TRIGGER WARNING:
The story I present to you touches on the genre of psychological horror, with more than one gore scene. If you're sensitive, be careful.
Genre: horror
Word count: 3332
Many people say I suffer from Diogenes syndrome, but I don't see it that way. I enjoy hoarding things; each object, paper, photograph, scrap has its own story. A shared story that still lives within them, those stories we forget and become fleeting memories that bring a smile to our faces whenever we encounter them again.
I unearth a small crumpled piece of paper, the ink almost faded, but you can still read "Beauty and the Beast." What memories! How much I cried watching the movie on the big screen with my husband, James, who, even though he passed away twelve years ago, still brings a smile to my face when I remember him. How good and sweet James was. I miss him every day.
But not all memories are sweet, there are some that leave a bitter taste in your mouth and a severe discomfort in your body. That's how I feel right now, bad, awful, sad. Once again, I carry a painful memory of the past on my old bones. A memory that makes me shiver, and just for the record, I have the heating set to twenty-four degrees.
On the table rests an obituary that reads: "Her beautiful smile will endure in our memory and that remembrance will become a treasure", "R.I.P Ares Zapata Cuesta"; along with a photo taken in Paris of a blonde-haired girl with a hooked nose clutching a kitten plushie in her arms. The photo doesn't show it, but I remember her nose was red from the exaggerated cold weather at that time.
I'm surprised to have found the card, I thought I had destroyed them all, but apparently this one was saved. It was very hard to say goodbye to her. Well... and to all of them.
Now, sixty years after all of that, I am the only one left. Hoarded in this dilapidated house, among a thousand trinkets that hinder my movement at every turn, waiting to hear the squeak of her wheelchair as an echo of mine. Has she aged as much as I have?
Leaving the last memory I have of Ares on my lap, I head to the kitchen, slowly; my frail arms don't allow me to go as fast as I would like. The weight of the cardboard against my robe tightens my heart. I stop and give myself a few pats on the chest to cheer myself up:
"Come on, Cassandra, you're too old for such nonsense."
Dodging an old lamp lying on the floor, I make it to the kitchen where I reach out to grab a bowl and a match covered in bird droppings. I have to erase every trace that might lead her to me, Ares has to disappear. And this time for real. I light the match and, giving one last kiss to my friend, I let her photograph be lost in smoke and ash…
…
The rain was drumming heavily on the roof of the funeral home. Many would say that the sky was weeping for the loss of the human lives we were there to bid farewell to, but I knew it was simply a matter of meteorology. The storm had reached our region by chance just that day. It wasn't that I lacked tact, I just found it unnecessary to romanticize death in such a way.
It was at that moment that I thanked my mother for the calm and fortitude she displayed that day, five years ago, when she declined my request to allow a stranger into our house.
Veronica, the phantom girl, the protagonist of the lurid stories Yasmine would tell us during recess, haunted the park where we used to play. We noticed her presence by the tracks of a wheelchair left in the damp sand. That day, it was Alba's turn to find us; she was counting out loud with her eyes closed under the slide. Yasmine, Ares, and I had run to hide, and I was the first to make a perfect escape. The trick was always to hide near the seeker. The first instinct of the seeker was to walk a few meters away; that was the moment to quickly approach from behind and save oneself.
Yasmine was the first to notice the frieze on the ground.
"Veronica wants to play too," she said, her hands on her hips and shoulders back.
"But it's late today, Yas. My mom is signaling me," I replied, pointing to a short-haired blonde woman waving her arm in the distance.
"Fine, but someone will have to stay with her until tomorrow. Her parents haven't come to pick her up," Yasmine insisted, her dark curls getting in the way of her face. "It's your turn, Cassandra."
"Me? Why?"
"Well, because you live closest to school, and if Ares has to push the chair to his house, she'll get there very late."
I wasn't entirely convinced, but the inquisitive look of all my friends made me pretend to take Veronica's chair and start pushing the helpless girl towards my mother.
