At Eight-O-Two

At Eight-O-Two

By Leslie Johnson

She looked at the clock on the wall. Eight-o-two. She glanced again at the door, waiting for something or someone to appear. The room seemed to shrink in upon itself. She shivered and pulled the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders a little tighter. Where was he?

Outside a fall wind had begun to blow, scattering leaves in its wake. Footsteps tapped along the sidewalk, slowly moving toward the house at the end of the road. When he reached the gate, he stopped and looked up at the quaint facade of the tiny little home. Gingerbread cornices and other mouldings gave character to the otherwise plain wartime house.

He stood watching the clouds move across the full moon. He was waiting for a signal, the one he needed to enter the yard. His long robe swirled around his feet but he gave no indication that the cold wind affected him. He just stood there, watching.

A rogue cloud moved across the moon, blocking out what little light there was. The street light blinked off and all was in darkness. His signal to move forward. The gate groaned as he pushed it open. The noise seemed to fill the air and it gave a sense of urgency to his mission. He quickened his pace. At the bottom of the four steps he paused. He looked left and right and then turned all the way around the see what lay behind him. Then in the blink of an eye, he climbed those stairs and stood at the heavy oak door.

Inside the tiny house, she sensed his presence before the doorbell rang. Still she jumped. She was expecting him, had been expecting him all day and yet her heart leapt out of her chest at the sounding of the chime. He was here.

She slipped the blanket off her shoulders and crept to the door. Every bone in her ancient body ached from sitting in one place all day, waiting. When she stood on her side of that heavy oak door, she could feel him. His presence felt cold and oddly captivating. Part of her wanted to fling the door open and part of her wanted to run right out the back door to put as much distance between them as she could. She reached for the doorknob, her hand trembling with anticipation.

He called her name. She pulled her hand back from the door, surprised. Her name sounded odd, like it had never been pronounced properly until now. She heard it again, a whisper on the wind. Abigail… Abigail... Her heart bounced inside her chest. His voice was smooth and sultry, she wanted to cry.

Tears stung her eyes as she tried once more to open the door. This time she touched the doorknob. The heavy iron knob was cold to her touch. Bitterly cold. She felt the chill bite into her hand and run up her arm. She shivered again. Her teeth began to chatter.

Twisting the knob took great effort and then she pulled the door open. There on the front step stood her visitor. It was too dark to see more than the shadow of his form. The world outside the house was dark. For the first time in a long time she cursed herself for not having replaced the burned out bulb in the porch light.

Stepping back, she invited him in with a sweeping gesture of her left hand. He moved into the room, bringing with him the cold night air and a few wayward leaves. She shivered again and hastily pushed the door closed, making sure the latch it properly before turning to her guest. He had moved further into the house, his back to her.

She stood facing him and slowly he turned around, pushing his cloak off his face. His black eyes were like pools of deep water, she could see herself in them as she drew closer. He smiled at her and held out his left arm, his long fingers engulfing her small right hand. Abigail, she heard him say though his lips didn’t move. She knew it was his heart speaking.  She sighed.

The pain and the chills she had been feeling for days, dissipated in his presence. She felt younger and healthier than she had in years. Looking back at the room, she saw her own form sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. Her head hanging awkwardly to one side.

Looking back at the creature, she smiled. He squeezed her hand reassuringly. Then together the old woman and Death walked out the closed front door and down the road to nowhere. The clock on the wall stopped ticking. It was eight-o-two.