Novella - Domovoi - Prologue

Author’s Note: The

Soaring Twenties

was gracious enough to host both mine and

Craig Burgess

prologues to our novella’s to spice up our competition. His was posted on Wednesday (naturally), and if you haven’t already, make sure to check it out. I obviously have no clue who the person is, but it was a fun read. I look forward to the rest of his novella and look forward to the back and forth.

As to my novella, it started out as a passing idea I couldn’t let go. I just needed a little push, which Craig aptly provided. It will be another great benchmark piece to look back on. It has gone differently than I originally thought but is to be expected since I am using the “Into the Dark” writing method. Please enjoy the prologue and the ongoing chapters as they are released. The first few will be every other week and then I will transition to weekly as I can’t have this project drag on more than it already has.

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The patrolman politely knocked on the front door, performing a well being check after a worried neighbour had called the precinct. No answer. He announced himself. Again, nothing. This time he used the back of his mag light, leaving no doubt to whose door was being knocked on. The patrolman flexed his toes and gently rocked back and forth, waiting the mandatory thirty seconds for someone to open, Scott was nothing if not careful. Times up. Scott called it in per protocol. Dispatch confirmed he would scout the perimeter and enter the premises and they would send a backup car. Can’t be too careful these days.

All the windows were shut, curtains drawn, and no lights could be seen on the main floor. A bit strange for this time of evening, the sun was well past dusk and one could expect a hallway light to be on at the very least. As chance would have it, the back door was not deadbolted and he was able to jimmy the back door open without much trouble, sometimes those old skills from his youth really paid off. He announced himself as soon as he stepped inside, held his breath, and waited for any response.

The silence was deafening. He snapped on his flashlight and took a quick scan of the laundry room he found himself in, damning himself for not checking the entrance for any footsteps. Luckily, there were none to be found. He opened the door and walked into the kitchen, the hardwood floor squeaking with each step. He clicked the light switch. A boring kitchen scene greeted him. A few dishes in the sink, a pan with some dried leftover pasta, two empty bottles of Chianti, but no sign of the Patterson’s.

Everyone in town knew the Patterson’s, small towns are like that, but in their case, it was the tourist attraction that their home became that created their celebrity status in town. A haunted house. That was the rumors anyway. One the patrolman was all too familiar with, his thoughts getting the best of him as he continued checking the rest of the residence. Living room, empty. Den, empty. With each room cleared, his anxiety ratcheted up, the acid churning in his stomach. He made his way down the hallway and noticed the door to the attic was askew, his thoughts connecting dots previously unconnected. Every other room had the doors closed, including closets. He paused, facing the door, assessing his options and mapping out a course of action.

He continued down the hall towards the master bedroom, deciding to finish sweeping the main level before heading upstairs. He didn’t know why, but he got the feeling what he was after was up there. He didn’t like that feeling. The master bedroom was like the others, closed doors and nothing out of sorts. The attic then. He found himself at the door again and not moving. He reached for the door but stopped from opening it. Was he ready? He swallowed hard and steeled himself from what he may find up there. He instinctively drew his pistol and pulled his hand up with his flashlight crossed over, both pointing in the same direction. He softly used the toe of his boot to slowly push open the door, unconsciously holding his breath while he did so.

An old staircase greeted him, a forgotten and lonely part of the main house, the paint old and chipped, the only décor a simple lightbulb dangling, falling from the ceiling. Typical. He ascended the stairs creeaak by creeeaaakkk, each step taking longer than the previous one. His nervous system was cranked up to eleven, palms sweating. Heart beating out of his chest. At last, he was at the top step and was met with another closed door. He faintly knocked and barely croaked out a timid hello, the moisture in his mouth having abandoned him at some point between step one and here. No answer. He turned the handle and gave the door a push. Creeeaaaakkkkk.

The partial moon gave enough light through the top window to cast deep shadows from right to left. Dusty curtains draped over unused furniture, boxes stacked to the ceiling, and a few forgotten chairs greeted Scott when he got his bearings. Footprints were scattered across the floor, taking center stage in the spotlight of his flashlight. The attic was long and this front portion gave no solace to the patrolman. He made his way to the walls to avoid messing with any potential evidence the footprints may provide and circled around the big furniture pieces in the center of the room. As he turned his flashlight past the furniture he froze. He had found the Patterson’s.

Blood. A lot of it. Scott had never seen so much blood except in the movies. His hands trembling as he took in the scene, two bodies sprawled on the floor, blood pooling on the ground underneath them. He fumbled for his radio and called it in between short gasps of air. Murder in his small town. How could this be? Who could’ve done it? He panned his flashlight against the back wall, noticing for the first time two words scrawled in blood. NEVER AGAIN!

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