Trembling With Fear 01-05-25

Last Job of the Night, by R.H. Stevens

The sound of Verona’s car door shutting was emphatic in the cold, clear night. A recent downpour had made the smooth black road reflect the overhead street lamps, and filled the air with the scent of petrichor.

Her intended destination, 117 Adelaide Avenue, was located directly across from where she’d parked. Like most of the other houses on the street, it was high-set with a partial veranda and gabled roof which stretched up into the darkness. It stood out among its fellows only because the lights were still on inside. Those yellow rectangles of loneliness were like a beacon for Verona, and she followed them across the street and to the front door.

Verona didn’t even have to knock; at her approach, the door swung open to reveal a diminutive man gazing up at her with anxious blue eyes.

“Aubrey Matheson?” Verona asked.

“Yes, yes, please do come in,” Aubrey replied, taking a step back to allow Verona over the threshold.

The interior of the house was neat and cozy, lit by vintage light fixtures set into the ceiling. Verona’s red stilettos sank into the thick carpeting as she ventured further into the entrance. Her eyes may have appeared diffident, but as she glanced around, she mentally catalogued every part of the house, from exits to valuables to possible weapons.

“You’re very pretty,” Aubrey said with a tight smile, closing the door behind them and locking it. “You didn’t say you were so pretty in our phone calls.”

Verona smiled back with red lips, calculating eyes alighting on him next. Aubrey had stated he was 75, but he looked older than that. Perhaps it was the down-turned mouth or the rounded posture, as though he were turning in on himself. The only vestige he had of a more beautiful youth was the thick, well-coiffed white hair he had on his head.

“I, uh–I have the money here,” Aubrey said, wringing his hands slightly and opening the third drawer of a mahogany console table. Inside, Verona could clearly see a thick wad of bills, bound up with an elastic band.

“Do you–do you want this now, or after?” Aubrey asked, swallowing so hard Verona could see his Adam’s apple bob under the wrinkled skin.

“After is fine,” Verona smiled wider. “So. Where do you want me?”

Aubrey stared at her, eyes cutting away. “In… the bedroom. If that’s okay.”

Verona nodded and followed him as he ascended the nearby staircase. Each step looked like it required some effort; he had to steady himself on the balustrade railing. Verona trailed after him, inspecting the picture frames upon the walls.

Most of the photos showed Aubrey with what Verona assumed was his late wife, across various ages and locations. Aubrey and his wife on safari. At the beach. His wife, beatific and joyous, with a newborn in her arms. An older version of the couple having drinks with friends on the veranda. A complete record of a life well-lived.

The curtains in the master bedroom were partially open, allowing moonlight to illuminate the room and reveal its orderly contents. His wife’s hairbrush and folded nightgown still waited on the left bedside table. On the other table sat a collection of orange pill-bottles, an empty glass, and a senior’s emergency pendant.

Aubrey sat down on the bed with a sigh and looked up at her expectantly.

“Are you okay?” Verona asked, tossing her hair back from her shoulders. “There’s no pressure, you know.”

Aubrey shook his head, lips quivering. “I want this. Please. I’m sick. It won’t get any better. Let me rest.”

There was a trilling meow, and suddenly a siamese cat was winding around Verona’s legs. She picked up the cat with delight and cooed at it.

“That’s Bobby. You can have him, if you want,” Aubrey said, as Verona planted a kiss on the cat’s head and left a mark from her lipstick on its fur.

“Couldn’t say no,” Verona replied, setting the cat down and coming to sit beside Aubrey on the bed.

Verona raked her eyes over him, committing to memory the deep lines of his face, the rounded jaw. She could see the young man he had once been in the aged face. She could hear his heartbeat racing behind his skin.

“Please,” Aubrey repeated, leaning closer. Tears had bubbled in his eyes, and one escaped his eyelashes to slide down his pale cheek.

Verona took his head between her hands, looking deep into his eyes. She urged him into a lull with a wordless command. Aubrey’s eyelids fell to half-mast. His mouth slackened. Verona held his limp form close, and then tilted him backwards just slightly–to expose the column of his throat. She could sense his pulse beating behind the skin. The blood rushing through his veins.

Verona opened her mouth, her sharp fangs glinting like knives in the moonlight, and struck.