Kris picked the knife up and got to her feet. The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. The flickering from the TV gave a little light in the room. “Mrs Johnson,” she whispered.
Mrs Johnson’s house phone sat on the small table halfway down the hall. Kris picked it up. No dial tone. Her heart sank. The old lady didn’t have a mobile; she had complained that her failing eyesight and arthritic fingers made it impossible use one.
Hunched over, Kris pushed the door wide open and held the knife out in front of herself. “Mrs Johnson.” Her voice trembled as much as her hand.
The only sound was the slight hum of the TV.
She made her way inside. The coffee table was on its side against the wall. A picture was tilted on the wall. Apart from that, the room looked neat and tidy. Mrs Johnson’s grey hair was visible above the back of the wing-backed chair.
“Mrs Johnson, it’s Kris.” A cold shudder went down her spine. Taking slow steps, she braced herself for what she might see.
An involuntary scream slipped through her lips.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish