Her phone was silent. Margot lowered it. The screen was black; its battery had finally been emptied.
Margot shivered against the cold saturating the kitchen as she pushed the dead phone into her pocket. The flannel pajamas were designed to keep her warm in bed; they did next to nothing to combat the early morning frost that wormed around the window’s edges and under the doors. Her body was pocked with gooseflesh, each breath sapping more of her warmth away.
She moved almost against her will. Soft, padding steps carried her back into the hallway and toward the front door. Beyond, she heard the rope creak. Margot swallowed and tasted the tang of blood. She’d cut the inside of her cheek at some point. Mostly likely when she fell. She’d barely noticed the pain, but now the cloying metallic taste coated her tongue, nauseating.
She reached for the door handle. Her skin was already taut, the hairs standing alert, but as she touched the bronze handle, quivers passed through her like electricity.
Don’t.
She didn’t want to see what was outside. But a deep, crawling yearning need to know had boiled up inside of her. She didn’t want to see. But she had to.
The door juddered as she forced it open. The night chill had infused it with moisture, getting through the cracks in the paint and swelling it. The hinges creaked as they turned, and beyond, the rope creaked in a matching tune.
The hazy, sickly purple light flowed across her. Cold air whipped in, dragging at the loose flannel around her arms and legs.
Margot tried to breathe but couldn’t. Ahead of her, suspended directly in front of the door, was a length of rope. It was old. Dirt crusted it. Small threads wove around the twisting cords, likely loose fibers but possibly roots. Possibly hair. The rope looked like it might have been lying on a forest floor for months. No, years. It was age weathered, faded in places and stained in others, both heavy and fragile with age.
The rope had been tied to one of the beams on the underside of the porch’s roof. It trailed down to shoulder height, then curled back and tied to itself, forming a loop the size of Margot’s head.
She clung to the doorframe as her legs threatened to collapse. Her ears were clogged with a distant, tinny ringing noise. Even as she watched, the rope swung loosely, and a slow, aching creak rose from where it was fastened.
More movement appeared in her peripheral vision. Slowly, unwillingly, Margot turned her head. This wasn’t the only length of rope tied outside her home. One hung near the kitchen window. One was farther down, near where the wall turned, draped nearly to the wooden floor. Another on her other side, catching the sickly dawn light.
Six in total.
Six nooses, suspended from the beams outside her front door.