Knock Knock by Tara Fox Hall and Douglas Hall
A little morbid humor to begin the New Year!
KNOCK, KNOCK
By Tara Fox Hall and Douglas Hall
It had been a long, hard day in an already difficult week. Lori was tired and already not in the best of moods. Her desires were summed up in a short ordered list: a nice glass of wine, a quick dinner, a hot shower, and a soft bed. This was going to be an early evening if she had to kill someone to make it happen.
She got her wine, set a can of soup to heat on the stove, and was just settling on the couch, remote in hand, when a knock came at her front door.
Lori sat motionless; hoping whoever it was would go away. Instead another resounding knock came, this one hard enough to rattle the door in its frame.
Grumbling, she started for the door. “Okay, I’m coming! Don’t break the door down.”
She peeped through the peephole. Who was this guy? It was a stranger, a large Caucasian over six feet dressed in a black leather coat. He had to weigh two hundred and eighty pounds, easy. He had on a tie that was just visible, giving him an air of professionalism, but there were no papers in his hand. That was good; at least she wasn’t going to be served. But what was in the grocery bag he was carrying? It was a good bet it wasn’t groceries. He looked kind of like a Jehovah’s Witness, except his expression was less pious, closer to someone taking the census.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Mr. Matthews,” he said politely. “I believe you were expecting me? We had an appointment.”
“You must have the wrong house,” Lori called back uneasily. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have an appointment with anyone but my glass of wine tonight—”
“Your cat is out here,” the man replied, looking down at his feet. “Black and white. You should let him in. Goodnight.” He turned and began walking away.
That was Jesse. Worried, Lori unlocked the door. As soon as she did, Jesse ran in, tail bushed. The man barged in after, pushing Lori aside like a rag doll. Her husky, T-Bone, increased his barking to a frenzy, snapping and snarling.
The man reaching into his bag and quickly produced a steak. He threw it to T-Bone, who snatched it out of the air and ran into the other room.
“Fine watchdog you are,” Lori called angrily after him. She turned back to the stranger. “What do you want?”
“I want the drugs,” he growled, producing a pistol. “Now.”
“What drugs?” she stammered, eyes wide.
“The five pounds of cocaine,” he said menacingly. “And don’t pretend you don’t know.”
Telling him the truth was out. This crazy would never believe he had the wrong house. The only other option was a fast lie. “It’s back here,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “Under the sink in the cupboard. Help yourself.”
The man followed, his semiautomatic never wavering. “Typical woman,” he sneered. “You’ve seen too many movies.” His eyes shifted suddenly to the walls. “At least you’ve got some taste. That’s a nice Tolkien piece.”
Keep him talking. “I’ve always liked—”
The guy shifted his gun to his other hand. “That’s enough conversation. Back away and keep your distance.”
He was going to kill her as soon as he saw there were no drugs. She would only have a few seconds. Lori nodded, backing up towards the wall
The man turned and crouched, rummaging around under the sink. Lori held her breath.
“You bitches and your junk,” the man cursed disgustedly. “You’ve got five kinds of glass cleaner here.” He cursed again, set the gun near his knees, and began shoving cleaning supplies out of the cupboard out onto the floor.
The short sword came off the wall easily with a soft rasp. Her father had given her that sword for decoration. Tonight, it was more than ornament; it was a tool for survival.
“Bitch, where is it—?”
Lori stepped forward, slashing down with all her might. The man’s neck parted like soft butter beneath the gleaming blade. The head rolled out slowly into the living room. T-Bone, finished with his steak, was after it at once, tail wagging at this new toy.
The body slumped, the neck spurting blood, but it didn’t fall. It wavered, the hands contracting slightly, spasming
There was already a mess in here and her well-ordered evening was ruined. Still, maybe there was a way to cut her losses. Dropping the bloody sword on the counter, Lori grabbed the wobbling corpse around the waist and hauled it quickly to the front door. With each step, its dead weight became more crushing, making her stagger. She opened the door and gave a last Herculean push. The headless body fell out the door, crumpled, and then fell off the side of the porch into the bushes.
“Spurt down there until you rot,” Lori said angrily. “You ruined my night.”
She went back inside. Her husky was there lying on the floor, the head between its paws, munching on the neck stump.
“Bad dog,” she said sternly, taking the head away. Opening the front door again, she heaved that into the darkness.
