Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Since the back door faced away from the road, I entered there. I hadn’t been in Iris’s house more than half a dozen times in my entire life, which was bizarre, considering she’d been our closest neighbor for four decades.

After buying the property, I’d toured the house with the auction company. Throughout the house I saw signs of a person who’d left briefly, expecting to return and finish household chores. Iris’s dishes were moldering in the kitchen sink. Mail and newspapers were strewn across the dining room table. A half cup of coffee had turned into a science experiment in the living room. In the entryway, the vacuum was plugged in. The auction company agreed to clean up and haul everything away in exchange for 70 percent of the auction proceeds. I considered it a bargain.

I’d believed that once the Newsomes’ personal belongings were purged from the space, it’d feel less menacing.

Not so. Now it seemed worse. The emptiness emphasized the finality of an entire family. A sudden, inexplicable chill traveled up my spine. I whirled around, expecting to see… what? A ghost?

Get ahold of yourself.

I inhaled an uji breath and let it out slowly. Better.

Upstairs, I made sure the register vents were open in the bedrooms and the hallway. Ditto for the main floor. The seal around the front door appeared solid.

I ventured into the basement, basically a root cellar without an outside escape hatch. The narrow stairs were steeply pitched. With limited depth perception, I kept my hand on the bumpy wall to stop myself from falling forward. As I hit the last step, a dank odor filled my nostrils. Hello, gag reflex. Definitely a dead critter down here.

Or maybe the propane connection had already been compromised. Propane companies added scent to the odorless gas so that customers could tell if there was a leak in the line. The scent varied from the smell of rotten eggs to the distinctive odor of skunk perfume to the stench of rotting meat. Since I couldn’t see, I couldn’t determine if I smelled dead mice.

My grip tightened on the flashlight. If propane was seeping inside the house from a faulty connection, even the tiniest spark of metal on metal could ignite the vapors. It was sheer dumb luck I hadn’t impatiently shoved the basement door open, causing the aluminum weather stripping to strike sparks against the carpet. Static electricity was as deadly as a match.

As much as I wanted to skip testing the flashlight as an explosive device test, I had to turn it on. Holding my breath, I painstakingly slid the plastic button on the flashlight up until it clicked and light bounced off the cement wall. Whew. I moved the beam of light across the floor until it reached the corner where the ancient heater and water heater were located.

Mice scurried from the light, little feet scratching on the cement floor.

A shiver of revulsion beaded my skin into goose bumps. Better mice than snakes.

I bent down and saw the on/off valve for the heater in the back where the tubing entered from outside. This heating system was beyond antiquated. Holding the flashlight in my left hand, I thrust my gloved hand through the world’s biggest spiderweb, hoping I hadn’t interrupted some big-ass black widow’s nap. The valve squeaked on the first turn, and I stopped.

Remember, no metal sparks, dumb ass.

I turned it again. Slower. I kept turning a little at a time until it was fully open. When I removed my hand, sections of the heavy, sticky spiderweb clung to my forearm. Eww. Gross. But it could’ve been worse. What if I’d broken a hidden egg sac, freeing hundreds of baby spiders to crawl into my clothes, my hair, my ears, my nose, and my mouth? I shuddered.

The valve for the water heater was on the other side of the heater. Again, in a difficult spot to reach and dangerous as hell compared to modern-day systems. I crouched down and pressed my left side against the cold, dank wall.

The skittering noises increased, driving my pulse rate up.

Jesus. How goddamn many mice were there?

Do you really want to know?

No. What if it’s not mice? What if it’s ghosts? Or what if those scratching noises are just a figment of your imagination?

My head started to pound, and I focused on getting the valve opened. Either it’d gotten easier or I’d gotten better because this one didn’t take long. Once I finished, I stood and brushed the dirt and webs-cob and spider-from my clothes and proceeded upstairs.

In the kitchen, I couldn’t detect the rotten-animal-flesh odor, but I’d been in the house long enough that my sense of smell had adapted. I crouched in the space where the stove had been and thoroughly inspected the piping. The connecting end to the propane had been capped off, the valve shut off. Despite the difficulty in removing the cap while wearing gloves, I managed. Then I gradually cranked the valve on.

I did one last sweep of the house.

By the time I finished, sweat oozed from my pores. My head throbbed. I exited the back door, tools in hand. I debated on checking the propane tank gauge again, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

I ran all five miles back to the ranch, stopping only to toss Jake’s gloves and tools in his truck. As I wandered across the yard, light-headedness overtook me. I bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees to keep from passing out.

Vaguely, through the ringing in my ears and the blood pulsing through my body, I heard the screen door slam.

A shadow appeared. Then Hope said, “Mercy? You okay?”

“No. Shit. I-I-”

“What’s wrong with you?”

I breathed in too many propane fumes. “I’m, ah… gonna be sick.” I fell to all fours in the mud. The acid in my stomach churned, sending up my two cups of coffee. Half the liquid spewed out my mouth; the other half burned up my nasal passage and out my nose.

I retched until I hit the dry-heave stage.

Through it all, Hope stayed beside me, rubbing circles on my shoulders, murmuring to me. When I pushed back to rest on my haunches, she handed me a towel-like thing covered with tiny smiling ducks. I wiped my mouth, looked at the towel and then at her.

Hope shrugged at my confusion. “I always have a burp cloth on me these days.”

“Handy. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She paused. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you sick.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not contagious, just self-inflicted.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Not from too much liquid fun. I had meetings in town early. I helped Jake and then I decided to run back here. Not a good combination.”

“You’re always bitching at me about not taking care of myself. When was the last time you ate anything?”

“I had coffee this morning.”

“Coffee ain’t food,” she scoffed. “Try again.”

I thought back. “I don’t remember.”

“No wonder.” Hope circled her fingers around my bicep and hauled me to my feet. “Come on.”

When had my sister gotten so bossy? I tried not to lean on her too much as we hobbled toward the house, but she came to a full stop and got right in my face. “Dammit, Mercy, would the world end if you let me help you?”

“Umm. No.”

“Then stop acting so damn tough and trust that I won’t let you fall on your face.”

“Fine.” She easily bore my weight on her left side. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“Glad someone finally recognized that.”

By the time we reached the porch steps I was woozy again.

Sophie held open the screen door, clucking at both of us. “Mercy, you look awful.”

“Thanks.” Puke alert. I dangled over the freshly planted flower bed. The colors swirled together like I’d taken an acid trip, and the sickly sweet floral scent lined my nose, making my stomach rebel.