Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!
For today’s post—Sometimes your loved ones refuse to stay dead…
Strange worlds whisper in the silence of the night.
Listen and you will hear. Listen in the fragile hours when breath and consciousness still and drift, when the wind snakes along moonbeams and the shadows spew their secrets upon the cold earth. When the unseen becomes visible, no longer lurking beyond your senses.
When things abandoned and forgotten return home.
I’m coming home.
Decaying roses petals cover the garden path, a desiccating pink and white carpet of broken life. He planted new bushes. I suppose he needed a plausible reason to dig my grave. He chose my favourite roses. A nice macabre touch.
It’s odd standing three feet away from where your murdered body is buried. Even odder staring through the garden window at your husband, your killer.
He’s sitting at his desk, in that pretentious antique chair he loves, working at his computer. Or maybe emailing his girlfriend.
He thought I didn’t know. But I did. He thought he could get rid of me. That murder was quicker than divorce. He was so wrong. He’ll never be rid of me now.
I slide through wall of the house as if it didn’t exist and float in front of him. His skin turns as white—well, as white as a ghost.
“Hi, honey.” Blood drips on to the floor. For some reason that happens when I speak. Maybe because I choked on my own blood after he shot me in the chest. “I’m home. Did you miss me?”
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
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