(If you haven't been keeping up on this, here are part 1 and part 2)
Small talk? From me? Slightly pathetic, I know. But what was I supposed to do? All he really seemed to be interested in was telling me what I didn't know about my house.
Whatever.
After a few hours of organizing, stacking, and unpacking boxes, I noticed it had gotten dark outside. I became resolved about the fact I had made a big enough dent on my unloading vocation, and walked into the kitchen to a small, blue cooler to dig out a can of Dr. Pepper. The combo of carbonation and caffeine was a relief to my senses after feeling and smelling the dry, scratching cardboard all afternoon.
I had chugged a quarter of the sweet fluid before I started hearing noises. I stopped to listen. Upstairs. Dragging sounds. And footsteps. Who would be up there? I had been the only one in the house all day.
The hero in me that was hypothetically supposed to be working hand-in-hand with my womanly ambition was nowhere to be found. My feet were filled with concrete, and my heart throbbed resonantly against my chest. I did nothing except listen.
After several seconds, silence. “Petrified” was about ten times less what I was experiencing. Therefore, I still didn’t move my feet. Stillness settled over the house, and slowly, I started to regain my, now very shaky, bravery.
Knock! Knock! Knock! After flinching very violently, I realized the knock was at my front door. Scratch what I said earlier about my courage – I was entirely distressed.
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