he door shrieked in protest. Rust flecked hinges popped and rang as they separated from the wood beneath. The sound reverberated around the room and dove into Maura’s ears.
“The widow!” Paul jabbed his finger across the gulf between them.
She turned and looked out the lone casement window. The checkerboard of glass framed the harvest moon with a jeweler's skill.
Paul grabbed the faded dresser and began wrestling it away from the wall. The white-washed mass refused to budge until he wedged his knees behind it and strained.
A piercing crack from the door drove electric convulsions down Maura's spine. The wood frame splintered, slivers of carved driftwood coughed onto the floor boards.
Paul leaned into the dresser and pushed; his bare feet slipped, scraped and grasped for traction. Slowly, too slowly, the antique began to move. Progress was marked in thin trails of blood upon the wide-plank floor.
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