by Guy Harrison
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At the top of the stairs, Tony caterwauled, his cry echoing off the foyer’s high ceiling.
“What’s his problem?” Sonnet asked.
“I don’t know. He’s been doing that since you went into the office.”
Joel led them up the stairs. Sonnet pressed the button at the back of the flashlight, illuminating the stairs with its mauve glow. At the top of the steps, Tony crouched, pawing at one of the unused bedroom doors. Joel traded a glance with Sonnet before approaching the door.
“What is it, Tony?”
The cat dashed between the man and woman and down the stairs, his tail puffed like a raccoon’s.
Joel looked at Sonnet once more before he reached for the doorknob.
“No,” Sonnet said.
“It’s probably nothing,” Joel countered, although he didn’t believe it himself. If there was anything he learned on the baseball diamond, it was that a little braggadocio went a long way.
He gritted his teeth and held his breath. Hearing nothing save for the beating of his heart, he grabbed the doorknob with his sweaty hand, twisted, and thrust the door open. Joel furrowed his brow.
“There’s nothing here,” Joel said.
“Wait.” Sonnet turned the beam of her flashlight into the bedroom.
Joel immediately took a step back. “Holy shit.”
The carpet. The walls. The ceiling. They resembled the Solar System as countless scorpions glowed in the flashlight’s beam.