The grandfather clock doesn’t chime on the hour since I fell into it. But I make my presence known to the family, having it chime only at the time I took the pills.
Marianne caught her husband cheating on her and her methods of punishment were peculiar. She chained herself to her husband and starved, deteriorating and rotting onto his warm flesh.
I tremble when I feel him climb onto the bed to whisper his goodnight. It’s been a year since he passed.
Friday the 13th, on an October no less and two sentences of sheer terror. Boo.
I can’t stand the love of my animals leaving me when they die, so I now have them stuffed at their happiest moments. Little Bosco, the pup, will always be gazing at me as if he was about to go for a walk.
The old saying ‘these walls have ears’ comforts me, in a way. If they screamed, they’d risk undoing my sewing work on their lips, and no-one wants that.
Every year on my deceased daughters birthday, I would hear ten light footsteps on the stairs and no more. She reminds me every year of the place I dropped her.
As a child they told me, ‘You’re worth more than them’ – but back then I only slit the throats of animals. When they told me I was worth more than my family, I questioned it for a second before we plunged the knife.
The old saying tells us ‘home is where the heart is’. My love for her tells me my home is six feet under.
She still plays games if I forget to bring her flowers, like hiding my pens or switching the lights off when I enter a room. It’s hard though – I’ve lost my job and her grave is at the other side of town.
Eyes stared from every shadow of the room while invisible hands pinned me to the bed. I fell asleep in tears of terror and silent screams that night.