After locking the door securely, Lori looked down at her clothes. To her surprise, except for her hands, there was almost no blood on her. That was something, at least.
Turning, she surveyed the house. There were speckles of blood on the carpet from the head, and the kitchen floor was more blood than shiny linoleum. Still, there was one plus; the cleaning products were already out near the mess.
She stepped to the phone, picked it up, and dialed 911.
The connection was almost immediate. “911 assistance—”
“This is Lori Leighton at 52 Bloody Pond Rd. I need to report a self-defense killing. A man came to my house, threatened me with a gun, and I cut off his head.”
“You cut off his—?”
“The body’s outside on the porch. It was stinking up the house. Don’t worry; I left the gun where he put it down next to the sink. It has his fingerprints all over it. But I’m going to clean up the blood before my dog tracks it all over, if that’s okay. I’ve got blood all over my kitchen.”
“You shouldn’t disrupt—”
“Just send the police,” Lori snapped, then slammed down the phone.
T-Bone trotted up to her, and then sniffed interestedly at the pool of blood. Tentatively, he inched closer to it, giving her a sidelong look.
“No, you don’t,” Lori warned, grabbing his collar. “There’s been enough nasty treats for you tonight.” She hauled the whining dog to the bedroom and shut him in.
Then she walked back to the kitchen, and wearily surveyed the mess.
The death scene was already disrupted with the corpse outside. Still, pissing off the cops wasn’t the way to go. She wanted to sleep in her own bed tonight, not a cell. Resigned, Lori got a mop and filled the rolling bucket with water and soap, then left it near the sink for her husband. He’d be home soon, and she’d been through enough tonight.
She went back to the couch, sat down, and took her glass of wine. Taking a big sip, she made a new mental list: drink wine, explain to husband, deal with police, and then call her father to thank him again for the sword.
Tara Fox Hall’s writing credits include nonfiction, horror, suspense, action-adventure, erotica, and contemporary and historical paranormal romance. She is the author of the paranormal action-adventure Lash series and the vampire romantic suspense Promise Me series. Tara divides her free time unequally between writing novels and short stories, chainsawing firewood, caring for stray animals, sewing cat and dog beds for donation to animal shelters, and target practice. Knock, Knock is her first and only collaboration with her father, Douglas Hall.
KNOCK, KNOCK
By Tara Fox Hall and Douglas Hall
It had been a long, hard day in an already difficult week. Lori was tired and already not in the best of moods. Her desires were summed up in a short ordered list: a nice glass of wine, a quick dinner, a hot shower, and a soft bed. This was going to be an early evening if she had to kill someone to make it happen.
She got her wine, set a can of soup to heat on the stove, and was just settling on the couch, remote in hand, when a knock came at her front door.
Lori sat motionless; hoping whoever it was would go away. Instead another resounding knock came, this one hard enough to rattle the door in its frame.
Grumbling, she started for the door. “Okay, I’m coming! Don’t break the door down.”
She peeped through the peephole. Who was this guy? It was a stranger, a large Caucasian over six feet dressed in a black leather coat. He had to weigh two hundred and eighty pounds, easy. He had on a tie that was just visible, giving him an air of professionalism, but there were no papers in his hand. That was good; at least she wasn’t going to be served. But what was in the grocery bag he was carrying? It was a good bet it wasn’t groceries. He looked kind of like a Jehovah’s Witness, except his expression was less pious, closer to someone taking the census.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Mr. Matthews,” he said politely. “I believe you were expecting me? We had an appointment.”
“You must have the wrong house,” Lori called back uneasily. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have an appointment with anyone but my glass of wine tonight—”
“Your cat is out here,” the man replied, looking down at his feet. “Black and white. You should let him in. Goodnight.” He turned and began walking away.
That was Jesse. Worried, Lori unlocked the door. As soon as she did, Jesse ran in, tail bushed. The man barged in after, pushing Lori aside like a rag doll. Her husky, T-Bone, increased his barking to a frenzy, snapping and snarling.
The man reaching into his bag and quickly produced a steak. He threw it to T-Bone, who snatched it out of the air and ran into the other room.
“Fine watchdog you are,” Lori called angrily after him. She turned back to the stranger. “What do you want?”
“I want the drugs,” he growled, producing a pistol. “Now.”
“What drugs?” she stammered, eyes wide.
“The five pounds of cocaine,” he said menacingly. “And don’t pretend you don’t know.”
