By Daniel Lind
“I’m a poor lonesome cowboy, I’m a long long way from home,” sang the musical doorbell Dad had installed last summer.
I swung the door open, and my mouth dropped. A tall cowboy stood before me, wearing a black Stetson and spurred muddy boots, with a grey revolver holstered by his side. A gold star attached to his chest read “B. Reeves”.
“Pardon me ma’am,” he said, “You don’t know me, but I need your help.” His breathing was quick.
I blinked and noticed lines of dust around his dark eyes, and a blood-soaked sleeve.
“I think you’ve come to the wrong flat,” I whispered.
“I’m in trouble, ma’am.” His deep voice and southern accent melted me.
“You need that arm che-”
An arrow blazed through the kitchen window and buried itself in the wall behind me. I stumbled and fell to the floor. A strong hand pulled me up. The cowboy kicked the door shut and latched it, while holding me up with the other arm.
“What’s happening?” My voice trembled.
“Do you have a basement?” The cowboy drew his revolver and held it close to his chin.
“No.”
“Closet?”
“In my bedroom.”
“Show me.”
With wobbling legs I led the way through the short hallway.
“You okay?” the cowboy asked.
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t. All this bleeding, shooting and running was not my idea of spending a Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t even finished dinner yet.
Something heavy pounded against the front door. He cocked his pistol and I jumped.
“They’re breaking in. We need to call the police!”
“Listen to me,” he put a finger on my lips, “I didn’t mean to bring them here. Get into the closet and hide. They’re here for me.”
“Who?”
He didn’t answer. A deafening crash and splinters of wood from the front door interrupted us.
“Hurry!” the cowboy whispered, and pushed me inside. I started to shake. It was cramped and dark. My breath was hot against the hanging dresses and jumpers. I felt very alone, my mind raced to cowboy Reeves and his dark eyes.
I heard shouting, multiple gun shots, men’s screams of agony, and my only vase breaking into pieces. I shivered in the darkness.
The flat turned eerily silent. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been hiding, my joints were aching and I had to get out. I opened the closet door and peeked through. “Hello?”
No reply.
I edged out into the hallway. A heavy smell of gun powder lingered in the air. Cigarette butts littered the floor. Long arrows stuck out from my chairs and sofa, arranged as a barricade. The walls resembled a needle pincushion. There were traces of blood on the carpet, and a hatchet was embedded in my TV set.
The doorbell was broken, too. A scribbled note attached to it said: “Pardon the mess, ma’am.”
Hey, Daniel
I told you I was tinkering around on scribophile. Well, anyway, I checked out your profile.
Hope you don’t get angry, but I read through this one page short story. It’s kind of like the twilight zone, you know, something happens and you are so stunned that you don’t know what happened. Really cool read though.
Why would I get angry? Thank you for reading my flash! 🙂
I like it. It was like wow, how did this happen. LOL