He pressed the pillow down until her chest stopped moving.
Three weeks later, 2:30 AM. The heartbeat starts.
From the crawlspace below.
He tears up floorboards with raw fingers. Seals every crack. Drives two states away.
The sound follows.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
Heavy. Deliberate. Like her final, gasping fight.
His pulse syncs without permission. He claws at his chest, choking.
Then—
The beat below surges ahead.
His heart stumbles, scrambling to catch up.
Panic swells—wet and suffocating.
He can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can’t—
Flatline.
But the sound below keeps pounding. Slower now. Satisfied.
It’s her rhythm.
Her turn.
—Sal
Have you ever read Poe’s a Tell-Tale Heart? This has the same vibes. Excellent.
Every line does work; nothing over-explained, nothing wasted. The rhythm mimics the heartbeat motif perfectly... short, sharp sentences that pound forward. That final twist? Chilling and poetic. Can hardly wait to read more of your work!