killclaudio

Tatort Saarbrücken, Adam & Roland, background Leo/Adam, very mild horror. (I am not a horror writer and it shows.)

They set fire to the closet in the back garden, dousing it with petrol to be sure it caught the match, and Adam held tight to Leo's hand as they watched it burn. The smoke hung heavy in the still afternoon, winding itself around the trees and leaving a fine coating of ash on the walls. Later, in their apartment, he fancied he could still smell it, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin. No amount of scrubbing could get the stink out.

Adam wasn't surprised when his mind starting playing tricks on him. He'd heard it all before from a dozen psychologists; trauma, memories, dissociation, blah, blah, blah. It was no big deal if he sometimes found himself standing in their bedroom with no idea how he got there. If he woke in the night to the sound of laboured breathing. If he could smell smoke.

Once, he found himself running his fingers over the front of the closet and wrenched his hand back in horror before he knew what was happening.

It was just his stupid brain. There couldn't possibly be anything to fear here. Not in the bedroom he shared with Leo, the closet where Adam's jackets hung next to Leo's jeans. During his first few years as a cop, Adam had volunteered for every cramped and dirty assignment—poking around basements, crawling under roofs—anything to prove to himself that the old man hadn't left a mark. He was not afraid.

He pushed a few shoes aside, tucked himself into a corner the way he used to when he was a child. No memories assaulted him. He shut the door.

The dark closed around him, hemming him in, and ice-cold breath flowed over the back of his neck. Adam's hands jerked instinctively to the side, as though to catch himself from a fall, and his nails scrabbled uselessly against the smooth wooden boards. A deep laugh came from somewhere behind him, full of warmth, even pleasure. "My boy."

No. He was in their bedroom. He was surrounded by Leo's things. There was no reason to be afraid. Adam breathed to calm himself, felt methodically for the inside edge of the door. His hands were shaking too hard to get a grip on anything. Something brushed against the back of his hand, cool and slithery. There was a whiff of woodsmoke. He shoved hard at the door, pounded his fists on the wood, but it was as useless as punching a boulder.

Leo was out there, making dinner in the kitchen. Adam tried to shout, but his voice seemed to fall into emptiness and vanish. Leo would wonder where he was. Leo would find him.

The laugh came back again, echoing in his ears. The smell of smoke was choking him.

Leo. Leo—