The room smelled like deep fall, with a hint of decaying leaves drifting through the open window over the sink, mingling with the pumpkin spice candle alight on the countertop. But the best smell of all lingered inside the oven where a tray of cookies melted into cream-colored puddles. The dough emitted a fragrance of butter, chocolate chips and everything holy. I grabbed two plates from the cupboard above the stove, jumping when a scream pierced the air. The plates thudded onto the counter.
I realized with hot cheeks that the sound came from the television where my husband sat watching a marathon of horror movies. Except now, I couldn't see his bald head peeking over the sofa cushions. The sinister music had jangled my nerves all afternoon. “I hate scary movies,” I muttered almost inaudibly into the kitchen while looking around for any sign of my husband. I tossed the T.V. a lingering scowl.
As if the room heard me, menacing soundwaves of doom danced through the room.
When the timer dinged, I grabbed my oven mitts and pulled the cookie sheet from the oven, placing it atop the stove. Tossing the mitts aside, I wandered to the television to mute the damn program and sat to read for a spell until I figured the cookies had cooled. I returned to the kitchen.
After transferring the cookies to the plates, I heard a click behind my head and the room dimmed. I turned and gasped. There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. The intruder wore a ghoulish hockey mask, and I felt my heart skitter and shift inside my chest. The knife careened above me as the man lifted his arm high and straight. I screamed, grabbed the cookie sheet and hit the burglar across the face as hard as I could, holding the baking pan before me like a shield. The knife appeared to crumple illogically and fell to the floor. The man grunted and bent, grabbing his knees. Blood dripped from underneath the mask and onto the floor forming a constellation of red dots. After a few seconds of horror, I recognized the man’s t-shirt and inhaled, ditched the pan and ran to flip the light switch.
I covered my mouth, then bristled. “Honey, I’m sorry…but why would you do such a thing? Are you nuts? You know I hate being scared,” I said, picking up the cardboard knife covered in tinfoil. My husband removed the greasy mask now covered in cookie crumbs as blood dripped over his lips and down his neck.
He smiled sheepishly when I handed him a plate of cookies.
Happy Halloween! Instead of candy, give me the best treat of all: a rating or review!
 Read Chorus of Crows! | |||
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