A Dark Presence

Some time after moving into the mansion with my family, I sense a presence lurking in the shadows, on the very walls of our home. It hears me, knows me and my darkest thoughts.

Is it the house itself, or is it me who imagines all this, this, fantasy? Discomfort overwhelms me as I think of this. What is it that watches me, speaks to me?

I am very tense tonight, curled in a fetal position beneath the warmth of heavy covers. I hear a voice, a voice in the wind perhaps, but it is chanting at some distance outside in the woods. I abhor the influence it has on me, its perverseness. Perceiving every word pronounced is nearly impossible; I can only hear the trembling effects of it, the vibration. As anxious as I am tonight, anything could have frightened me.

Mom and Dad never hear a thing, never see. They’re just as blind as my siblings, who want nothing to do with my “nonsense,” nonsense they accuse me of gleaning from all the movies I used to watch.

Is it a gift of mine to sense the unknown, however impossible? I shudder. If so, I want none of it.

The next morning, the room spins. I am groggy still, hardly willing to rise for breakfast before I am driven to school. I stand from my cot, stumbling toward the freezing tiles of my own bathroom. I stagger forward, each step mocking me, simulating the hair on my arms.

A moment in the bathroom relieves my bladder, releasing me of the fluids I saved since last night.

As I descend the stairs, one hand against the rail and other against the wall, the presence resurfaces on its own, inching so close to me that I feel its breath scratching the back of my neck. I try to shiver it away, but it's useless, almost a silly attempt. This isn't my imagination, I tell myself. This is real—real ice cold air; a real presence.

Goose bumps distribute themselves across my arms. My breath quickens, each deep, hard swallow manipulating my pulse. A mixture of chill and fear inflate my lungs, striking me with a strong sensation. I can see my breath in the air, gray, floating about my face.

Portraits of ancient characters who have once lived old simple lives align the halls. Their glassy eyes roam my sturdy limps, absorbing from me every feature the lack of slumber produced on my countenance.

I stroll into the kitchen, yawning, my eyes shut. A smell triggers suspicion, but I am too sluggish to raise my heavy eyes. There is no need. It's my mom's cooking, I tell myself as I inhale again; her self-made recipes always exude a foreign odor.

Liquid oozes between my feet. Between my toes, a warmth tickles me. I stop movement, freezing with anticipation. I dig inside for the courage to face the ground.

Slowly and cautiously, I cower. My eyes fly wide at the streaming substance. The disgusting stench beats me like a ton of bricks. I panic, panting, backing away. Something stops me, poking at the sole of my foot. Something solid, round and long. With a deep breath, I launch my foot. I gasp, my jaws dropping, my eyes gaping. My throat clogs as I identify the blood-crusted finger.

Stricken with shock, I couldn’t run.

My parents’ clothes are knotted on the kitchen chairs, strands of their hair, brunette and blond, floating and clogged in the blood. I see flesh in pieces, in bloody bits; my parents have become victims of a brutal killer. Guts, intestines, bile . . . My heart sinks. My stomach churns. I feel faint, my eyes stinging. Who could have done this?

An immortal act this gruesome could have only been committed by a heartless monster. It seems impossible for a person to chop my parents so finely.

A butcher knife is pinned to the counter, practically howling for my attention. A bloody message is stained on the white plastered tiles. I push myself to read the bold printings: "You owe me."

I jump, my dizziness strong enough to destroy me. I owe, I ponder. I begin to crumble.

A great hollow clamor explodes into my ears as if a bomb has set off. Four eye balls dive from my parents' garments, rolling in my direction.

Naturally, in a frenzy, I spin around and dart through the halls to the front door. I clutch the knob, unlock it, twist it, and yank it, expecting it to spring open. It wouldn't budge despite my desperate efforts. Impatient, I throw kicks, all to no avail. My fists hammer it.

Another sound blasts at my rear. Not only do I hear it, I feel it. I whirl around, eyeing my own foot prints in my parents' blood.

My feet paddle the stairs to the left. I am surprised the rackets I've made haven't stirred my siblings.

My shouts fail miserably, arriving as horrible mumbles.

I enter Joe's room, gasping, beholding his lifeless body dangling by the neck. His body swirls in mid-air, as if taken by the currents of my breath. As I meet his wide, dead eyes, my heart thumps savagely; I could hear it drumming in my ears. Adrenaline pumps my legs as I run into other rooms.

I sprint in a rush, a rush so tense the wind is knocked right out of me. Kevin is drowned in a tub of running water, his nude body as white as paper—white as clouds, nearly translucent. His body floats, skimming the surface like a boat, his blue-green veins taut against the contours of his bones. I stand, stunned.

When I discover the severed head of my two-year-old sister in a leggo bucket, tears brim at the corner of my red eyes. Her small corpse’s motionless, surrounded in a river of scarlet streaks; the neck leaks veins, bones, fat, liquid. Part of her flesh is peeled, and globs of bloody designs appear to be carved on her white bones.

I dash to the phone to find it dead. I scream, squeal, cry, kneel in prayer, draught and frantic.

I bellow, beginning to yank hysterically at my head of long dirty blond spikes.

I have to get out. I have to . . . The presence returns, its coldness dominating me. I run as it chases me down the stairs. It eventually catches me, elevates me, raising me like a flying kite. I am pinned against the wall, my wrists and ankles trapped. I challenge it, thrashing my waist, hurting my tail bone with each crash.

The wall I'm thrown against shifts with tremors. My calls for aid resound throughout the mansion, returning to me as hopeless moans in the gust of heavy motion.

A woman's accent, I believe the house's, laughs in scorn. "You know," it laughs.

I wriggle with frustration, my eyes dry and frosty. I can't speak straight, my lips in constant, useless activity. I start to shiver with the wall, struggling for breath. A thick haze of blinding light sweeps across the air, ambushing me. Bruises decorate my legs, my stomach, my ribs, my entire body.

It releases me and I crumble, exhausted, trying to compose myself against the violent wall. Heat, flame, fire, torches me below. Even as I plead in mercy, it never quits.

"You're a monster!" I hear.

As I am dragged ahead in the dark halls, my final mutter wilts.

--*--

Some time later, I find myself strapped in a small cot, with a long needle penetrating my arm.

I scream viciously, my limbs flailing.

The nurse flinches, her eyes demoting me like a bias judge's. "You're sick," she spits. "You murderer!"