Telling him the truth was out. This crazy would never believe he had the wrong house. The only other option was a fast lie. “It’s back here,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “Under the sink in the cupboard. Help yourself.”
The man followed, his semiautomatic never wavering. “Typical woman,” he sneered. “You’ve seen too many movies.” His eyes shifted suddenly to the walls. “At least you’ve got some taste. That’s a nice Tolkien piece.”
Keep him talking. “I’ve always liked—”
The guy shifted his gun to his other hand. “That’s enough conversation. Back away and keep your distance.”
He was going to kill her as soon as he saw there were no drugs. She would only have a few seconds. Lori nodded, backing up towards the wall
The man turned and crouched, rummaging around under the sink. Lori held her breath.
“You bitches and your junk,” the man cursed disgustedly. “You’ve got five kinds of glass cleaner here.” He cursed again, set the gun near his knees, and began shoving cleaning supplies out of the cupboard out onto the floor.
The short sword came off the wall easily with a soft rasp. Her father had given her that sword for decoration. Tonight, it was more than ornament; it was a tool for survival.
“Bitch, where is it—?”
Lori stepped forward, slashing down with all her might. The man’s neck parted like soft butter beneath the gleaming blade. The head rolled out slowly into the living room. T-Bone, finished with his steak, was after it at once, tail wagging at this new toy.
The body slumped, the neck spurting blood, but it didn’t fall. It wavered, the hands contracting slightly, spasming
There was already a mess in here and her well-ordered evening was ruined. Still, maybe there was a way to cut her losses. Dropping the bloody sword on the counter, Lori grabbed the wobbling corpse around the waist and hauled it quickly to the front door. With each step, its dead weight became more crushing, making her stagger. She opened the door and gave a last Herculean push. The headless body fell out the door, crumpled, and then fell off the side of the porch into the bushes.
“Spurt down there until you rot,” Lori said angrily. “You ruined my night.”
She went back inside. Her husky was there lying on the floor, the head between its paws, munching on the neck stump.
“Bad dog,” she said sternly, taking the head away. Opening the front door again, she heaved that into the darkness.
After locking the door securely, Lori looked down at her clothes. To her surprise, except for her hands, there was almost no blood on her. That was something, at least.
Turning, she surveyed the house. There were speckles of blood on the carpet from the head, and the kitchen floor was more blood than shiny linoleum. Still, there was one plus; the cleaning products were already out near the mess.
She stepped to the phone, picked it up, and dialed 911.
The connection was almost immediate. “911 assistance—”
“This is Lori Leighton at 52 Bloody Pond Rd. I need to report a self-defense killing. A man came to my house, threatened me with a gun, and I cut off his head.”
“You cut off his—?”
“The body’s outside on the porch. It was stinking up the house. Don’t worry; I left the gun where he put it down next to the sink. It has his fingerprints all over it. But I’m going to clean up the blood before my dog tracks it all over, if that’s okay. I’ve got blood all over my kitchen.”
“You shouldn’t disrupt—”
“Just send the police,” Lori snapped, then slammed down the phone.
T-Bone trotted up to her, and then sniffed interestedly at the pool of blood. Tentatively, he inched closer to it, giving her a sidelong look.
“No, you don’t,” Lori warned, grabbing his collar. “There’s been enough nasty treats for you tonight.” She hauled the whining dog to the bedroom and shut him in.
Then she walked back to the kitchen, and wearily surveyed the mess.
The death scene was already disrupted with the corpse outside. Still, pissing off the cops wasn’t the way to go. She wanted to sleep in her own bed tonight, not a cell. Resigned, Lori got a mop and filled the rolling bucket with water and soap, then left it near the sink for her husband. He’d be home soon, and she’d been through enough tonight.
She went back to the couch, sat down, and took her glass of wine. Taking a big sip, she made a new mental list: drink wine, explain to husband, deal with police, and then call her father to thank him again for the sword.
Tara Fox Hall’s writing credits include nonfiction, horror, suspense, action-adventure, erotica, and contemporary and historical paranormal romance. She is the author of the paranormal action-adventure Lash series and the vampire romantic suspense Promise Me series. Tara divides her free time unequally between writing novels and short stories, chainsawing firewood, caring for stray animals, sewing cat and dog beds for donation to animal shelters, and target practice. Knock, Knock is her first and only collaboration with her father, Douglas Hall.
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