I pedaled hard down the edge of the street, a cool wind, sharp with the promise of the winter to come, brushed over my face. It would have been enjoyable had it not been for the knot that was tangling itself in my stomach, my mind racing. Yesterday was still fresh in my mind, but reason had prevailed. Now, though...I couldn't help but worry. Dr. Ortega was more than a friend. She had taken an interest in me three years ago and had...coached me, advising me as to my deportment around the professors.
I had been to Ana's house several times in the past, for dinner parties. She was acclaimed throughout the university for her hosting renown. Gourmet Mexican food will get you a reputation in this town, and with your colleagues. I'd taken recipes home, and given her a few of my own.
I turned my ten-speed down Woodlawn Drive, a residential street whose houses were homogenized, but expansive. Dr. Ortega's was blue when the others were white with black trim. As I pulled up, I noticed the same car in which I had ridden parked in the driveway, edged with well-tended wildflowers. Brick stepping stones led the way from the driveway to the front porch, and I didn't disturb the sanctity of the verdant lawn before stepping onto the plantation porch. I rang the doorbell, checking my appearance in the glass door. I looked more ragged than I had when I'd left home. More tired. Like a different person. I waited impatiently, before trying the bell again. Nothing.
I pulled open the glass door and rapped urgently on the door just below the black letter box. Nothing, still. My blood pressure rising, I stepped off the porch and went back to the driveway. Ana's back yard was ringed by a painted umber fence that, as I tried it, was locked. I tried again, more eagerly, to no avail. I glanced about my person, checking nine o'clock, my six, and three o'clock, before hopping the fence. My technique was flawless. I was quite practiced in fence-hopping. I had it down to a science.
As my feet hit grass, I looked over the yard, my eyes squint in suspicion. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but that meant squat right now. As I sidled around the house, the attractive deck came into view. Well-built and sturdy, with tasteful patio furniture decorating it, and clutches of potted plants bringing color to the wood. I ascended the steps, masking my view from the ambient light with my hands, trying to look inside the house. No lights were on, only natural light pouring through the windows. Everything inside was washed-out, like I was seeing through a bleaching camera filter. I jiggled the handle on the back door, which inched forward from the force. Curious.
I put my best foot forward, as it were, and pushed the door open. It moved soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. I found its lack of noise discomforting. As I stepped forward into the house, I was assaulted by the dark, cold feel of the interior.
I stepped through the house carefully. No burglar alarm had gone off at my intrusion, which pushed me further to the edge of my wits. The unmoving air smelled like...nothing. It was...absent of scent, a quality of air that I'd never encountered, and haven't since then. I came into the kitchen, reaching out with my elbow, nudging the light switch. Light streamed into the room from the hanging chandelier. I looked over the island in the Doctor's kitchen, leaning over slowly. Nothing there. Nothing out of order in the kitchen at all. I turned slowly, rolling my feet to muffle the sound, and descended down three steps into the sunken den. I repeated my action in the kitchen, lights from all sides illuminating the elegantly arranged room.
I padded through the room, the beige carpet of the steep staircase blended together as I walked up the the second floor, the optical illusion presenting itself as a beige slide, no edges to be seen. At the top, I hit the switch for the hall lights. It was darker up here than it had been upstairs, and as the darkness flashed into light, I had more-than-half-expected a bogeyman to be welcoming me.
“Doctoo-o-or...” I said, my voice echoing tunelessly off the drywall and wood doors. My eyes narrowed at the door at the end of the hall. One foot followed the other as I step forward cautiously, footfalls barely sounding on the plush carpet. I pushed on the door with my toe and it swung back from me.
I could feel hot bile rise in the back of my throat, acid threatening to burn out my esophagus. I turned away for a moment, unable to continue looking on the scene in the study. My stomach felt like it was going to lurch upwards into my digestive tract. For a moment, I couldn't look at what was inside, but I swallowed my complete disgust, turning my gaze back to the well-lit study.
Ana Ortega was sitting in what looked to be a plush chair. That was not the most distinct description of her at this point. Her head was arched back, looking at the ceiling. Her arms were resting on the arms of the chair, like some regal monarch, entombed for all time. Her face, hands, and neck were distorted. They were covered with hives the size of quail eggs, her tan flesh stretched out to look shiny and of waxen texture. I felt hot tears prick at the sides of my eyes as I read what was taped to her chest. In the same madman's scrawl as I had encountered yesterday, each letter drawn unevenly several times.
GOT YOUR ATTENTION NOW
WOLF?
I stepped into the room, which was warmer than the house had been, light streaming in front windows placed around the room. My hand, shaking, pushed forward and quickly ripped the madman's sign off of my mentor, folding it quickly and shoving it down into my pocket. My hand did not retreat. I didn't feel it was real yet, so I needed to check. Two fingers reached out, pressing down on her carotid artery. I flinched back in disgust as her skin was swollen as if from...anaphylaxis. I couldn't feel a pulse even if there was one.
My sobs were raspy and my chest heaved as I pulled out my phone, dialing 911.
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