Blind Witness: Death in the Dark

I smelled blood.

It was like a thin red thread, slipping out from under the door of apartment 3B, curling around my ankle.

I stopped in front of 3B, a bag of fresh oranges dangling from my hand.

Mrs. Henderson lived there.

She was a woman in her seventies, alone, went to church. She'd never had a husband or children, so she always looked out for me—the blind girl next door—making sure I was okay.

"If only Mia were my daughter," she'd say with a warm smile.

So I cared about her, too.

But why did I smell blood? Had something happened to Mrs. Henderson? Did she fall? Was she hurt?

I knocked gently on the door of 3B.

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

Had she passed out?

Panic rose in my chest.

My hand slid down and gripped the cold round doorknob. I turned it gently—

The smell of blood hit me like a flood, overwhelming and thick. Beneath it, I caught something else.

Cheap, harsh tobacco. Old leather. And that sour, sharp scent of sweat when someone's adrenaline is spiking.

There was a strange man in that apartment.

I realized instantly—I'd walked right into a crime scene.

Run?

Impossible.

If I turned and bolted, or even showed a flicker of fear, the killer would catch me in seconds. In this cramped hallway, I'd never outrun a desperate man—not with my blindness.

I had to act.

I had to fool the eyes that could see with the eyes that couldn't.

In that split second, my right foot crossed the threshold.

I put on my best cheerful voice. "Mrs. Henderson, oranges were on sale at the store, so I picked up a few extras for you!"

No one answered, but I caught the faintest sound—fabric brushing against something.

It came from the living room, less than fifteen feet away.

Someone was there.

Someone holding his breath, staring me down from the shadows.

For the first time, I was grateful to be blind.

My eyes are pale and cloudy—no reflection, no clue.

"Hello? Not home?" I tilted my head, pretending to listen, "That's odd, the door wasn't even locked…"

I kept up the chatter, mumbling to myself.

The killer's eyes stayed locked on me, tracking my every move.

I took two more steps inside and set the bag of oranges on the shoe cabinet by the entryway. "Maybe she went to the park," I said lightly. "I'll just leave the oranges here—she'll know I stopped by."

I smiled, shook my head, then turned to leave.

The moment I turned my back, every muscle in me nearly seized up.

Don't run.

Don't you dare run.

Just walk the way you always do.

My cane tapped twice against the floor. I felt for the doorframe—one step, two steps—and I was out of 3B.

As I pulled the door closed behind me, my legs nearly buckled.

But I couldn't stop.

I kept tapping my cane, humming a tuneless little song, making my way to my own door—3A.

Fumbling for my keys.

My hands shook so badly the metal scraped loud against the lock.

Get inside. Get inside.

I was screaming in my head, but outside, I had to look like just another clumsy blind girl. Finally, the key found the slot.

Turn. Open. Step in.

Close the door. Lock it.

Click.

As the deadbolt slid home, I collapsed against the door, sliding down to the floor.

Shaking, I dialed 911.

Only when I hung up did I realize my shirt was soaked through with cold sweat.