Chapter 5 - The Pound on the Door
The heavy thud echoed through the hollow rooms of the old house like a gunshot.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Clara! I know you’re in there! Open this damn door right now!”
Richard’s voice was muffled by the thick oak of the front door, but the manic, ragged fury behind it carried straight through the walls. The sound sent a jolt of cold terror straight down my spine, freezing me in my chair. How had he found us? This house wasn't in our name; it belonged to the estate, tucked away on a dead-end lane twenty miles from our subdivision.
Mom didn't panic. The momentary shock on her face vanished, replaced instantly by a hard, unyielding glare. She gently released my hand, stood up from the table, and walked over to the landline phone mounted on the kitchen wall.
“Mom, don’t open it,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“I’m not opening it, Leo,” she said calmly, lifting the receiver and punching three numbers with absolute, practiced precision.
In the hallway, the pounding grew more frantic. The wood of the front door rattled in its frame as Richard threw his weight against it.
“Clara! Don't be an idiot! Open the door before I kick it in! You can't just steal my car and run off in the middle of the night like a thief!”
Thud. Thud.
“Open up, or I swear to God I’m calling the sheriff and telling them you’ve abducted my stepson!”
Mom pressed the phone to her ear, speaking in a firm, clear voice to the dispatcher on the other end.
“Yes, emergency. I need to report a trespassing and a violation of an active domestic dispute in progress at fourteen-twenty-one Miller Lane. The suspect is Richard Vance—he’s pounding on the front door and threatening to break it down. We have an active police report filed less than an hour ago at the county hospital. Please dispatch an officer immediately.”
She rattled off the address, listened for a brief second to the dispatcher’s instructions, and then hung up the phone with a sharp click.
She turned around and walked back into the kitchen, grabbing a heavy iron fireplace poker from the brick hearth in the adjoining living room on her way. She wasn't shaking. She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, holding the heavy iron rod at her side, her eyes locked on the front entrance.
“Clara! Open the door!” Richard screamed, his voice cracking with frustrated rage. A loud crash echoed through the entryway as something heavy—likely his boot—collided directly with the wooden panels near the doorknob.
The old lock held, but the wood splintered audibly under the force of the blow.
“Richard!” Mom shouted back, her voice cutting through the noise with absolute authority. “The police have already been dispatched! If you break that door down, the next place you’re sleeping is a county jail cell with a felony burglary charge attached to your name! Turn around and get off this property right now!”
There was a sudden, breathless silence from the hallway. For three long seconds, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the pounding of my own heart in my ears.
Then, a harsh, humorless laugh drifted back from the entryway.
“You think the cops are going to take your word over mine, Clara? You’re hysterical! You ran off with my car! When they get here, I’m pressing grand theft auto charges!”
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Footsteps scraped heavily against the wooden porch, followed by the slamming of a car door out in the driveway and the screech of tires spinning on gravel as Richard’s sedan fishtailed out into the lane, accelerating away into the dark winter night.
Mom let out a long, ragged breath, lowering the iron poker slightly, though she didn't move from her post until the red and blue flashing lights of a county cruiser swept across the living room windows two minutes later.
