Her
I can see her shuffle past me terrified gaze behind the closet door, her voice feeling like static reverberating in my brain as she calls out to me. Though she wears my mothers dress, speaks with my mothers voice, stretches my mothers skin; when she forces herself to stoop within the doorframes of the house I know she is not my mother.
Don’t Worry Dear
Wheezzze..Pop!Don't gargle to much dear I know you are struggling for air.Shhh..Wheeze softly.I love to hear that air popping symphony.Be still love can't have your red on my whites.
Crawlspaces
Gary missed the imaginary friends he used to have as a child in stately old Victorian home, with whom he would spend the nights making up scary stories and whispering beneath the plush blankets until the morning rustling of his parents banished his friends to silence.
When he later learned the police pulled no fewer than a dozen bodies from the crawlspaces in between the walls of the old house, Gary wept with unfathomable grief, partly out of guilt for his complicity in the crimes, however unwittingly, and partly because even now, he missed the voices still.
Catching Flies
It grew larger each passing day, the first time she had noticed the spider it was no bigger than the size of a quarter crawling on her living room wall. Now its legs were breaking down the basement door and soon she feared she would end up like her husband and all the other men struggling for life, tied up and liquefied in its webs.
