Psychosis I

           S. Howell
         Psychosis I
It's much too cold, I think. My breath hangs in the air in a burst of steam, a foggy shroud clinging in the frigid cocktail of gasses before me with wispy fingers. A breeze picks up, none too gently, and slices through the defenses of my heavy coat, pricking at my skin until it erupts in goose bumps. The abandoned house across the street, typically avoided for its decrepit exterior, begins to look awfully inviting. But I promised him I would wait until he arrived before I went inside. The house stares at me, forlorn, looking lonely with its dreary broken windows like sunken eyes. I shiver and tuck my arms in closer to my sides, and crane my neck to look down the poorly-maintained country road for the ghost of headlights. It's no use. Even if the night weren't pitch black, the tangle of overgrown evergreen hedges at the edge of the property is too thick to see beyond. Another gust of wind, twice as fierce and demanding as the first, brushes past me, and I lose my balance, stumbling toward the house a step.
The breeze swirls upward, tickling the spectral white fingers of bare branches, which hang over the forehead of the house like stringy bangs. They dance, looking and sounding eerily like bones scraping together. I tremble again, but this time, the cold is not to blame. Something catches my periphery, a shadow darting between the bleached pale tree trunks. I feel my leg muscles tighten in panic, and I hunch my shoulders, only barely aware of the primal fear of having my neck exposed. It's only the dark playing tricks on me. Just the dark.
Where on earth is he? How long have I been standing here? An hour? I want to check my watch, but remember that it's broken, and he'd told me to leave my phone at home to "heighten the experience." A mournful echo sounds across the road, from some indefinable point in the distance. Not quite a howl. Not quite... anything. But it sounds like it's getting closer.
I remember, as a kid, hearing the other kids talk about the old lady who supposedly lived here. They said she would coax curious kids into her basement and cook them to feed her cats. When I was in elementary school, everyone called it the "Hansel and Gretel" house. But my freshman year of high school, I did a report on it. There was no old lady. It was abandoned because it was unsafe. There was a young family who lived there about a hundred years ago, but they'd all died from the influenza pandemic. No one really believes it's haunted. There's no way it could be haunted.
I shake my head, refusing to believe that I'm seeing or hearing anything. It's all in my head. I've always been told I have an overactive imagination. It's always in my head.
Something slick, wet, and cold slides down the back of my neck. My throat grows thick, a scream building in my lungs, clawing at my flesh for release. I turn slowly, but nothing stares back. Relief, however, is far from me. The slick, wet thing slides down my neck again. I reach up quickly, grasping at my skin. But there is nothing there. It's all in my head. In my head.
I spin and look back at the house, and see, very distinctly, two little yellow eyes glaring back at me from beneath the porch. it must be a stray cat. But the eyes look malevolent and... young. Very young.
Whatever it is, it screeches, rabid and inhuman. This is all in my head. It's ALL IN MY HEAD!
I tighten my hands into fists and drum on my skull, hard. The pain, the jarring, wakes me up a little. My eyes closed, I whisper, "In my head..."
But when I open my eyes, there it is. Glaring viciously into my eyes, and hisses my name. HOW DOES IT KNOW MY NAME?
I sink to my knees, the scream finally breaking free, throwing steam into the thing's face. It's all in my head....