If I didn’t know better, I would swear that it was Durant Rawlins, my Durant. But that couldn’t be possible. I agree the name was the same, and in a certain way the man did kind of look like him, okay totally looked like him. When the couple first moved in across the street, I mentioned the similarities to my husband and he just grinned, kissed my forehead and joked about my imagination. He said it was the reason I was a best-selling author.
After David’s chiding I agreed, I would quit watching out the window at our new neighbors. Not that David knew it, but I had also taken to following Durant to work in the mornings just to see if he unloaded bodies. I had about given up my foolishness when I noticed this strange red puddle trickling down the driveway while walking Brutus.
No sooner was I inside than I started watching from the darkened living room.
“Pamela, what on earth are you doing?”
“I think that’s a body he’s loading.”
David peeked out the blinds three slats above mine. “Look he is just getting ready for work. What you thought was a body was probably his tarps all rolled up.”
“Don’t you get it David, my Durant, did the exact same thing. He would use his day job to get rid of the bodies he killed the night before.”
“Pamela, remind me again, who is your Durant?”
There was a tired patience in David’s question. He believed that I was losing my sanity. He said I stayed buried in my books for so long I began to believe them. But this was not like the last time.
“Pamela?” He shook me and must have seen the panic on my face. “Think about it love, who is your Durant.”
“The protagonist in the novel I submitted to Jamie a week ago. Hey that’s when Durant and his wife moved in. I came back from lunch with Jamie and the moving truck was there. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Pamela do you really think the killer from your book came alive and is killing people in our neighborhood? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” David’s mood, by this time, had gone from amused to frustrated.
“No,” I snapped back. “I am not that stupid. It’s just… look at the timing and the things he keeps doing. His next victim… “
The argument was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. I peeked out the blinds just as my husband opened the door. “No, it’s him.”
“Of course, it’s him. Who else would it be at this hour?”
“Is she ready?”
“She will be in a minute.”
I had to think. This scene was the end of the novel. My protagonist wasn’t just one but team of brothers who wanted to set a record on the most people killed. How did I not know? I opened my mouth to scream when something hard smashed against my head.
“Careful you don’t want to kill her before she writes you story.” Durrant snickered darkly.
This is an old piece. I am trying to gather my writing from all the sites and make one place for all of it.
One of the prompts I was working on was ‘what if one of the characters suddenly came to life.’ I was also working on trying to make shorter stories, so I did this as flash fiction. 500 words or less.