Living Dead by Offer Reish (books for 9th graders txt) 📕

those of the soles of my boots, though I'd only returned and gone no further than a couple of steps inside. I immediately got the distinct terrifying sense that there was someone in the house who shouldn’t be. A thief? It wouldn't be such a terrible thing, as there was nothing in the house remotely worthy of being stolen. I carefully clicked the door closed to keep out the sound of the waning downpour, and listened closely. The wooden floor in the whole house was old so that every step created a croaking sound that could easily be heard in the quiet of night. But other than the soft pattering of the rain still audible from outside everything was perfectly silent. I was frightened and puzzled at the same time, sensing something bad was happening that I couldn't understand. Then I thought of the possibility that it was a thief after all that'd simply walked in through the unlocked door and, having heard me come in, was now waiting for a chance to leave. But if it was a thief, what was I to do? The course of action that appealed to me most at the moment, though it was certainly not the bravest one, was to take my things and bolt at once. The thief would make off with whatever it was he could find (if anything) and there would be peace again. I wasn't far from putting that trail of thought into practice but another, far more disconcerting possibility suddenly introduced itself.

How would a random thief know that today of all days the entrance door had been left unlocked? And even if he did, why would he even risk entering such a shoddy house as the one my parents had been living in for four decades? A quick glance at the crumbling bricks on the outside would suffice to turn away any thief in search of a more promising target. It was therefore highly unlikely that a thief was the source of my distress. But perhaps a man of more evil intentions. A man who was familiar with the household, and who would have reason to keep watch over the house and wait for the right opportunity to strike. One of Ross's friends whose interests would be served by harming him. A personal vendetta; a competitor of some sort; a man with a warped sense of judgment and little fear of the law; it could be any of a number of reasons. Perhaps the right reaction would've been to raise a racket, wake up the others and perhaps deter the invader from implementing his malevolent intentions, but there seemed to be something wrong in breaking the silence so violently. So instead I tiptoed up the stairway, pretending that my feet were light enough on the wood that I wouldn't be heard when in fact any person who was half awake anywhere in the house should've easily realized that someone was marching up the stairs. I skipped the middle stair that ever since our childhood had been a problem stair that screamed every time it was stepped on as though it were a living being. But though I'd followed this ritual hundreds of times in the past, my boots were wet and my body was tense and I slipped, grabbing the handrail to keep from tumbling down the entire stairway. I wasn't hurt but had created such a raucous that I was surprised it hadn't awakened anyone. I waited for a reaction from the invader, which I was sure was on the way, but the stillness and silence remained intact. I realized as I waited, crouching under the handrail with a good view of the two bedrooms upstairs, that my heart was pounding almost as loudly as the croaking noises of the stairs. I waited until waiting became less bearable than proceeding, at which point I continued to climb the stairs with particular attention to the impairments of my condition. Finally I reached the second floor, and at this point any additional step forward was like pushing against a giant wall that wanted to keep me away and should more recognizably be known as my fear. I slowly forced myself forward against the wall and passed the first room to the right of the stairs, which was mother and father's bedroom. At this time when my body was in need of a tremendous amount of oxygen I stared with bated breath inside the dark room in which the only sign of life was my father's soft snoring. The light from downstairs was almost completely blocked by the stairway and by the first floor ceiling, and the second floor was pitch-black. But my eyes had accustomed to the darkness and I could just make out the contours of two bodies under the covers. All was well, as expected, in the first room. Then I tottered toward the second room, an excruciating yet precious three meters beyond the first. As I neared my brother's bedroom I could sense- what gave it away I can't say to this very day- a hostile presence. Like a dog that picks up on a scent of an invisible object, I seemed to detect a terrible malevolence just beyond the wall. I was at once pushed back by sheer fear so strong I shook from fingertip to toe, and lured to the source of the impending violence by some inexorable urge to watch it take place. I stopped midway between the bedrooms, torn between the two opposing vectors, but then thought with despise that I was about to risk my life due to my brother's continuing misconduct. Rather than convince me to turn back and leave my brother to meet his fate on his own, it urged me on so I could be there when justice came to him. I made one last step that brought me in front of the doorway to his bedroom, and I froze.

