Before the Morning

Leah stepped into the house with a tired sigh, the kind that came from too many hours smiling at people she didn't like. The takeout bag in her hand swung gently as she shut the door behind her. The lights were off, though the porch lamp had been glowing when she parked. That was strange. James always turned them on for her when she worked late.

"James?" She called out, flicking the light switch. Nothing.

She frowned. The power must have gone out. A storm was in the forecast, but the sky had looked clear. She pulled out her phone, but there was no signal.

A sharp metallic scent hit her. Something like rust and something else—thicker. Her eyes followed a dark streak on the hardwood floor, a smear that led toward the kitchen.

She dropped the takeout.

"James?"

Her voice cracked as she followed the trail. Her shoes stuck faintly as she stepped in the blood. And there he was.

Sprawled on the floor, motionless. Face turned away. Blood pooled under his body, still warm.

She reached out with shaking hands. "No, no, no... James!"

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

She froze.

Someone else was here.

Leah’s heart thundered in her chest. She backed away slowly and grabbed the nearest object, a metal pan, and stumbled into the laundry room. She crouched behind the dryer, struggling to control her breath.

Footsteps moved down the stairs.

She clasped a hand over her mouth. Each step was slow, deliberate. A beam of light scanned the hallway.

She remembered the basement—there was a small hiding space behind the water heater. Crawling on all fours, she slipped through the narrow door, pressing herself into the dark.

She heard a voice. Low. Male.

"Leah?" it said.

She trembled. How did he know her name?

The man spoke again. "Leah, it’s me. Come out. Please.”

No. No, it was a trick. He wanted to lure her out. She stayed frozen, eyes clenched shut, knuckles white around the pan.

Time stretched. Minutes? Hours? She didn’t know.

Then she heard footsteps—coming closer. The sound of the basement door creaking open. A flashlight beam sliced through the dark, sweeping past her hiding spot.

Her breath hitched.

He was in the basement now. Coming closer. His shoes scraped against the concrete floor.

"Leah," the voice called again, more desperate now. "Please, I need you to listen to me."

He rounded the corner.

She launched herself from behind the heater, swinging the pan with all her strength. It connected with a loud crack. The man staggered but didn’t fall.

He reached for her. She screamed, swinging again, striking his shoulder. He grunted, trying to grab her wrist.

They struggled—tripping over storage bins, knocking over the mop bucket. He tried to speak, but she slammed the pan into his head a third time.

He fell, dazed.

She dropped the pan and lunged for the knife she had spotted earlier on a shelf.

He raised a hand. "Leah, please... it’s me."

"No!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her face. "You killed him! You’re lying!"

She drove the knife down.

Once.

Twice.

He stopped moving.

Silence fell.

Her chest heaved. Rain tapped against the windows. A bird chirped. Morning had come.

Light crept through the blinds. Her hand loosened around the knife.

And then she saw his face.

James.

Her James.

Same shirt. Same scar. His wedding ring, stained red.

"No..."

She dropped the knife, falling to her knees. Crawling toward him.

"James? James?!"

But he was gone.

Her eyes scanned the room.

The blood trail? Gone.

The phone? On the counter. Working.

The power? On.

She began to shake. A sob welled up.

She had imagined it all. The killer. The footsteps. The chase. The hiding.

She had killed the only person who had loved her through the dark.

As the morning sun washed over her, Leah sat beside James's body, whispering the only thing left in her hollow chest:

"He was trying to help me..."

Outside, the world continued.

Inside, Leah waited for someone to find what the night had broken.