Phantasmagoria: SILENCE, She Screamed

Sande is a loner. Call her a survivor.

In the end, there was quiet.

Sande Johnson poked her head from the cellar, her home for months. A plenitude of stored supplies remained within, but her water rations were nearly exhausted.

Shouldering an empty backpack, she let the heavy door fall open, stepped outside, and listened. Not a dog barking or a bird chirping. Stealthily she eased down her drive, ready to bolt back to her rabbit hole.

No one, nothing moved. Blessed relief.

Several times during her self-imposed confinement, voices had been followed by weak efforts to break through the reinforced door. Weeks had passed since the last of the uninvited.

In a noisy world of honking horns and conniving con men, she’d longed for a calmer life. A loner? Perhaps, but self-sufficiency reaped its rewards. She’d outlasted all her busybody so-called friends. Call her a survivor.

Tomblike peace settled like the fine sand that an occasional gust shifted, pulling a sheet over one corpse, revealing another.

As she neared Cynthia Powell’s hair styling salon, she debated whether to enter. Why not? Too bad Cindy wouldn’t be around so Sande could say she told her so. She giggled, covering her mouth…