Draft of a horrible idea

As Jane opened up the front door of her 3-bedroom 3-bathroom “castle”, and stepped onto the linoleum floor of the atrium, she noticed the faint smell of alcohol and burning gas. It was 5:30 in the afternoon - the time she usually arrived home everyday, and began to prepare dinner. Typically Richard, her husband, who upon arriving home had a tendency to reach for a bottle of gin rather than a TV remote like other husbands, never got home before she did.
Odd, she thought to herself. “Dick?” she yelled, uncertain of her own voice. No answer. As she began to make her way toward the stair case in front of her, she remembered the two bags of groceries she’d been carrying, and placed them quietly, and deliberately, on the floor, next to a table holding an old, polished Mongolian vase.
Unexpectedly, she heard a piercing, otherworldly sound coming from a few feet past the stair case, possibly in the kitchen. As the sound grew to an unbearable roar, Jane cupped her ears in a terrible fright, grimaced at the pain she felt in her stomach, and bent over as if some unidentifiable force denied her reprieve. “Aghhhhhhh!” she screamed in pain. “My stom”—but before she was able to finish her cry of pain, there came another similar roar that came from behind her. She was far too petrified to turn around and face whatever it was that stood behind her. So she collapsed on the floor, into the fetal position, as if she were protecting herself from a bear.
As abruptly as it had begun, it had ended, and she was once again standing outside her front door, staring at the gargoyle door-knocker Dick had installed just two weeks ago. This was the first time she had actually stared into the hideous thing’s demonic stare.
Unsure of what had just happen, Jane decided she was too unnerved to go into her home, so she placed the groceries on the top step of her porch, and descended to the walkway. She made her way around toward the driveway, and reached into her right pocket for the keys to her $40,000 BMW convertible. Her hand touched nothing but lint and air, and as a wave of unnecessary panic overcame her (she was still a little jumpy from her experience just a few minutes ago), her legs went limp, and she lost her balance--just briefly--and caught herself on the side view mirror of the car. Panting for a few moments, she sat on the hood of her car and tried to remember where she possibly could have left her keys.
She remembered, very vaguely, locking her BMW with the remote lock attached to her keychain, just after opening the trunk to grab the 2 paper bags containing the salt and tomato sauce she’d bought for dinner. She had placed the keys back into her pocket as not to drop them and be forced to awkwardly maneuver herself to commit an act of acrobatic “key retrieval”.
She stood up and walked rather uncertainly toward the rear of the BMW so she could check under car and see if she missed her pocket somehow. “Jane, you fool,” she thought to herself. But as she walked she got this distinctive feeling of regret, as if she had no business being so probing. A voice in her head kept telling her, “Leave. Forget the keys. If you continue searching, you’ll be sorry.”
But being the sensible person as she was, Jane disregarded the nondescript voice and continued walking; past the side view mirror that saved her from her fall, then past the rear right tire. Alas, for what she saw next to that tire was something she could never have prepared herself for—not in a million years.
She gasped. A single breath of air left her open mouth, as if to signify the gruesome death that sat before her wide-eyed gaze. To scream in disapproval would have been moot. There was no reversing whatever event caused this accumulation of blood to spill so freely under her car. This was the kind of scene that gave war veterans nightmares, the kind that made perfectly healthy people (at least in a mental/emotional sense) grow up to commit the most ghastly acts of murder—the kind that caused ‘innocence’ to drift into nonexistence alongside terrifying ‘imagination.’
There, mangled under the tire, was a hand—more like a paw—belonging to an arm, belonging ultimately to a lifeless body. Initially, Jane’s imagination went haywire as her eyes perceived what may have been her husband. “Richard!?” she cried in exasperation. Upon closer inspection, she realized that whatever it was was no more human than the pavement that lay beneath her feet, and was completely engulfed in dark red blood. It had four limbs, though no digits—no fingers, no toes. The only familiarity it possessed was Richard’s head, which lacked all the necessary components of life that made a man even resemble a human being. There were no eyes—only sockets filled with blood, and a white pus-like substance. Its nose and mouth, along with most of its teeth were completely bashed into its head—skin and bone broken and torn.
At this realization, she took several nervous steps in reverse, tripping on a loose brick that served as part of a border between the driveway and a small garden of roses (well, dirt mostly, but that’s a horror story of its own.) This time, there was no side view mirror to save her from falling.