stomach was still feeling off from last night’s dinner and he was in no mood for anything too heavy or elaborate.
When he explained to his mother that he wasn’t feeling one hundred percent, she told him not to worry, and that he could come to church with them tomorrow instead. Dave was thankful for the reprieve, he felt what he really needed was a day to himself. To get over whatever malady seemed to be plaguing him. He felt so bone tired that he was sure he must be coming down with the flu—he checked his temperature to be sure, but it was normal even if his body felt tense and tight. Dave mulled about the house—he browsed the library, watered the plants in the conservatory, he even took a spin around the ballroom. Georgette would be leaving for work soon and the distant sound of drums clashing led him to believe Sam would be cooped upstairs for the remainder of the weekend working on her music.
By noon, Dave was itching to get out of the house. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a combination of paranoia and claustrophobia was starting to lean on him. He considered going outside, but the wind was so wild he wasn’t willing to risk getting hit with a falling branch.
“Screw it,” he murmured to himself as he paced once more along the upstairs hallway, looking for something to occupy his time. He turned suddenly and headed back down the stairs with a rush of inspiration.