IMOGENE
Closed for Halloween Party 7-10 PM at the you-know-where!
TORECK CRASHED through the bedroom door. I froze at the vanity table, lipstick in hand, shocked to see him in the mirror behind me. Why didn’t Solly bark?
“Toreck?”
He was barefoot. Barefoot? He wore green army-style pants, and his t-shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing a tattoo of a snake on one arm and other marks I couldn’t make out.
“Why, Miss Imogene Riley, you look mighty nice tonight.”
He closed the door behind him, immediately suffocating the air.
I heard Solly outside my window barking at the building. “Solly?”
“Oh that mangy mutt’ll do anything for a piece of bacon,” Toreck said. “Now . . . Miss Imogene, all made up and smelling . . .,” he took a deep breath, “umm . . . like a million dollars. Always wanted a million dollars.”
My lipstick tube hit the floor. “I . . . you can’t—”
He looked me up and down and said, “You Rileys sure like to tell people what to do, don’t you?”
An ominous shadow of orange hues crept into the room.
My heart pounded so fast I heard the vibrations in my head. Just then the street light crackled and snapped ablaze outside my window. Solly’s barking grew faint. I tried to stay calm, turned to face him and said, “Toreck, you shouldn’t—”
“Shut up.” His face hardened. His piercing gaze fixed on me.
With my back as close to the wall as possible, I inched my way to the window.
“No way out, Love,” he said. “Is that how big brother says it? Love?”
He dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it with his bare foot, his unflinching stare brazen as ever.
“Get out!” I shouted. “Get out of my house!”
“I don’t think so.” He ripped off his shirt. “It took too long to get in here.”
An American flag tattoo waved over his left shoulder, a cross and skull over his right. I’d never seen so many tattoos or so much thick black hair from his belly-button down.
“Please, Toreck. Go.”
“I don’t think so,” he said again, and without taking his eyes off me he locked the door behind him. The click echoed.
“What are you doing?” I asked afraid of the answer.
My feet wouldn’t move, but when he took a step toward me something in my head exploded. “No!” I screamed. I ran to the window and yanked up, but it didn’t budge.
“Glued shut,” he said calm and undaunted. “I was in here just the other day.”
My arms grew heavy and dropped to my sides. I stared at the lock. He had been in here. That night when I felt something was off . . . it was.
“You don’t leave this place very often,” he said as a twisted smile etched across his pockmarked face. “But when you do, I have a real nice time in here gettin’ to know you.”
Without turning, he reached behind him and pulled open a drawer. “In here,” he said without looking, “you keep your pretty nighties.” He slammed the drawer shut. I jumped.
“In here,” he said and opened the next one. His eyes burned into me. “Here’s those soft silky bras and lacey slips you wear under them cotton work dresses a yours. Nice.” He smiled.
My throat swelled with the onset of tears and screams that couldn’t find their way out. I glanced at my clock; it was only seven thirty. Nobody would come looking for a good long while.
He slammed that drawer. Every muscle in my body tensed at the sound. My stomach went queasy.
“And in here,” he said as he pulled the third drawer open, “your nice little pink-and-white panties.” He yanked it completely out. As the drawer crashed to the floor, all my underwear spilled out.
Tears overwhelmed my eyes. “Toreck, no . . .,” I said, barely able to speak. “No . . . I—”
“You,” he said, as he took a hunting knife from his belt and unbuckled his pants. “You nothin’.”
“Just go.”
“You always had the last say, miss princess. But now . . . ”
“Get out!” I screamed as I backed away, inching along the wall to the closet where Thomas kept a baseball bat. Toreck’s pants dropped to the floor.
“You! You stay away from me!” I shouted. I grappled with the closet door.
“That bat’s gone,” he said, his eager eyes fixed on my breasts.
I rushed back to the window. He watched me scramble for a weapon. But when I grabbed the vanity stool to throw through the window, he reeled, grabbed me by the waist, jerked me off my feet, and dragged me across the room, kicking and screaming. “Stop! NO! Theo! Bud!”
Toreck smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. He tied my hands to the bedposts with my new nylon stockings and said, “Keep screamin’.” He gripped my face with his hand and said, “The first body through that door gets their throat cut.” He ran the knife’s sharp edge along my throat.
I gasped but didn’t scream, now praying no one would come looking for me.
Then, slowly, he pressed the knife’s steely tip into my skin. Tilting his shaved head, he watched like a curious child dissecting a frog. He pressed hard not an inch below my jaw. His flat, anxious eyes were transfixed, watching as he cut until he drew blood. A pernicious smile curved up the left side of his angular face. I grew dizzy with the sensation of the cold metal penetrating my skin.
Dear God, keep Solomon home, I prayed. Please don’t let him wake and come over here.