Upon seeing me, she completely ignored the wheelchair girl and gave me a strong hug. She was always very affectionate with me, something I cherished about her.
"Yasmine told me I have to take Veronica home tonight. She's sick, her hands are a bit deformed, they're like blades, but don't be scared. It's normal. She's never spoken, so she won't bother us," I tried to sound convincing, but I wasn't entirely sure. I didn't want to handle this situation alone. Why couldn't Yasmine keep her if it was her idea?
"Veronica, you say?"
My mother's expression turned pale upon hearing my words and looking at Veronica and me. I noticed it, and it made my stomach knot even more.
"But honey, there's no one here...," she cut off mid-sentence and forcing a smile said, "There's no room at home for more people, dear. Besides, she'll scratch the parquet with her chair. Leave her here."
Yes, it sounded cruel, but she had her reasons, and although a part of me appreciated it at that moment without understanding why, I felt a bit annoyed.
My mother's smile faded. I was still at the funeral home, standing in front of Ares' open casket. My tears blurred my friend's reconstructed face. They had done an excellent job, but behind that angelic mask, I still recognized the ghastly state in which we had found her; amid her mother's hysterical screams, held back by four policemen.
We arrived on the sixth of July at her house, after receiving an alarming call in which a voice whispered goodbyes to us. I will never forget the sight of that room, entirely splattered with blood and tissues. The bunk bed where she slept with her sister was overturned, its gutted mattresses spewing foam from every crack, and the heads of her stuffed animals grotesquely decorated the floor. Ares hung upside down from the ceiling. Her feet had been pinned with two pairs of scissors. Her legs were held by a tendon, to which frayed pieces of skin detached from the bone were sticking. She had deep cuts all over her body; a stream of blood formed a pool under her, a viscous thread escaping from which had been used to write, in a perfect crimson red: "Yasmine".
It had been Verónica, we all knew. And Yasmine was next. No one would believe us if we told them who was to blame, they would probably lock us in a madhouse. That's why we never told anyone.
I am ashamed to say it, even think it, but at that moment I was glad that she was next. We never mentioned it, but we were aware that the culprit of all this was Yas. She was the one who introduced us to Verónica. No, no, she forced Verónica upon us against our will. She made up that stupid ghost story. She used a scissor-shaped mark on a school tile to tell us that Verónica had been there. Her insistence had made her real.
Alba snapped me out of my reverie. I remember I got very angry after reading her name.
"I'm leaving," she said, choking on her own sobs. "I can't stand this pressure anymore."
"Did you ever take her home?" I dared to ask.
"You know I did. She slept in my room. With Pixie." She didn't dare look me in the face.
"That might not be relevant," I managed to say with a smile as I put a hand on her shoulder. "You were kind to her, she won't harm you."
Although deep down I knew that it didn't matter how good you had been to her, if you let her into your house there was no turning back.
"I don't care, I won't stick around to find out."
"But..."
"Don't insist, I have to keep us safe," she said, gently stroking her belly. After saying these words, she left. Through the glass wall, I saw how her long coat waved in the wind along with her red hair. A black car was waiting for her a few meters away. She got in and disappeared behind the hill.
I took a deep breath and, after giving Ares one last look, I left. Yasmine hadn't gone to the wake. I didn't expect to see her at the funeral either. I doubted I would see her again.
When I got home I could only hug my mother and bury my head in her chest. There, in her arms, there was nothing to fear. That night I slept with her in her bed. Verónica would never find me there.
The next day I spent all day on the phone, expecting Yasmine to call me any moment and when I answered, that watery voice would greet me. But that never happened. In fact, it was several long months before I was called again, and it wasn't Yasmine who did it, it was Alba. Her face appeared on the screen, with teary eyes and a nose full of snot.
"Help me, she's in the house. I can hear her. Please. Help me, I don't know what to do."
