Randy White - Deceived

Scratching and panting, the pit bulls were digging beneath the door now. Determined to get their teeth in me, but I felt secure enough to step away, then sag against the wall for a moment. After several deep breaths, I pushed off and hurried across the room in search of a light switch and an exit. On the way, I allowed myself to detour near the sink because the window provided a lighted footpath. Passed close enough to realize the wig wasn’t near the sink, it was in the sink.

I stopped; felt a chill that made me reluctant to step closer. Yes… the wig was sitting or floating in water on what might have been a Styrofoam base. Rust-stained water, copper red, beneath a window that boiled with late-afternoon sunlight. Bad pipes would explain the reddish color; a country well that blackened water with minerals, sulfur and iron, explained it, too. The village of Sulfur Wells had been named for that very reason and supported what I desperately wanted to believe. My nerves couldn’t handle another explanation. I had to get out of this place!

Dazed, I hurried toward the darkest corner of the kitchen, where reason told me there would be a door. There was. No doubt about it because the door cracked a few inches as I approached, filtering an expanding band of light. I felt the heat of the sun thatch my body, but what appeared within that band of daylight paralyzed me. A man was there-a wedge of face wrapped in a scarf, one dark eye staring. One black glove, too. His big hand braced something against his shoulder, a tool of some type on a hickory-thick handle.

An axe.

I AM NOTa woman who screams when surprised. Even as a girl, Loretta, her friends, too, had commented on my stoic, tomboy ways. The accusations that were always hidden in their comments had been troubling to me until I was older. By then, I knew I was attracted to men, so I have accepted those early criticisms-along with many others voiced by Loretta-as proof I’ve inherited solid qualities that, despite my secret weaknesses, make a stronger woman and give me confidence.

When the man appeared, I did not scream. Even when he shifted the axe to his other shoulder to slide into the kitchen, I didn’t scream, although I did back away. But when he slammed the door behind him, cloaking him in darkness, I couldn’t help myself. A whimpering sound escaped my lips, which I instantly retracted by calling, “If you hurt Mrs. Helms, mister, you’d better run while you have the chance!”

No reply. Instead, I heard the rattle of metal, then the thunk of a dead bolt burying itself in the doorframe. He had locked us in.

I stayed on the offensive. “Police are on their way! In fact, in fact”-I fumbled to retrieve the cell phone from my pocket, then held it up-“they’re listening to every word I say!”

The man turned to face me, his body as wide and shapeless as a raincoat. I couldn’t see details, just the bulk of his shoulders, the contour of his head, a momentary glint of something that mirrored a shard of light-the axe blade? Then he walked toward me, but so slowly that shadows swirled around him like displaced fog. Was it confidence or caution? The kitchen was dark, but, if he kept coming, I would soon get a better look at him. Or had my threats made him uncertain? The dogs were still at the kitchen door, their barking frenzied-another possibility.

I couldn’t just stand there, so I ran to put a table between us, then waited. Either direction, I was trapped. I looked at the window above the sink. It wasn’t much wider than my shoulders. I could wiggle through if I shattered the glass, but not fast enough to save my legs and lower torso from at least one blow from the axe. Just imagining the impact caused a numbness in me. It dulled my movements and my thinking. The coward in me was urging Be submissive, beg for your life. Earn his kindness!

Beneath the window, a floating ball of woman’s hair ridiculed that coward. The anger I’d felt toward the dogs returned, and it, too, ridiculed any display of weakness. Guarantee my humiliation by welcoming an assault? No-I wouldn’t do that.

“I warned you!” I yelled. Then put the phone to my ear and spoke too loudly, “That’s right, Officer! Send a couple of guys to the back door.” When my attacker appeared to stiffen, I added, “Yes, he’s armed! Shoot him, if you can-I don’t think you have a choice!”

In some quiet corner of my mind, questions formed: Is it smart to convince a crazy man he’s cornered? Or that you’ve just ordered him killed?

My doubts vanished when the man ducked backward for a moment and blended into the shadows, where he did… something . I couldn’t see. A moment later, though, I knew my bluff had failed. I heard a grunt of rage, and the axe reappeared near the ceiling. There was the sound of heavy footsteps, then the man was beneath the axe, holding it over his head and striding toward me.

I had opened several drawers while standing at the table-nothing but dish towels and plastic plates. Frantically, I turned toward the window-an impossible choice. Use a towel to shatter the glass? Even if I’d found a hammer, there wasn’t time.

The pit bulls had quieted but were scratching at the door-chewing at the wood, too, biting off chunks and growling-their eagerness probably fired by every word they’d heard me speak. Open the door, they’d be at my throat before I took a step. Unless I was willing to risk the worst on the chance of saving myself.

I pulled out a drawer and flung it into the man’s path. He stumbled but caught himself while I sprinted to the kitchen door, put my hand on the dead bolt, and turned to face him. There was enough light now to see that he was wearing a baggy raincoat. It hung to his ankles… rubber gloves, too, and what looked like a sun mask, the stretchy, tubular type that fishermen pull over their heads to prevent skin cancer. Two black eyes peered out; just a hint of design on the material, but the design was common enough for me to recognize.

I hammered my heel against the door and yelled, “Get out or I’ll loose these dogs on you!” which caused a renewed frenzy of barking. At the same instant, a terrible thought came into my mind: What if he owns the dogs?

It didn’t matter. My threat stopped the man, but he also drew the axe back as if to throw it, which left me no choice. I yanked the door open and jumped behind it, my back pressed flat against the wall, and I held the doorknob tight with both hands. For the next several seconds, only sounds and fear dominated my senses: a din of clattering claws, a slobbering growl, the thunder of a man running… furniture crashed-or was it the sound of an axe shattering a door? Then, from what might have been outside, floated a wild howl of pain. Animal or man, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care.

I peeked around the door, then sprinted to my truck. Not until I was almost to Burnt Store Road did I use my cell to call 911-the whole time checking the mirror, afraid I was still being chased.

Standing amid a fireworks of flashing blue lights, I said to a detective, “I’ve already sat in the back of two squad cars and answered that very same question. I don’t feel like sitting. And don’t see the point of repeating myself.”

The most troubling question, out of the dozens I’d been asked, was, “Are you sure you saw something in the sink?” Two detectives and a sheriff’s deputy had varied the wording, of course. “Tell me again about that wig.” And, “In a dark room, what caused you to think the hair was human?” And, “How did you know the water was bloody if you couldn’t find a light switch?”