Don’t Go There.

Clutching the baseball bat in one hand and the .357 Magnum in the other, I stood at the top of the stairs listening.

“DON’T GO”, screamed the little voice in my head.
“Shhhh,” I whispered in retort.
“Who in the hell do you think you are, Laura Croft?”, the little voice snapped back?
“Hush, I have to listen”, I murmured indignantly to my inner self.

Maize, the world biggest, blackest and most chicken dog in the world, sat three feet behind me, shaking. Since she weighed in at 175 and our upstairs loft’s wood flooring was old and rickety to say the least, my bare toes felt her every shiver as it moved from the tip of her nose to the point of her stubby tail. There was definitely someone or something downstairs, that was for sure. Chicken or not, Maize had great hearing, and while she would never win a medal for bravery, she was ever vigilant, in her own way.

The sound of the ceiling fan over our heads moved in a steady rhythm as we waited together. We became mesmerized by it’s cadence along with the thundering silence now coming from below. Maize, who also had the patience of a gnat, was becoming ever more antsy, and being the spy dog that she was, she began to slowly creep closer to her protector. Suddenly her cold nose met the back of my knee. “YEOW”, I screamed, tossing the bat high in the air and dropping the gun on the step before me. The clatter of a Louisville Slugger ricocheting off wooden fan blades was only outdone by the deafening retort of a .357 slug and it’s subsequent bullseye, hitting the double paned floor-to-ceiling window who’s view overlooked the lights of the city stretching out in the valley. Glass came crashing down everywhere while the bat bounded off the walls and over the loft railing and the gun clattered down the rest of the steps.

“Slam” was the sound of the front door and the pitter-patter of heavy running footsteps fading into the night were all we needed to hear to know that once again it was safe to venture, downstairs.

On
Location, Monday:
Downstairs