Under the dim streetlight, Lazarus tossed a nearly burnt-out cigarette onto the ground.
Then, his gaze swiftly darted to both sides as he habitually pressed the cigarette butt under his shoe, rubbing it back and forth.
"Damn it…"
Lazarus jerked his foot; he had forgotten that the sole of his shoe had long worn thin, almost to the point of transparency. Now, he'd burnt the bottom of his foot.
The cold night breeze swept through the street, with hardly any pedestrians in sight. Those few in the distance were hurrying along, heads down, wrapped in scarves and hats.
Lazarus turned up the collar of his coat. The edges were shiny with grime, but at this moment, they gave him a sense of being hidden and protected.
Ahead was 128 Chiswick Street. From No. 50 to No. 200, all the buildings were townhouses. Whoever owned or rented a place here was not necessarily wealthy but could be considered middle class.
The house in front of him was home to a family of three: the father was a doctor, the mother a teacher, and they had a seven-year-old son.
During the day, a maid came to clean, but she never stayed overnight, leaving after preparing dinner.
Moreover, this family had a routine: every Saturday night, they would go out together to the theater.
The door opened, and the father, dressed in a black suit, was the first to step out and start the car parked by the entrance.
Shortly after, the mother, wearing a red dress, walked out with their child, chatting happily as she locked the door and got into the car.
Then, the car drove off.
Lazarus licked his lips, quickly stepped forward, jumped over the low wooden fence that couldn't even stop a small dog, landed in the flowerbed, and climbed the steps. He took out a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock.
"Click…"
The crisp sound indicated a successful unlock.
Three months ago, while working as a mover for this family, the trusting wife had handed over the keys to the new house to the moving company. Lazarus had secretly made a copy.
At that time, he had hesitated about stealing; he was nearly broke.
Now, he didn't have to hesitate because he wasn't just broke—he was drowning in debt.
As he opened the door and quickly shut it behind him, Lazarus muttered, "After tonight, you should understand why you need to change your locks after moving in."
The first floor had an open-plan kitchen and dining area, along with a maid's room in the northwest corner.
Lazarus headed directly to the second floor, not turning on any lights but using a flashlight he'd brought along. The beam was a bit unstable.
"Damn it…"
Lazarus cursed silently again, realizing the batteries were low. He had spent the money meant for batteries on a pack of 5-ruble "Molf" cigarettes instead.
He banged the flashlight on his elbow a few times, and its light became slightly brighter.
The second floor had the master bedroom, a small study, and a bathroom.
The attic on the third floor served as the child's bedroom due to its low ceiling.
Lazarus opened the master bedroom door, revealing a large bed and various antique cabinets. He knew the valuable items were most likely in this room, though he'd still check the study before leaving.
"Zzz... Zzz…"
A crackling static sound came from a radio.
"Welcome to the 'Roger Story Hour.' I'm your old friend, Alfred. Tonight, the moon is beautiful, and whatever you're doing, it seems to be accompanied by a sense of bliss…"
The sudden voice startled Lazarus. He looked down and saw it was an old-fashioned tube radio.
"Damn, they've left and didn't even turn off the radio!"
Lazarus reached out and turned it off.
Then, he began rifling through the dresser drawers, as women often kept frequently worn jewelry and household cash there. Finding a jewelry box would be a bonus.
"Click…"
The sound of the front door opening came from downstairs.
Lazarus almost jumped.
Immediately after, the click of high heels on the stairs headed straight for the bedroom.
Lazarus quickly pushed the drawer shut and turned off his flashlight.
He was a thief, not a robber. Stealing and robbing were two entirely different concepts, with different legal consequences.
Most importantly, he didn't have the courage to be a robber.
The high heels clicked rapidly, with a sense of urgency.
Lazarus had no time to think and rolled under the bed.
"Creak…"
Almost simultaneously, the bedroom door was pushed open.
"Click!"
The lights turned on.
Under the bed, holding a tense plank position, Lazarus watched as a pair of red high heels moved to the dresser. After some frantic searching, there was the sound of a small bottle being opened, pills being shaken out, and then swallowed.
This was followed by a series of relieved breaths.
