Bruises.

There’s bruises and cuts on my body. Sometimes they are on my wrists, sometimes my throat, sometimes my face. I tell people I don’t know how I got them or I just feel or maybe I bumped into something. No one believes me. I am lying. They all know the truth. They all think they know how I get these bruises and cuts. They are sure I’m protecting someone. That I’m a pathetic woman who lets her boyfriend hurt her. The only problem is…I’m single and I live alone. They think I’m being abused and they are partially right. I am being abused, I just can’t see my abuser. When you’re like me you attract certain things. Certain things that the rest of the world writes off as merely stories told in the dark. Those certain things aren’t stories and they don’t leave some of us alone. And so, everyone is right. I am being abused…but my abuser isn’t human.

Darkness.

How long have I been in this room? How long have I been sitting in the dark? I can’t see anything, not even my own hands. It’s just black. Just black, empty air everywhere. There’s nothing to look at and I’ve almost forgotten what it is to see. I’ve been in this room so long. I try to dig deep into my memory and remember…a flower, any flower. I can’t picture one. What does a flower look like? I can remember how it feels. Petals soft and powdery. So very delicate. I can remember the smell. That beautiful, sweet tiny smell. But I can’t picture one. I can’t see one. I’ll be in this darkness forever.

I can feel it there.

I know there’s something at the foot of my bed. Each night I know it’s there. I can’t see it, I don’t need to see it. I can feel it. I can feel the corner of the bed pushed down by it’s weight. It’s just there. All night. Lingering in the dark. Watching me. I have my head buried in my blankets. It’s so hot, I can hardly breathe, I’m so sick of the smell of my own breath, I just want fresh air. I don’t want to see it. Every night it sits there. And every night I burrow into my bed wishing I could sink lower. Down into the mattress and away from it…the thing that sits on the corner of my bed. Every. Single. Night.

The Man on the Stairs

On more than one occasion did myself and my brother see a man, dressed in very old clothing, run down the stairs into the basement and disappear. He never cast a shadow, never made a sound, and had no reflection in the window above the staircase. We never saw him anywhere but running down those steps into the basement.

The Possum

There is a possum that sits on my husband’s chest at night. I can reach over and touch it. I can feel it’s coarse fur and sharp teeth. It looks at me and smiles, sinking lower into his chest. It isn’t real. It isn’t there. And yet I see it’s eyes shine. It isn’t real. It isn’t there. 

It isn’t real. 

It isn’t there.

Close your eyes. 

It isn’t real. 

Close your eyes. 

It isn’t there. 

Calm down. 

Close your eyes. 

Breathe slower. In. Out. In. Out. In…it’s still there. Staring at me. 

Smiling at me.

Clever Little Witch.

Once upon a time there was a clever witch. This clever witch had come of age and was preparing to sign her name in the coven’s grimoire. In doing so she signed her soul away to the dark lord in exchange for the gifts of a witch. This clever little witch wasn’t sure if she was quite ready for a such a commitment and she devised a very clever solution. She would sign her name in goat’s blood and claim it as her own. When the dark lord came to claim her soul his claim would be void and he would instead claim the goat. Such a clever idea from such a clever witch.

The special night came and the clever little witch signed her name in the goat’s blood. Her coven was none the wiser. Her plan had worked and she silently applauded her own wit and cunning.

The dark lord is not to be tricked. The dark lord is not to be tricked by a clever little witch.

A lunar cycle passed and the clever little witch enjoyed her new gifted power from her dark lord. As the next full moon approached the clever little witch began to experience pain in her soft little feet.

The full moon grew closer and closer and with each night the clever little witch’s feet swelled more and more. Her scalp began to itch and ache. Her lovely little hands burned with pain. Her spine began to curve and hunch her pretty little frame over. Each night it was harder for the clever little witch to straighten her back and move her fingers and toes.

The full moon appeared high in the sky. The coven gathered in the grove to soak in the moon’s light and power. The clever little witch; now bent onto all fours, unable to move her toes and fingers, with a bursting pain in her scalp, let out one long, sad scream. The long, sad scream of the clever little witch turned into a bleat. Her sisters screeched in confusion as their clever little witch writhed and twisted. A goat. The clever little witch was no more. Now a clever little goat took her place in the coven’s circle.

The dark lord will not be tricked. The dark lord will not be tricked by even the cleverest of little witches.