You Head Back To Bed

I pulled the nightgown back up over my shoulders with hands that still shook, the silk sticking to the damp places Constance had left behind. The mark on my breast throbbed in time with my pulse. I told myself I was going back to bed. That I would lie down beside Ben and pretend none of this had happened - the fingers, the bite, the way I’d come against the neighbor’s hand in my own kitchen while my family slept above me.

I left the wine glass where it was and started for the stairs.

Halfway across the dark living room I heard it.

A soft, rhythmic sound from deeper in the house. Not the usual settling of old wood. Something wetter. Something that paused, then started again - like slow, deliberate breathing mixed with the quiet drag of fabric over skin. It came from the direction of the downstairs hallway that led toward the music room we’d barely touched since moving in.

I should have kept walking. Instead my bare feet turned toward the sound without permission. The house seemed to lean in, the air growing warmer the closer I got, carrying that same metallic undercurrent I’d been tasting since the first night. My thighs were still slick from Constance. Every step made me aware of it.

The music-room door stood half open. A thin slice of moonlight cut across the floorboards from the tall windows. Inside, something moved.

I pushed the door wider.