Lazarus saw the woman's high heels pause in front of the dresser for a long time before she got up. The high heels started moving.
"Ring… ring…"
The phone rang.
The high heels moved away from the bed and toward the coffee table under the window, where the phone was.
The woman answered:
"Yes, yes."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh."
"I was planning to go with them, but I suddenly felt sick and had to come back for my medicine. Let them go on without me; I'll rest at home tonight."
"It's fine, don't worry. Thank you for your concern. I'm okay."
The woman hung up, turned, and walked back to the bed.
"Thud."
Her shoes clicked against each other as she slipped them off, nearly landing right in front of Lazarus. He could almost smell the leather.
The bed shook slightly.
She must have laid down, letting out a long, contented sigh.
After a long day at work, freed from family activities, she could finally relax a bit, even if due to illness. It must have felt nice.
Under the bed, Lazarus started thinking about what to do.
He regretted not wearing a mask. If only the woman had come back alone, he could've just scared her, told her not to move, and left.
Surely, she wouldn't dare act out alone. Besides, he hadn't stolen anything yet, and she might not even call the police.
But that was just wishful thinking.
Even knowing she was alone in the house, Lazarus didn't have the courage to crawl out and threaten her.
He tried to calm himself with silent, deep breaths.
Wait for her to fall asleep, wait for her to fall asleep…
Once she's asleep, he could sneak out before her husband and child returned.
The woman hummed softly and turned pages.
Damn, when are you going to sleep?
Lazarus had lost all sense of time.
Finally—
"Thump."
Lazarus heard the book being closed.
The woman got out of bed, barefoot.
She walked toward the bedroom door, yawning.
Is she going to take a shower?
Lazarus was relieved.
He could sneak out while she was in the bathroom!
But then, his hopes were dashed by a soft "click." She came back, and the radio static returned.
"Creak…"
The woman climbed back into bed and picked up her book again.
The radio began playing soft music, and she hummed along.
Damn, is she waiting for her husband and child to come home?
The song ended, and a man's voice came on:
"After a short break, welcome back to the 'Roger Story Hour.' We continue with our story. Our protagonist, Catherine, lies in bed, book in hand, enjoying the rare evening calm. She's always envied full-time housewives. For a woman, balancing work and family is exhausting."
"Sigh…"
Lazarus heard the woman sigh. She must've felt the same.
But then, the radio's words made Lazarus shiver!
"But what Catherine doesn't know is that as she lies in bed enjoying her brief respite, there is actually someone lying under her bed…"
"..." Lazarus.
"..." The woman.
The sighs and page-turning stopped abruptly.
The radio fell silent, as if the signal had failed, replaced by static.
Lazarus's heart was in his throat, the stillness suffocating him.
"Hehe… haha…"
The woman's laughter broke the silence, a nervous attempt to dismiss her own fear.
If the circumstances allowed, Lazarus would've laughed along:
See, ma'am, don't listen to that nonsense. There's no way someone's under your bed!
But then—
A foot slowly lowered to the floor.
The woman shifted closer to the edge.
Lazarus watched the foot, clenching his fists.
He saw the woman's toes tighten.
It seemed she wanted to get off the bed and check underneath. Lazarus knew what she'd see if she did.
But the foot stopped just as it touched the floor and slowly pulled back.
Phew…
Lazarus silently exhaled.
Unbeknownst to him, he was drenched in sweat.
But he had to control his breathing. He hated this scene, hated his predicament, and hated himself for choosing this path.
Maybe five minutes passed?
Lazarus had no way of knowing. He had no watch and couldn't count the seconds from under the bed.
Suddenly—
He saw a strand of hair dangle down.
From under the bed, Lazarus could almost picture it: the woman was about to peek under the bed.
More and more hair fell, almost touching the floor.
Lazarus stared at it, unsure how he'd handle this.
Should he beg
for mercy? Ask her to let him go?
Or threaten her to stay quiet while he escaped?
The first option seemed more likely.
The hair touched the floor.
Then, her forehead came into view.
Just a bit more, just a bit more…
Lazarus would see her eyes, and she'd see him.
