Susan Campbell, beloved wife and mother.
Beloved…
Beloved until her husband took that hammer to her skull, anyway.
So, dear reader, do you…
A) think Susan had no idea what was coming for her that morning?
or
B) think she lay in bed, waiting for the sound of footsteps up the stairs, knowing they signaled her end?
I choose A.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we have no clue what horror is coming for us. Especially from those we love…
I hit the delete button and hold it down, but the final line lingers unwelcome in the murder room.
We have no clue what horror is coming for us.
God, when did I get so morbid, so paranoid? I blame Mr. Whitman’s rabid warnings, and that fucking plumber, too! That rat bastard spent a few days in the hospital, rambling to anyone who’d listen that there’ssomething wrongwith Black Wood House. That was he “attacked from behind” in the bathroom. For God’s sake, he’s alive and well, isn’t he? Just a minor concussion. Fucker probably slipped on the tiles. He’s making me paranoid, the bastard. And there are still months of renos to go before we can put the house up for sale. I grit my teeth and keep my finger on the delete button, wishing I could erase my mood.
When my website is blank and shiny and waiting for my next (overdue) update, I shove the laptop away and sit heavily on the edge of my bed.
I breathe in the forty-year-old air and wish I could open the damn window in my room. It’s the sort of night that calls for fluffy socks, two jumpers, and mugs of steaming coffee. How lovely it would be to curl up on my bed with Reaper in the crook of my legs and a breezy window open. I wouldn’t care how cold it got. I long to let the cold night air in. To flush out the staleness of this dead air.
I lie flat on my bed, hold my breath until it feels like I’m the one who’s dead. I imagine Bill Campbell standing over me, thrusting out his hammer, readying it to strike against my skull. Only, when I close my eyes, it’s not Bill’s face I’m seeing.
It’s my own husband’s.
I bolt up, heart pounding. I press my palms against my head, cradling it. I’ve had so many stress headaches lately that I’ve demolished boxes of ibuprofen. I stand up so quickly my vision goes murky red andblack. Shit. My left knee buckles and hits the bloodstain next to the bed.
Poor Susan. Poor dead,murderedSusan.
Pain shoots through my kneecap, and my head spins in dizzying circles. I shut my eyes tight. My heart speeds up frantically, then slows down, down, down. I kneel there, eyes closed, counting woozily to ten. The back of my throat aches, and I desperately crave a sugary drink.
My fault. I finished work three hours ago, and I haven’t eaten all day. I haven’t eaten much all week, actually. But I’ve sure made up for it with the drinking. I’ve had a shitload of red wine, so at least I’ve been getting my grapes.
I reach up to my desk, slowly opening my eyes. Carefully, I swallow three more ibuprofen, then crouch back down, right on the bloodstain.
We’re starting the kitchen renovations tomorrow morning. A kitchen remodel can increase the resale value up to 40percent…if you sell it, that is.
Shakily, I pull my laptop down and balance it on my right knee. God, I wish I’d never agreed to all these damn updates on Black Wood House. I’ve done only one since we bought the bloody thing, and I still haven’t gotten any paid sponsorships.
There’s an edge to people’s questions now when they ask how it’s all going. An accusation hidden in their chirpy words. My co-worker Tim cornered me after work today. “Are youokay,Sarah? You look a bit…”
Shit. I look shit. That’s what happens when you aren’t sleeping or eating and you have a twenty-four-hour headache thatwon’t stop pounding.
“How’s the renovation going? I haven’t seen any updates on your website lately…”
Oh, piss off, Tim. I muttered something, jangled my car key like I had to go, and he squeezed my shoulder not unkindly. “Maybe get some rest, yeah?”
I glare at the blinking cursor and begin to type.
SarahSlays.com
Hi again, folks!
