by Christine I Steeves
Kill her now or later? Bloody axe or with her knitting needles? The slow popping of exploding eyeballs. Silent trail of blood tears dripping off her nose.
YES! Editor wants more blood; I'll give her more blood. Sure, get inspired as the power goes out. Hubby and kids out at new cute and brightly coloured cartoon movie. The quiet night warps into the perfect setting all horror-writers write about. The night we all fear. Flooding rain, booming thunder, giant bolts of lightening, and power goes out. And I'm all alone, in a house that's coming alive. Doors are creaking. Upstairs the floors are groaning. Stairs are squeaking. Noises that shouldn't be there…that are never there when everyone else is home.
Buddy-dog wants out. Rain has stopped, but fog is inching up towards the house. Death-shroud fog that will muffle all those footsteps of trench-coated creepy, ugly things reaching out to…stopit! Dang writer's brain. Let the silly mutt out. There is nothing out there just muffled things that read your mind and stop the very second you do. Forget it buddy-dog, get back in here, you can share the kitty litter with Psycho. Why did we name the cat Psycho? Buddy-dog where did you go?
Why am I still here, out in the boonies? No one is around for miles. Why didn't we sell this place and move? It is too large; too gothic; too perfect for what I write. Why do I write what I write? Why do I watch those slasher movies? Slasher-face is probably outside right now with his knives and hacksaws. God, I'm stupid! Hubby is probably laughing at me now, dang him for knowing me so well.
What's that! Buddy-dog…that you? Buddy-dog, how did he get into the garage? Something is in the garage. Can't see anything out the windows, stupid fog and rain. It better be the family. The family? Oh yeah, another great horror cliché. No, it is my family. The hubby and kids will all be laughing about the how the movie-mouse got away from the movie-cat again. Okay yeah, so why is my mouse-brain saying, “no way sister, it's the bogeyman.” Either I'm dead slaughter meat or the hubby's dead from scaring me, whichever, someone is dead.
Oh-oh. Footsteps. The ominous steps you hear in the movies. The huge black boots that creep up behind the heroine. That dumb idiot-head standing in the dark listening to them, like I'm still doing.
Why am I still creeping towards the door, trying hard to be silent? I'm as quiet as a cat in heat. Stand behind the door? No, forget that. Slasher-face will see me and pin me there. Stand on the other side so that when it enters, I exit. Yeah, good plan.
I'm a grown adult. I'm not afraid of the dark. There is no such thing as the bogeyman.