"Who's in the house? Alba, calm down..."
"Her!"
"Alba. Who's at your house?"
"Verónica!" After this scream, there was a dull noise as the phone fell to the floor, and the call was cut off.
I tried to get back in touch with her, but it was in vain. That chilling call was followed by another, informing us of Alba's sudden and violent death, the penultimate of us remaining. I never found out what happened to Yasmine and why there was no funeral, all I know is that from that day everything seemed to return to calm. Verónica had forgotten me. Although it made sense, since she never went up to my house. Thanks to my mother.
…
Memories fade following a long yawn. It's late, time for the nightly check before bedtime. I head towards the front door. The path is the same as always: from the kitchen you turn left, dodging the broken umbrella stand, one of the many boxes filled with books that don't fit on my shelves, you go straight, and you're there. It's foolproof.
It seems everything is in order. Just as I left it yesterday. Nothing has changed.
It's essential to ensure that each and every latch is bolted. A security door with four chains and five locks, all aligned to perfection, the GX-1.5 alarm in the upper right corner watching the entrance. Perfect. I enter the code, "5197". It doesn't hold any particular meaning, but I like those numbers.
I race against the alarm countdown and become pure adrenaline; it never beats me. After feeding my pigeons, and giving each one a kiss, I slip into bed, leaving the night light on so I can read. Tonight it's "The Turn of the Screw", a gift from an old friend.
Yes, I adore pigeons. I find them underrated creatures, whose only crime is existing in a world colonized by humans who call them "rats with wings" when all they do is adapt to this rotten society. In my youth, each person I met who said they loved these birds earned a point on what I called "nice people."
Propped up on my pillow, I let sleep take over and transport me to its wonderful world. This world where everything is possible and nothing bad can happen to you.
Oh, it seems it's roulette time today.
I'm in a circular room, with a table in the center, decorated for the occasion: tongs, scissors, needles, knives; carving knives, butcher knives, long ones, short ones... On the wall, a wheel divided into several sections with various numbers and shapes engraved on them. Shapes resembling parts of the human anatomy: upper limbs, lower limbs, heads, organs... What a beautiful sight!
Next to the board, we have Mew, my albino pigeon wearing the knitted vest I made for her the other day. It suits her splendidly. Such elegance!
Beside her, opposite me, is my adversary: the "GX-1.5" alarm, to which I won't give any respite. The few lights illuminating the board turn off, and a door opens behind me. A soft creaking reaches my ears, like the squeaking of an old swing. I can't find the courage to turn around
, that familiar sound paralyzes me. Something stops to my right. It's an empty wheelchair rocking gently back and forth. A whisper sneaks into my ear:
"Did you miss me?"
A growing murmur floods the room, now lit by a thousand spotlights slowly descending from the ceiling. Everyone has come today: Moi, Pharah, Tapi, Mish, Senda, Shu, Kirosin, and Atreus. Their presence manages to ease the tension in my body. They even brought banners, although holding them with their wings must be challenging. From here, I can't read them very well. What do they say?
"Aw..." I can't see any more... "-ke." I squint to try and focus better. Damn myopia! With one final, painful effort, I manage to read the full banner, it says: AWAKE.
And I wake up.
The room is dark. I don't remember turning off the lamp. I try to get up, but I can't. Breathe. Calm. I try again. My limbs don't respond, my heart begins to race, its beat deafening, clouding my thoughts. All I can hear is its pulsing in my temples. Desperate, my gaze tries to find something to latch onto in the darkness, but even as I strain my eyes, I can't make out any hint of light. Suddenly, as if responding to my pleas, the lamp flickers on.
In front of me are three wheelchairs. Empty as well. Just like in my dream.
I close my eyes, wishing to disappear. Wishing for it all to end. Wake up, Cassandra, wake up!
I open my eyes, and the light is off again. I exhale in relief. It was just a nightmare, most likely triggered by the memories that Ares' picture stirred within me. Damn it all. I was so peaceful before.
