Free When I Kill You by Michelle Wan

He was calmly settling down to watch his favorite show with a beer and chips.
    The way a tv thriller works is this: they hook you straight off to get you into it. Then there’s a commercial break. Then more action. As the tension mounts, the commercials get more and more frequent because by now they know you’re not going to switch to another channel. You want to know how it ends.
    I only had the sound track to go by, but I could tell when a commercial came on. I knew when the program resumed by the rise and fall of voices, and I could figure out the action from the music. I knew whenever it got low and scary—sort of dunh dunh dunh dunh —building up to the screech of violins, something bad was about to happen. I timed it to perfection. Right on 8:23, just as the music hit a breaking point, I pulled the breaker.
    The thin wedge of light at the top of the stairs went out. The music stopped. I didn’t hear Stanley yell, “Shit!” as I’d expected. There was only silence. As if he was just sitting there. Across the street, Marcia would be at the neighbors, watching the Beekland house go dark. Finally, I heard him get up and move across the floor above my head. I pictured him looking for a flashlight, discovering that the batteries were dead. He took a very long time doing it. Now I heard a bump, like he’d knocked into the furniture, then footsteps and the sound of something being dragged around. The door at the top of the staircase creaked open. A pause. My heart skidded in my throat. Suddenly, like a nightmare, something large and formless came hurtling out of the darkness at me. I jumped aside and felt the rush of air as it sailed past. It hit the lower part of the stairs once, bounced off and landed beyond me with a sickening thump.
    * * *
    Nothing happened. Nothing moved. It’s done, I thought, it’s over. Judging from the absolute stillness, I knew I wouldn’t have to finish him off. At that moment, I couldn’t say what I felt. Relief ? Or more an awful emptiness, like I wanted to curl up on the dirt floor of the cellar and die myself. Or cry. This was no Laurel and Hardy act in a home appliance store no crazy bumper-car ride, down a city street, no disastrous comedy impersonation in a sleazy saloon. This was real death. This was murder. And I was now a bona fide killer. I knew that nothing would ever be the same.
    I took a gulp of air and switched on my penlight. The first thing I saw was his arm. It was twisted under his body in an unnatural way. When my beam traveled along his shoulder to his chin, I saw with surprise that something had been stuffed into his mouth. His pale eyes were wide open and strangely naked. He’d lost his glasses on the way down. Then I had a shock. The hair . The hair was wrong. There was too much of it! In a panic I brought the penlight close to shine it fully on the face. It wasn’t Stanley. It was Marcia.
    A flickering at the top of the stairs made me look up. He was standing there, in the doorway, a candle in one hand, what looked like a gun in the other. I stood up slowly, then bolted for the coal chute, but he called out, “I think you’d better stay.”
    I stopped and turned. Stanley pointed with the gun. “Is she dead?”
    I nodded. I didn’t need to check. There was no life in those staring eyes.
    â€œI heard her go out!” I screamed at him.
    He laughed, a really nasty sound. “You heard the front door slam. But she didn’t leave. She couldn’t.”
    â€œWhat did…? It was supposed—”
    â€œTo be me? Give me some credit. I knew she was up to something. I mean, the car that nearly ran me down? And that was you at Benny’s with the needle, wasn’t it?” He sniggered and came down a step. The candle flame lit up his face in a ghastly way as he peered at me. “You’ve lost weight and your hair is different. What’s your real name, by the way? Not