Just a few meters in front of me was the unmistakable contour of a man standing with his back to me. I could make out nothing of his physique, nor did I wish to, nor was there any indication of his intent regarding my brother. But it was clear that my assumption was correct, and that the invader was there for my brother. My brother was lying in bed motionlessly, thereby negating the possibility of there being a discussion taking place. His arms were held forward in the general direction of my brother, which could only mean that…

I was still wrapping my mind around the scene when it went blank again. A hideous bang erupted, blaring so heavily that its source couldn't be traced. I remember wishing it was the sound of a massive thunder, which was rather compatible with the strengthening rain, while I knew it was something entirely different. I knew it not because of the different pitch of the noise, nor due to the revitalizing of the invader but because I felt my brother was dead. Still frozen in place, I watched the invader turn around and walk past me without taking note of my existence. He almost bumped into me in the doorway but still acted as though there was no one there. Only when I turned to watch him leave did he acknowledge my presence with a simple warning glance that I thought also sent a smug message of superiority. 'I shot your brother right in front of your eyes and you did nothing to stop me. And now I will escape and never be found', he seemed to say. How I obtained such a detailed perception of that fleeting glance remains unanswered when there was almost nothing else I noticed about him. But when I saw that glance, just before he climbed down the first stair, I decided to go after him. Not to attend my brother (who as I've already professed I knew was dead) or to flee to safety, but to follow an armed killer as he made his way out of the house (but not out of our lives). You may call me a fool for so doing, but I prefer to deem it brave. A brave man going after his brother's cold-blooded killer.

"Hey!" I called (avoiding awaking my parents was suddenly at a very low priority), and I began to race after the invader. He didn't seem to be in a hurry and made his way calmly down the stairs. His impassivity was chilling, but he seemed completely invulnerable. But he was hampered by a weak right leg that he might or might not have hurt climbing up the stairs before I'd arrived, and when he tried to leap over the problem middle step his right leg fumbled and he went tumbling down the remaining ten steps that led to the floor with a sickening thump. An ordinary man should've been significantly impeded by such a harsh fall, if not seriously wounded, but my brother's killer got back to his feet at once, the fall's only effect on him appearing to be a significant expediting of his escape. My descending of the stairs was far slower and more calculated, which allowed me to avoid having the same hard landing (which would've had an entirely different effect on me) but set me well behind the man I was chasing. Just before reaching the door my right foot bumped against some nondescript object on the floor, which flew out the door from the impact of my swift step. In the dim lighting outside I realized that this was the invader's gun, which he'd evidently dropped in his fall and not bothered to pick up. It seemed like an obvious error on his part, and I didn't hesitate to take it in my hands and point it outside in his direction. I'd never been more appreciative of the shooting practices father had given Ross and I in those early days when we would still spend time together out in the wild.

The rain, as though having intervened in his favor, was now pelting more violently than before so that his figure was almost impossible to follow. But even now when his gun was in my hands he continued his slow, unsophisticated departure so that a single sighting of him gave me a few seconds' window in which to take aim and fire.

Something told me that if I didn't get him now he would never be held responsible for Ross's murder. There was something irremediably evil in him that only his complete destruction could repair. I waited for his silhouette to appear through the raindrops, and once it did I fired as many shots as I was allowed before there were no more bullets left to fire. I didn’t keep count of the shots but I felt I'd aimed well and must've hit him at least once. I dropped the gun to the ground and stared far into the horizon, hoping never to catch sight of my target moving. For a moment there was only the rain and the games the drops played with the light, mocking my gullible eyes. I can still feel the surge of joy that began to rise within me as my hopes of having killed him began to consolidate, but it all crumbled at one miserable sighting of the dark figure, now well out in the distance, moving with the same calm and unbothered determination as before. It was like a ghostly apparition, incapable of being altered in any way. My shots may as well have gone right through him and disappeared into the darkness.

When I went back inside the house was in chaos. Mother and father had found the body of their dead son in his bed and were leaning over him with such despair as I wouldn't wish upon even the man who'd killed him. They say there's nothing more tragic than a mother who's lost her child, but there is of course. The thing most tragic