I'm going to turn on the light. But I can't. My arm lies inert on the bed.
No, not again. Please.
My legs stay in the position I had left them when I fell asleep. My brain doesn't respond to my pleas. My heart tries to burst out of my chest again; I need to calm down. Breathe.
After inspecting the whole room, my eyes finally catch a faint glow coming from under the door. The warm glow soothes my body.
CRACK!
Something falls behind the door. It must be Shu and Moi in one of their usual night raves. They start scratching at the door. The scraping on the wood becomes obsessive and persistent. It's as if they're trying to carve something onto its surface.
Suddenly, the doorknob begins to turn slowly, and the door creaks open.
Behind it is no one, just the glow coming from the kitchen's glass door. Absorbed in realizing there's nothing behind the door, I don't notice that something has changed in my room.
My spine freezes when I see that the three wheelchairs in front of me are no longer empty. On them sit Yasmine, Ares, and Alba, barely recognizable. Their sunken eyes look at me coldly, smiling from their skeletal faces where a few strands of hair sprout.
Ares is covered in wounds, his leg skin torn and entangled on the floor with Yasmine's intestines, which are open from the sternum to the navel. Alba's eyes sink under two sharp blades, while a viscous liquid dripping from them slides down her face, dropping onto the body of a fetus that never got to be born.
My stomach starts to growl forcefully, eager to expel its contents at this nauseating vision. And the smell, oh that intense, putrid smell. It invades me and makes me dizzy. I can taste it in my mouth, dead flesh dissolving on my tongue...
I spit.
I stain my nightgown with an amorphous, dark mass. It's revolting. I hold back a new spasm from my stomach. I can't vomit now. I'm still paralyzed, and it could be trouble.
Coward...
Traitor...
Who's speaking?
Damn you...
It's them, they hate me.
You'll pay...
The relentless whispering of these voices torments me for what seems like hours.
Damn you....
I close my eyes; I can't see their faces.
Wretched...
Fear of their presence before me keeps me from keeping my eyes closed. I open them again.
You...
I want them to stop. I need to wake up.
Coward...
But what are they saying? I did nothing.
Your turn now...
NO! Stop, please. Stop it!
This time, the voices obey me. I hear nothing anymore.
Something stirs at the door. As I focus my gaze, I catch sight of a shadow - a memory of sorts - darting across the hallway, a shadow that creaks like a worn-out swing. A wheelchair without an occupant.
The door slams shut. The lights go out. Footsteps slosh their way toward my bed, circling it. I try to grasp at my paralysis, but I can't. My eyes fail to see anything, yet my flesh can, my flesh feels a tearing pain. One after another, burning, hurting... My skin is on fire. I can't bear it, it's too much. Please, let it stop.
It doesn't stop.
I am being devoured.
Help! Someone!
The pleas get trapped inside of me, bunching up in my throat. Unable to scream. I can only be a spectator in this massacre where my own body is the victim.
I let out one last cry, and this time, I manage. This time, I manage to articulate her name:
VERONICA.
A few days later...
"Can you turn up the volume, please?" The café was packed, but despite that, the waiter managed to hear the woman and cranked up the volume with the remote he had tucked under the counter.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard wha...?"
"...An elderly woman was found dead in her home during a relative's visit this morning," the broadcaster Alicia Tess cut her off. "Apparently, the woman, who suffered from psychosis, wasn't responding to the doorbell and her daughter, after a long wait, called the authorities for help.
"The deceased woman's daughter has declined to comment, she appears to be greatly affected. All we know at this point is that the house was infested with pigeons, pigeons who are presumed to be the murderers, since sources report that the poor old woman's body had been completely pecked away. We will await the forensic analysis to know the truth about what happened...
"Oh my God, poor woman!"
"...we can state that it seems she was eaten alive."
THE END
