WHO: Heather Mason, Walter Sullivan. WHAT: Walter being a creep. As usual. WHERE: Heather's apartment. WHEN: Somewhere around last week, maybe. WARNING: Not very good. General creepiness, but nothing much.
Later on, after she had calmed down enough to look back at the situation without the rage, fear and indignation that usually walked by hand with the man in the blue coat, Heather realized that, the moment she had walked into her dingy, dark apartment, the lack of an overexcited dog to come and greet her, nearly knocking her over in his hurry to cover her face with slobber should have given her a clue that something, somehow, was wrong.
Instead, too tired, too cranky about the usual day’s events –one day her liver would fart and die, she knew, what with all the anger and irritation she piled up and stored inside her every day, over the smallest things –she had walked into her apartment, giving a relieved, unsuspecting sigh as she kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her coat. Her hand slid over the rough surface of the nearest wall, looking for the switch, which clicked upon being found, followed by the uncertain crackling of the living room’s lamp.
“Boo.”
Heather looked up so quickly she heard her neck crack, which was alarming but hardly a concern because something was bleeding on her coffee table, a red, dripping lump of meat she could hardly recognize. Choking back a shriek, she stumbled backwards, back into something soft and warm and smelling of disinfectant and blood, and strong arms covered in a rough white coat wrapped around her. Her arms were pinned against her sides in a hold surer than any vise. As she flailed and struggled like a panicked beast, dirty blonde hair tickled the back of her neck and Walter Sullivan whispered, “Heather Mason.”
For a moment, the power of speech seemed to desert her. At the sound of Walter’s smooth voice, she redoubled her thrashing, and when her heel connected resoundingly with bone, Walter’s arms tightened dangerously, hard enough for her ribs to give an ominous creak. Heather stilled immediately. When Walter spoke again, he sounded more amused than hurt or even annoyed.
“Why so afraid, Heather? I won’t hurt you. I thought we knew each other better than that. I thought we were friends.”
“Bastard,” she managed to hiss out in reply, fear giving way to infuriation. She could barely hear him over the thunder of her heart. “What did you do to Stanley?! How the hell did you get in?!!”
There was a moment of silence, Walter’s stubbled cheek rasping against her neck as he seemed to ponder whether he should reply or not. “Sleeping,” he finally said, lips curving up into a smirk. “You should be more careful with who you give your spare keys to, Heather. But then again, who would ever doubt of Doctor Sullivan?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Heather shot back, eyes darting across the room, heart thumping against her chest. Indignant rage flared inside her—breaking into her house, doing Gods-knew-what to her dog! Oh, if he had hurt Stanley, she swore to whoever was listening that he would pay… “Let go of me!” she screeched, resuming her squirming, trying to connect her elbow with Walter’s ribs. “Let go of me, or I’ll swear I will scream! Let—!”
Abruptly, faster than she could follow, the arms wrapped around her, the firm softness pressed against her back, they were all gone, and she was shoved against the nearest wall in a show of blunt, fearsome strength. In a moment, she absorbed a few details- Walter was wearing his lab coat, his hair was loosely tied, and he was wearing a pair of glasses she had never seen before. All in all, Heather could see why her neighbor wouldn’t put up much of a fight if he asked for her keys. However, those thoughts were all pushed aside in favor of the current circumstances.
Somehow, as if to fit the doctor costume he was wearing, Walter produced a scalpel, which reflected the dim light of the room before pressing against her neck. “Go ahead!” he taunted her, smirk splitting into an expression that could barely be called a grin. There was nothing pleasant about it, let alone friendly. Glittering, cat-like green eyes locked with her own brown ones. “Go ahead,” he repeated, voice even and hypnotic, which only served to freak Heather even more. “Scream.”
Heather stared back, feeling the color drain off her face. She wanted to scream, wanted to prove him better, to have all the neighbors rush in and find him wielding a scalpel—he would have it coming, if they threw him in jail! –but no sound came from her mouth. Like a nightmare, her throat froze, and only a strangled whimper managed to claw its way out of her mouth. Walter waited patiently for a few seconds. When it became apparent that Heather wasn’t going to say anything, he purred, like a soft, gentle mantra, “Make no promises you can’t keep. Do not taunt the devil.”
Instead of the derisive snort she wanted to give, Heather found herself nodding stiffly. Satisfied, Walter pulled away, the scalpel disappearing as mysteriously as it had come into sight. Heather bit back a sigh of relief, trying to muster whatever courage she had left. “I… I’m going to go to the police, you—you—fucking psycho.”
Walter limited himself to smile, pushing up his glasses. “I would like to see who is willing to believe you,” he said calmly, with only a hint of smugness in his voice. Heather ground his teeth, but, as he walked out of the door and down the hall, laughing darkly like the madman he was, she could only be relieved to see her neck was still intact.