From Blood Bound:
When she reached her unit Sam saw how Bill had gotten out. The
steel door stood ajar, the light from inside visible through the crack. Bill
started struggling in her grasp. Believing she was holding him too tight Sam
relaxed her arms, yet he continued to wriggle.
“Stop
it Bill,” she scolded sharply.
Carefully, she pushed open the door and entered her apartment. The
growling ball of fur in her grasp was having no part of it. Clawing at her with
his sharp back claws, Bill took a few chunks out of her forearms as he finally
leapt free of her, racing down the hall and out of sight. Sam didn't give chase
or even turn her head to see where he went. He wouldn't go far, he never did on
the rare occasion he got out. In a few minutes he would be beating at the door
with his soft, declawed front paws. Her focus was on what had incited such
panic in her even keel pet. Why was Bill so scared to go inside? He liked Paul.
Even more unsettling was the feeling crawling down her spine. Something was very
wrong. She could feel it.
There was no sound or movement coming from inside. When Paul was
over he always had the television turned on a game whether it was football,
basketball, soccer, whatever. He always had to have background noise. Unlike
Sam, he liked noise.
“Paul?” Sam realized she was crouching. Telling herself she was
being ridiculous, she forced herself to stand up, pushing the door open and
peering inside. There was no answer. Maybe he was tired and had nodded off she
told herself. It did nothing for the now painful gooseflesh covering her body.
“Paul?” she called his name again, whispering it this time. He wasn't in the
living room or kitchen. She pushed a cabinet door closed with the back of one
hand as she walked past. He had to have been here, she never left drawers or
cabinets open. Glancing around, she noticed a piece of mail hanging over the
edge of her sorter. What had he been doing in here, snooping? With considerably
more effort, she forced her feet toward the bedroom, stepping over one of
Bill’s toys lying in the middle of the floor.
“Paul?” His name died on her lips as she walked past
the open bathroom door and froze. Without knowing what she was doing, Sam
drifted inside and stopped just inside the doorway. Her hand flew to her mouth
too late to stop the scream.
The hammering of her heart in her ears drowned out her ability to
hear herself as she sank down to her knees and pulled her phone from her
pocket. Sam didn't hear anyone answer when she dialed 911. She pushed the
buttons, waited a few seconds, and spoke. Her voice felt rough, jagged as she
recited the necessary information for help to come.
“This
is Samantha James. I live at Pheasant Ridge apartments in West Bloomington,
unit 309. My boyfriend is here. He’s dead.” She dropped the phone and heard
nothing of the woman’s requests for more information.
Time
passed, it had to, though nothing registered until someone’s hands grabbed her
under her arms and hauled her, stumbling to her feet.
A man’s voice spoke softly to
her. “Here Miss, come on out. This isn't something you need to see.”
But
it was too late, she knew it. The image of Paul’s once tan body gone dusky
blue, dangling from the showerhead, his face splotchy with dark purple marks
under his bloodshot eyes and glassy stare were frozen in her mind forever. The
likelihood of that image ever leaving her was doubtful. She knew the guilt
never would.
