A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

 

She was cold. It was cold. It was, in fact, bloody freezing. She thought she had a headache, but she couldn’t be sure, because she couldn’t actually feel her head. She lifted it, and groaned, and threw up. Nothing in there except bile, but plenty of that came out, pooling on the grass. Smelled funny.

She could barely move, the thumping so insistent the rest of the world meant nothing. No sounds, nothing coming through. She rolled out of the hedge, and staggered around, until she stood at the foot of the driveway. She clenched her vagina so hard she thought it would close up permanently, but it made no difference. She could still feel him.

The bag hit the floor. Her hand came up, knife wrapped in whitened knuckles. She was dead. She was about to be free. She giggled, and stared at the knife. Where had she got it from, and why the hell did it have string around it?

She was standing in front of the door, round the back of the house. The cat flap cracked open and a small grey cat emerged, sniffing the dawn air. She knelt, holding out a hand, and it sniffed it, before mioawing peacefully and twining between her legs. She knew its name. Somewhere. Not now though.

She tried the door. It was locked. She bent, lifting the flowerpot, and pulled out the spare. She went inside, closing the door softer than a feather behind her. Not a peep from upstairs. Maybe. All she could hear was thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump drip. There was blood on the floor, what was that doing there?

She stepped into the house, sniffing through the blood. She could smell it, the absence of her. And cold, and the smell a house got when it stopped being a home. It hadn’t been home for years, even the social worker had said so. ‘This just isn’t a home anymore, Tom, Sandra, you need to make it a home, just for the kids, at least.’

Tom. He’d never let her call him that, even after she refused to call him dad.

She knew the route up the stairs, missing out the creaking steps, and across the landing to his bedroom door. They slept in separate beds. Even when she was really young she knew it was weird. Handy though, now.

She lifted the knife, staring at it in the dim light creeping through the curtain. It was so simple. Why hadn’t she done this before she died? Oh yeah, she’d have gone to prison. Now though, well, they couldn’t send a ghost to prison, could they? Who was Lucy Tenor? Why did that name sound so familiar? Was she a friend, back when she was alive?

The bedroom door whispered open, and she slipped in, closing it behind her. He was a lump in the bed, asleep, helpless. He wasn’t threatening. He couldn’t be, not now, not now she was a ghost. A ghost with a knife. She giggled.

She was beside the bed, staring down at his face. He looked so young when he slept, all the lines gone, even the angry ones that never seemed to leave his forehead. Would he know why she did it?

The knife came up, and then down, and his eyes shot open, but she raised it again, and one of them vanished, replaced by a splash of red. She wiped her nose, and brought the knife down again, and again, and kept wiping her nose, as more blood appeared. She should apologise, she was going to ruin the sheets.

Someone was screaming and she smelled smoke.

 

The light was so bright, she didn’t dare open her eyes. But the throbbing was gone. She smiled, beatific, and sighed. She must have gone up, gone to heaven. She’d imagined she’d haunt somewhere, his grave maybe. But she couldn’t complain, heaven was a just reward for what she’d done…

Voices, coming closer. ‘He’s alive, Mrs Picket, but there’s very little likelihood he’ll be the man you knew. I’m sorry, the brain damage will be too severe.’

‘And her?’

Silence for a moment. Was she, her? Who else would it be?

‘She should make a full recovery, but the police will want to speak with her, of course.’

‘Of course. What happened to her?’

‘She had concussion, very bad concussion, and I would guess, some form of post traumatic stress reaction, triggered by the explosion.’

‘She cut off her hair.’

‘Yes, Mrs Picket, though I’m not sure that’s the most extreme thing she did.’

More silence. Mum knew, she knew everything. ‘Actually, nurse, I think you’ll find that was. I’ll wait with her.’

‘Yes, well, the police will be here soon, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you.’

A hand touched her face, stroking her brow. ‘Sally, my love, what did you do?’

Her eyes cracked open, and a smile crossed her face. ‘I’m not Sally, my name’s Natasha.’