The Broken Bottle Top Part 4

 

      Part 4 

Uncle Seifert and my stepfather were very close friends.  Perhaps such a friendship developed from the fact that they were both policemen.  As a matter of fact they were sergeants.  Uncle Seifert and my mother were twins and she thought the highest of him.  He was well respected in the district by the public as well as the police.

After my father’s death, Uncle Seifert was a real source of comfort to my mother.  Occasionally when he visited our home, he would be loaded down with groceries.  I personally felt that he helped to ease much of my mother’s grief during those days.  At the funeral both he and my stepfather helped to carry my father’s coffin.  My other uncle who had offered his help had been firmly refused by my mother.  At the time I felt very hurt but there was nothing I could do.  At least I dared not do it then.  Even now I wondered how many would have believed me then if I had told them the truth.

As I continued to thoughtfully agonize, I suddenly remembered something that I should have thought of before.  “He used to have a key to the side door.  Did he still have it, and if he did, why did he bother to knock?”  This was really a terrifying development.  I mentally decided that if he were still in possession of that key it was only a matter of time before he came in to get me.  It was then that I made up my mind. I rose from the bed.  En route to the telephone I checked my watched and discovered it was 4:05 a.m.

I had intended to call the police but after some contemplation I decided to call Uncle Sam instead.  Figuring that he might have been asleep, I let the phone ring for longer than usual.  There was no answer so I called the police.  The voice at the other end startled me.  At first I thought it was he but I knew it could not have been.  I reported all that had happened that night.  I even mentioned the phone call I had received.  The police who took the information asked me if I had any idea who it might be.  I lied.  He promised that someone would come to investigate the matter.  He also advised me to stay away from all windows and ensure that all of the doors were securely locked. 

Suddenly I remembered a little trick that my father had taught me.  I had remembered locking the door and taking the keys to the bedroom.  I still had a chance to stop him from getting in even if he still had a key.  I went to my room, took the bunch of keys and tiptoed back to the side door.  I fitted the appropriate key into the lock, turned it to the fullest in the locked position and allow the weight of the other keys to maintain that position.  I felt considerably relieved knowing he would have greater difficulty getting into the house.  I decided to do the same with the front door even though I knew that only my mother and I had keys to that door. 

I started up the passage towards the living room. It suddenly dawned on me that the room was in darkness. I stopped half way up the passage.   “Did I switch off the reading lamp?”  It was no sense fooling myself. I knew I had not. “Then why was it off?” I wondered.  “Did someone switch it off?  Did he switch it off?” I began to pray that the bulb had blown but somehow I lacked the necessary faith with which to believe that prayer. I started forward.

 

“Come right in! It’s only me,” the voice said. “I decided not to call again since I had a key.” That voice froze me to immobility. I just stood there not knowing whether to go on or turn back. His sharp command decided the matter for me. I went into the room knowing full well that this was it. Even if the police came and inspected, such would be of no help to me. This was the moment I had dreaded for seven years. Now I was going to die and there was nothing anybody or I could do about it.  Or was there?

    

I decided to play the stalling game. If only I could stall him until someone came. But who would come? Nobody knew of my present predicament. The person most likely to come was my mother and not so until 6:30 a.m.  I still had a long wait for it was now 5:00 a.m.  His check with his wristwatch coincided with the chiming of the clock on the cabinet. His look was one full of pure evil intent. He stood up and began to pace slowly towards me. Here was the finest impersonation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde if ever there was one.  I stood my ground. I guess fear had me cemented to the spot. The look on his face was a definite depiction of the look he had on that horrible Wednesday night. Up until then I had not noticed any weapons on him. I wondered in what manner my end would be.

Suddenly he stopped as though having acquired a change of mind. He returned to the chair from whence he had come. From it he took one of the decorative cushions and suddenly I knew how I would die. 

He came at me quickly as if he felt the urgency of his act. With an agility that surprised even me, I darted under his arm and fled down the passage. After a short chase among the items of furniture in the house he finally overtook me. He pressed the cushion over my face. I struggled futilely against this hellish assault.  When it appeared that there was no hope for me I heard the splintering of wood giving way under excessive weight. Then there was a resounding crash as the front door caved in. Who were my rescuers I wondered. The answer to that question was delayed as I lapsed into a state of unconsciousness.

Be on the look out for Part 5 of "The Broken Bottle Top".

Stewart Russell © 1979