With jittery hands and a petrified heart thumping as would a panting deer’s, you reach over and pick the knife which lies just next to you, bloodied wine-red even to its handle. You stare at it, your sight doesn’t catch glimpse of its smooth but now wet edges because your hands can’t stay still.
You tremble, afraid to look to your left, which is just by the corner of your room. You can’t look because it’s neither dark nor a fantasy. Lying there is a pool of blood, thick as honey, red as bottled wine, much like water spilled from a broken keg weighing at least twelve ounces. Lying there is what had stained this sharp edged knife.
Right there, by your left, just a few yards away from you, is your mother’s head, bloodied, and removed her shoulders, with roughened edges where its assault had cut through. Her eyes are wide open, mouth ajar like a door forgotten by kids running around in ecstasy of their playtime. Her colour is nothing but pallid, and it bores something deep within you, something frightening… Something which makes you trembles.
It had been ripped off with bare hands. The knife is bloodied because it had been used on whom had broken her before your eyes. Just only you are in the room, but you know whatever it was, is right here, around where you sit, staring right back at you, with eyes like an abyss of endless darkness.
You gasp as the door squeaks open, the haunting sound of its hinges make you shudder and your insides overhaul. A cold sensation runs down your spine and perspiration trickles down your chin as something round flies into the room, hits the tiled floor and rolls towards you, leaving blood on its unclean trail. It’s your little brother’s head; only his eyes have been gorged out, leaving nothing but a bloodied hole of horror gazing right back at you. You make to scream, but the lights go out. Everywhere becomes dark as night, leaving you blind and arms flying around for hope in its touch.
You freeze, unable to move. Something wet and slimy crawls up your right shoulder, with a tingling sensation, up to your neck, all the way to your ear, wetting the pendulous flesh of your earlobe with a hoarse sigh of monstrous thrill.
You scream, spinning off your bed, chest thumping, eyes wide in shock and mouth open in terror. It is your room, and all is a dream, the craziest nightmare. You hold your chest to ease the tempo and the heartache it causes you. You are this close to crying, thanking heavens that none of that horror is real.
The door of your door suddenly squeaks open to the wind. Something round spins through it, and before you could tell what it is, the light goes out.