Gary McMahon
Artwork by Rabidwire

It had happened again. As soon as I opened my eyes in the darkened room, I was aware of the change in the atmosphere, the subtle differences in light and shadow. My heart began to hammer in my chest, its beat like that of a psychotic drummer in a thrash metal band. Sweat beaded on my face, neck, back. Fear gripped me, as it always did, reaching out from the darkness and choking my senses.

  It had happened again.

  I dragged myself from the bed, sliding my feet down onto the carpet agonisingly slowly, just in case there were tacks scattered there, like the last time.

 Walking across the suddenly unfamiliar room was like a scene from a nightmare. Jackets and matching trousers from my wardrobe were draped over the bookshelves, hanging like suicides in a neat row. I bumped into the TV, scraping skin from my bare left shin. The set had been moved, pulled across from the corner to sit directly on my route to the door.

  My heart thundered like a rail train, sending blood through my system at a rate that seemed near fatal. My eyes ached; blurring what little vision I had in the blackness of the early hours.

  My foot sank into something soft and wet. It felt like a joint of meat from the fridge. Cold liquid oozed between my toes, the sensation so unpleasant that I almost retched.

  Then I was out on the landing, where it was slightly lighter. Broken glass littered the carpet in a trail to the bathroom, shimmering slightly. I almost managed to dodge it, cutting the soles of my feet only superficially as I followed the trail. As I passed the top of the stairs, I glanced down them. There were shadows down there, in the heart of the house. Odd-shaped shadows that danced and cavorted without sound. I looked away, disturbed by those alien forms of darkness and unwilling to see what was casting them.

  The bathroom was untouched. Clean and tidy, just as I’d left it the night before.

  I approached the mirror, heart now in my throat. My entire body was numb, nerve endings deadened. It felt like I was floating.

  When I saw my reflection in the mirror, I was almost relieved. It could have been so much worse.

  The word CUNT was etched onto my forehead in thick red lipstick slashes.

  She had always been a little vulgar, a little crude. At first it had been quite charming. Now that she was gone it was just unsettling, like everything else she and her accomplices did.

  I prepared myself for the journey downstairs. I really didn’t know what to expect this time, as her tricks were becoming more and more explicit. It had been no fun burying the dog last time, especially after it had taken an hour to scrape its shredded carcass off the kitchen floor.

  Before I left the bathroom, venturing out into the unknown of my own house, I paused a while to reflect.

  If only I had contained my rage. Turned my back. Walked away.

  If only I hadn’t done it.

  When she was alive, her spite was so much easier to handle.