Chapter 4 - The Muddy Tracks
The bright morning sun brought absolutely no comfort to the terrified, scheming widow.
Mark arrived quite early, boldly using his secret spare key to enter through the back patio doors.
He found Sarah huddled in the dark corner of her bedroom, clutching a heavy hunting rifle she had taken from the private study.
"You desperately need to pull yourself together before the cleaning staff arrives," Mark scolded her aggressively.
"He was actually here last night, Mark, I swear to God I clearly heard his wheelchair!" she hysterically cried out.
Mark heavily rolled his eyes, utterly confident that immense guilt was simply playing stupid tricks on her greedy mind.
"He is undeniably dead, Sarah, he fell hundreds of feet into a raging, rocky river," he coldly reminded her.
He forcefully grabbed her shaking arm and violently dragged her downstairs to logically prove the huge house was completely empty.
They walked cautiously into the grand foyer, where the morning light poured in directly through the massive skylights.
Mark stopped entirely dead in his tracks, his arrogant, dismissive expression vanishing in an instant.
Trailing deliberately across the immaculate white marble floor were two distinct, perfectly parallel lines of thick, dried mud.
They were the undeniable, terrifying tracks of heavy rubber wheelchair tires.
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The muddy tracks moved slowly from the front door, methodically circled the living room, and abruptly stopped right at the base of the staircase.
Sarah let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream that echoed through the empty halls.
