Free Dahmer Flu by Christopher Cox

shoulder as she halted, alarmed.
    We pressed into the home, with Madi behind me and Aimee carrying Jacob in the rear. We moved quietly through the hallway and into a spacious living room; each of our flashlights illuminated the room and cast ominous shadows on the wall. The sense of loss was almost palpable in this place; the remaining furniture was in disarray, turned over in the struggle, and blood stained the floor along our path. A hammer sad discarded on a table amongst a discarded pile of bent and rusted nails.
    I remembered the woman’s story and led my wife and children to a nearby bedroom with the door already halfway open. I closed the room behind us and searched the room methodically, feeling like a child faced with bedtime. Under the bed, nothing. The closet, nothing. The large wooden chest, nothing. The bathroom, nothing. The room was empty, save for the living.
    “It’s safe in here. I’m going to check the rest of the house. If you hear anything, just yell and I’ll come right back,” I promised.
    “Okay,” they replied in unison. I was always reminded just how much alike those two were- more than either of them realized.
    I left the room, stealing a glance back at my family as I closed the door. Through the narrowing crack, I smiled at the three of them- four , I remembered ; one in the belly - before the lock clicked softly behind me. I pushed gently; it held firm.
    The feeling of being in someone’s home, among their possessions and personal belongings, was a strange sensation that betrayed every one of my social graces- even in the situation in which I found myself. I realized that by the next generation, if there was one, something like this would be quite normal, even expected, as they rebuilt their society.
    I crept softly through the narrow hallway, checking each room as I passed. One was a small den with little more than a small desk covered with papers and an antiquated computer. The next was cluttered with piles of clothing and an old washing machine and smelled of old-growth mold. Finally, I approached the room at the end of the hallway with an unnamable feeling of dread. The door was unremarkable in every way, but the feeling that emanated from it made me want to run; I knew I didn’t have the option.
    The door was barely cracked, and I strained to listen- silence. Slowly, I pushed the door open; it creaked on aged hinges, but opened smoothly until it stopped against the inside wall. Slowly I entered, eager to be done with this room- to learn that my fears were nothing more than paranoia. I turned and saw that what had stopped the door wasn’t actually the wall, but the large, dark figure that loomed behind it, towering over me close and to my left. I wheeled around and pushed myself against the wall, clawing uselessly in the direction of the figure. Boxes and other objects were dislodged from the shelves and clattered to the ground around me as I fell hard to the ground, forcing the flashlight from my grip.
    The figure, however, didn’t move. With shaking, desperate hands, I scrambled for the light and brought it to bear. A large, feminine seamstress dummy stood quietly in the beam; a portion of a wedding dress hung uncompleted around its frame. The woman that had lived here apparently liked to sew.
    After a few moments, my breathing returned to normal and I left the room towards the rest of the home. The kitchen, the garage and the bathroom- all were empty and still. Only two doors remained; they were closed and locked and wouldn’t be reopened. From the woman’s story, I knew that one of the rooms housed the sacked bodies of the creatures that had invaded the home. Behind the other were the remains of her husband. As if in eulogy, I took a moment to remember that he had died as a human being, and not a monster.
    I took one final glance around the home to check each door and ensure the boards on the windows were secure. Each held firm. In the morning, we would explore the town and