Bruised Souls & Other Torments by Shannon Lawrence

Author:Shannon Lawrence
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short fiction, horror, paranormal, short stories, monster, collection, creepy, scary, horror fiction, horror stories
Publisher: Shannon Lawrence

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Day 7

Last night I woke up because I heard a sound. A creak. The kitten even woke up, ears perked, body tense. I thought I saw a shadow in the closet, but when I got up and turned the light on, there was nothing there. The clothes were still. I felt so panicked that I moved them around and checked the walls, floor, and ceiling. Nothing. No door, no seams, no body. I tried knocking on the wall to figure out if it was hollow, but honestly, I don't know what it would sound like if there was something behind it.

Carrots fell asleep within a few minutes, rib cage drifting up and down. I kept my hand in her warm fur, let the softness and the rhythm lull me toward sleep. But I kept jerking awake, because I'd feel something or think I heard a sound. The house creaks sometimes, which is what must have woken me up. It wasn't until dawn's soft light pushed through those damn opaque windows that I fell asleep.

It feels like I slept late this morning. The light seemed different when I finally got up. I think I forgot to mention that there are no clocks in here, either. It feels like I'm in a cocoon or a womb. With no outside influences, including my own memories and routines, I've found a natural rhythm to my days. Get up, shower and get dressed, check the doors and windows, feed Carrots, eat breakfast, do some yoga, read for a bit, eat lunch, clean the cat box, read some more, write crappy poetry, write in this journal, play with Carrots (there are cat toys), wander around the house, eat dinner, read, go to bed. There's a deck of cards, so sometimes I play Solitaire, but I only know the one kind. There's also a puzzle. I'm going to start that tomorrow.

I've tried free writing on a separate pad of paper from the living room. I start every sentence with "I." Occasionally, it produces something that surprises me, but feels right, like "I like buffalo wings" or "I used to play lacrosse." Yesterday I looked into the mirror for a long time, willing my face to become familiar. Sometimes my "I" statements are things about my appearance. Like this:

I have green eyes.

I have dark brown hair.

I have a narrow chin.

I have deep set eyes.

I have a mole on my right ear.

It hasn't led to anything interesting yet, but I'm determined that it will. When I look in the mirror, I get a jolt, a sense of something more. It feels like my brain is nudging me, a section of it rolling, especially when I look into my eyes. I see something familiar there, but only there. It's like I'm looking through a window into a house that's similar to mine, but has different furniture. The familiar and unfamiliar mix together to form something almost right, but completely wrong.

The salad is long gone, as is the meat. There was a frozen loaf of bread, which I've thawed.

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