Short Story

Like In the Horror Movies

This is not a post, it's an upload of my Short Story. Hope you find it good, enjoy!

The sun was slowly piercing the cloudy veil that covered the sky of another Thursday morning. The clock was ticking; it was a quarter past nine. Shirley Hughes was about 70 years old; at least that’s what she thought. Born around the 1930’s, she was a proud mother of two, although lately her kids seemed to be avoiding her. She was a special person, not deranged, special. She associated every day with a different color, which reflected her mood and the events to come. Blue, orange, grey, green, purple; she felt them all. All except for one; red. Red had different meanings. Some said it represented courage, others said it represented love. But Shirley was quite a skeptical woman; therefore red was the color to avoid.

As Shirley rose out of bed she felt it, that awkward tint in the air, the tint of red. She got on her feet, slowly but surely. The floor was creaking under her weight, like in the horror movies. Shirley drew closer and closer to the kitchen, plain white walls surrounding her from every corner like a caged animal. There was this stench in the air, a stench Shirley was unsure of; it was the stench of red. The room was very dark since the sunlight barely made it pass the clouds. Shirley tried to watch her step, searching desperately for the light switch, a little glimpse of hope in a never ending nightmare. She was shaking, trembling in fear, unable to control herself. The stench was ever so imposing in the air that it became unbearable. The ground beneath her feet seemed damper than usual, as if it was covered in water. She stopped, stood there and searched the walls for the switch. There it was, at last! Shirley’s heart started beating at a normal rate, she was relieved that it was all over, at least she thought. Her eyes took a few seconds to get used to the sudden flash of light and then it hit her. It hit her hard like a hard blow to the stomach. The kitchen, which was perfectly clean and tidy before Shirley headed to bed, at least that’s what she thought, was now drenched in blood. Red, red, red! Red everywhere! Shirley took a few steps back, horrified. Her kitchen had been transformed into a meat factory; floor covered with deep pools of blood, counters were full of what seemed to be mutilated organs, and dismembered body parts were placed on the table. Here and there were bloody knifes, vivid red drapes and a hell of a lot of paper. Shirley’s respiration was critical, she kept asking herself, while screaming: “Who could have had done such a thing?” The situation was unclear, she ran from left to right, from front to back. Anxiously searching for the phone, she wasn’t sure if calling the police was her best option. So she dialed, dialed as fast as she could. Her fingers were pressing random buttons, she had nobody to call. Shirley couldn’t remember anything; numbers, addresses, birthdays, names; nothing. Her head started turning round and round, faster and faster until everything stopped. It was quiet, an unbearable silence that kills. Shirley franticly stared at the ceiling, the white ceiling, like a blank canvas, untouched by blood, violence, horror. She took a few deep breaths, laid there for an instant and got up. Mysteriously, objects started to call her. First it was a knife, he was saying: “Take me, hold me”. So she took the knife, she brandished it like a sword, a mighty courageous sword. As she was wandering about in the kitchen the cupboard started calling out, but it was somewhat incomprehensible. Shirley drew closer, knife in hand. She listened closely, carefully and heard: “Mmmmm!” It was repetitive, so repetitive that Shirley became obsessed. “It’s him. It’s him! I know it; he’s the one who killed them all! He’s feeding on their flesh! I know it, I can hear it, and I can feel it!” Shirley touched the door knob with her fidgeting hand, not in fear but in delirium. She opened the door, very slowly so that the hinges would creak, like in the horror movies. There he stood, a pitiful young man covered in blood from head to toes. His hands were bound to his back and his mouth was covered with a large piece of tape. Emotions were flying in Shirley’s head, she was unsure if she should kill him or not. She could see the fear in his eyes, his sorry little eyes; or was it hatred? Shirley stared at him, drew her knife and gave it a whip. The cold blade of the knife cut right trough the tape and beyond. He was now able to talk, although Shirley’s strike created a large bloody incision on the man’s mouth. Trying as hard as he could, spitting blood every few seconds, he whispered: “What have you done?” Shirley was furious. How could a boy blame her of such a gruesome murder? “You bastard! How dare you insult me in such a way! You shall pay for that!” She drew her knife once more, this time her actions were clear. For a split second she saw deliverance in the man’s eyes, but none the less. The blade ripped through his skin, like a hot knife cutting trough butter. Shirley expected to feel relieved; she had just brought justice to the world. Amazingly it wasn’t so, she felt ashamed, vulnerable and weak. She had just killed, killed without mercy, and it didn’t even feel good. “A waste, a complete waste!” repeated Shirley, over and over again. Delirium started to fade away and fear was settling in. She dropped her crimson stained knife to the floor and stood there, slowly rotating on herself and examining her surroundings. Was this a sign, some sort of dream? Or maybe it was a nightmare, those nightmares from which you never wake up. Shirley calmly turned around and headed for the counter were she had earlier noticed an intriguing pile of paper. Every step she took was another second in this familiar hell. The counter was still drenched in blood of the innocent. There they were. Some intact, others ruined. She recognized a few of them, pictures, letters, envelopes, notes. Amongst those Shirley was drawn to one small wrinkly piece of stationary. It had been put to good use since both side of the sheet were completely covered in words. Shirley Hughes took a deep breathe, a very deep breath; like in the horror movies. Her heart pounded, it pounded; like in the horror movies. It seemed it had no end nor beginning; like in the horror movies.

Dear Shirley,

It seems that you have discovered the remains of yesterday’s event, an event that you will remember for a long time. Do not be frightened, there is nothing wrong with the situation. You might wonder what really happened, considering the mess, rest assured this was not a formal party; not at all. It started a long ago, but it happened in the blink of an eye. It was this melancholic feeling that kept on growing and growing until something provoked me. I blew up, that little spark detonated a bomb. I was unstoppable, as you can see; each and every one of them met a gruesome and horrific end. Shirley, you seem to forget, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. If you can’t recall the past then why think of the future? Yesterday was a hell of a day, and it might be best that you forgot. Shirley, you seem to forget…if only the world could forget…I wish you luck, you’re on your own from now on. I’m heading to bed right about now; I just can’t wait for you to see my little surprise in the morning, too bad that I won’t be there to notice it.

Sincerely yours,

Shirley Hughes

P.S.: The man in the cupboard was your son.

Copyright © Cédric JM Gigoux, 2009