The Picture

by Gloria Watts

It hung on his bedroom wall, had done for the past year – devils dancing. Tonight, all was different.  Tonight they lived.

He screamed. Its echo filled his head, splintered his ears and jammed behind his eyes.  His voice, let loose, flowed unstopping from his dry, dusty mouth: hung suspended in a bubble of spit.  He fought shadows, a hint of nightmare hovering.

They brayed, long thin fingers plucked at his hair, pinched his face. Cackles ever more shrill, rose to drown out his cries as he lay broken on the bed.

Twine, fine as a silken hair bound his hands, his ankles. The iron mask they fitted over his head, showed only his eyes filled with terror.

On the wall the picture hung lop-sided; it's surface a blank space waiting to be filled. He prayed.

But they played on and he…waited for morning.