Lazarus held his breath, anxiety consuming him. He was paralyzed, eyes fixed on her forehead as it descended.
Then, she stopped.
She seemed terrified, scared of what she might see under the bed.
Though she knew a glance would ease her fear, she couldn't bring herself to look…
The hair started to rise.
Her forehead vanished from his sight.
She lay back on the bed, breathing heavily.
Lazarus realized he'd been holding his breath, and now gulped in silent gasps of air.
His head spun, eyes wet with tears. He wanted to cry, to escape, even if it meant sitting on the street, smoking and spitting loudly in the cold air.
He didn't know how long had passed.
The bed was quiet.
She should be asleep now.
Lazarus calculated that if he waited for her husband and son, he'd lose his nerve completely.
She's asleep.
I'll leave now…
Lazarus slowly repositioned himself, turning from a crouch to lie on his back, then began to inch out from under the bed.
The movement felt like a giant maggot.
His left hand pressed the floor, right hand bracing against the bed. His body slowly emerged.
First came Lazarus's head.
He'd turned face-up so he could keep an eye on the bed, ready for any sudden movements.
If he came out head-down and she screamed, he'd lose his mind.
Carefully, he slid out.
He saw the edge of the bed.
He saw her hand dangling over the side.
Carefully, he slid further out.
He saw her hair.
She should be asleep, sleeping soundly. Surely.
She wasn't in the middle of the bed like she should be with her husband gone.
Cautiously sliding out—
Lazarus suddenly froze.
He realized her hair was hanging unevenly, at an angle that suggested she wasn't lying down, but was propped up, her head lifted.
Who sleeps with their head up?
So, she must be awake, staring at the floor.
If he moved any further, their eyes would meet!
Panic gripped Lazarus. He wanted to bolt but lacked the courage.
Finally, he dejectedly slid back under the bed.
When his head was again hidden, he felt a sense of relief.
This bed was his sanctuary, like being home.
Then, he heard a car engine outside, followed by the sound of the engine shutting off.
The front door opened, and a boy's laughter echoed.
The man and child were home.
Lazarus didn't feel doomed—he felt relieved.
He almost hoped to be found, to burst out and confront them, or be caught by the police.
Anything would be better than this.
A series of footsteps climbed the stairs, and the bedroom door opened.
Lazarus's face was turned toward the door.
He saw the boy's sneakers first, ones he'd wanted when he was younger, expensive shoes that made you feel confident.
Then—
He saw a pair of polished leather shoes, not just shined but new.
"Tonight's performance was great."
"I was a bit sleepy, though, Dad."
"Ha, when you're older, you'll understand. Next week, how about a trip to the zoo?"
"Really?"
"Of course."
"Mom, did you hear that? Dad said we're going to the zoo next week!"
"I heard, I heard. Alright, George, go brush your teeth. It's time for bed. Honey, take your son to wash up. I'll go make his bed."
A pair of red high heels walked in.
Lazarus felt a pang. If only he had such a warm home.
"Alright, alright, let's get washed up. I'll adjust the radio. It's time for the financial news."
The man fiddled with the radio, and the static grew louder, then disappeared.
"…This is a wonderful bedtime story, isn't it? Everyone, no matter where they are, has their companion by their side. No one is alone.
Thank you for listening to the 'Roger Story Hour.' Next up is the financial news. I believe you're going to make a fortune…"
Soft music played on the radio as a bridge between programs.
Make a fortune… ha, make a fortune.
Lazarus found it ridiculous. If he hadn't believed his friend and sold his father's house to buy stock, he wouldn't be in this mess.
The family was gone, the man and son in the bathroom, and the woman on the third floor making the child's bed.
Now was his chance. He could slip out, run downstairs, and escape.
Lazarus made up his mind.
As he began to push himself up—
He froze.
A thought flashed through his mind:
The woman had come in from outside with her husband and child. But the woman on the bed…
Who was she?
She was lying on the bed.
How had the returning family not seen her?
"Shh."
A soft whisper brushed the back of his head, sending a chill down his spine.
Lazarus slowly turned.
Under the bed, close enough to touch, he first saw legs, then a face.
No—
He saw only legs.
And the face between them.