To those of you who missed my last post, my son, Jake, owed money to some depraved crooks. A loan shark named Warren attempted to slaughter my family, but my late wife, Anna — whose spectral form is lovingly woven into the very fabric of our house — ensured that Warren paid the price.
But the disreputable deviant didn’t act alone, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before his colleagues came looking for him.
This evening, they found us, and I endured horror beyond belief. I feel I can only process these events by writing them down. Some of you may not understand that, but I hope you do when you reach the end of this post.
“Dad,” Cassie cried.
I frantically flicked the switch on my lamp to see my twelve-year-old daughter quivering in my bedroom doorway. Her face was strewn with tears, and she was clutching the fabric of her pink pyjamas.
“What’s wrong, Cass?” I asked, my heart pounding.
“I went downstairs for a drink. There’s… somebody at the window.”
I squinted at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It was a little after midnight. I hurriedly slid out of bed, slipped into a pair of joggers, and threw on a T-shirt. I seized the only blunt instrument that would suffice as a weapon — a tall, slender, empty vase.
“I want you to go to Jake’s room and hide with him,” I told Cassie.
She nodded her head and tiptoed across the darkened landing. I followed her and waited at the top of the stairs until I was sure she was in Jake’s room. Creeping quietly downstairs, I listened for any sounds of intrusion. Nothing. The house was eerily silent.
I peered through window panes as I made my way through the house. As I passed the utility room, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a black shape in the narrow passage beside my house. I sank my upper teeth into my lip, fervently trying to prevent myself from screaming. I had never been so afraid — not even on the night of Warren Jones’ attack — but that would change before the evening was over.
I was so distracted by whatever I had seen through the window of the back door that I barely noticed I’d strolled into the kitchen. As I twisted my head to face the windows, which overlooked the garden, my vocal cords finally assumed control. I screeched in terror.
Standing outside my kitchen window were three cloaked figures. Black robes shrouded their bodies, and they wore frightful, featureless, grey masks. The still men were illuminated by a row of solar-powered lights in the garden. Upon seeing me, however, one of the three men turned around and proceeded to stamp vehemently on each of the lights in the dirt.
As each light extinguished, the masked menaces slipped deeper and deeper into the darkness. And when the last solar light was broken, I could no longer see them at all. I raced for the kitchen light switch. Obviously, that did very little to help — if anything, it simply gave away my position. Some light poured through the window into the garden, however, and I was horrified to see that the three masked men were gone.
And then I heard a creak from the utility room. The back door had been opened. I’ve no idea how they unlocked it so stealthily, but I was preoccupied with the pitter-patter of footsteps throughout my house — some of them were heading upstairs. I prayed that my children were well-hidden.
Whistling sounded throughout our home. The terrifying, tone-deaf tune was Money by Pink Floyd. I clutched my weapon so tightly that my fingers turned white. Every time I entered a room, floorboards thudded under the weight of shadowy figures slinking away. The masked men kept turning off the lights, so I accepted the darkness.
And then the soundlessness was disrupted by screaming.
I heard rapid footsteps coming down the stairs, followed by laughter. I darted into the lobby and finally found myself facing the intruders. One of them was leading my son downstairs with a knife to his throat. The other two emerged from the kitchen, joining us in the lobby. Cassie was nowhere to be seen. They hadn’t found her.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jake cried. “This is all my fault.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” The man with the knife mocked, imitating my son’s terrified voice.
“Quiet, Johnny,” Said another of the men, as he removed his mask. “Hello, Simon Grant. My name’s Frankie, and I’m here because I seem to have misplaced my employee — and a fuck-tonne of money, for that matter.”
“Please let my son go,” I pleaded, placing my weapon on the ground. “I can easily get the two grand.”
”Is that what you told Warren?” Frankie asked. “Where is Mr Jones, Simon? Let’s give him a ring and see, shall we?”
My son and I exchanged fearful glances as Frankie produced a phone from a pocket in his cloak and quickly dialled a number. Jake and I knew what was going to happen. A ringtone ricocheted off the walls of our house — it was muffled by the spider plant limbs that were coating most of the floorboards and walls in my home.
“Search for that phone, Mike,” Frankie ordered the third man. “It’s got to be somewhere in this overgrown hellhole. What the fuck happened here, Simon? You don’t look like a man who has two grand knocking about.”
“This place isn’t what it seems,” I warned. “You should leave.”
Frankie laughed. “You’re not in any position to threaten me, Simon.”
“It wasn’t a threat,” I said. “I’m begging you.”
“Boss,” Mike said, emerging from Anna’s study with a phone in his hand. “I found it. No sign of Warren though — just this fucking plant that’s… everywhere.”
“Mind explaining why you’ve got my employee’s phone, Mr Grant?” Frankie asked. “You think you were begging a moment ago? Let me give you an opportunity to really beg.”
Suddenly, with a slight head-nod from Frankie, Johnny kicked Jake to his knees. Before I could reach my son, Mike knocked me to the floor and pinned me down.
“I want you to watch this, Simon,” Frankie said. “This is what happens when I don’t get what I want.”
Frankie wrapped his gloved fingers around Jake’s arm, and my son squirmed as the boss produced a knife from his pocket.
“Please…” I bawled, wrestling with Mike. “Anna, help us…”
Frankie plunged the blade into Jake’s wrist, slowly and surely severing his hand from his arm. My son screamed as the malevolent man hacked away, and I joined him with my own yelps of horror. The spider plant’s leaves started to move, but not quickly enough. Frankie, hacking away with a butcher’s knife, made quick work of removing Jake’s hand. And it wasn’t until he finished that he noticed the tightening leaves around his legs.
“What the… What the fuck?” Frankie cried, stepping back from my boy.
“Boss…” Mike gasped.
I seized the opportunity to throw the distracted grunt off my back, and I ran over to my son, whose body was jittering uncontrollably. He was in shock, and we both attempted to stem the bleeding from his handless wrist. Everybody watched Frankie meet the same fate as Warren. Leafy tentacles oozed from his orifices, consuming his body.
“Fuck this!” Johnny barked, backing away.
The henchman bumped into a family portrait hanging on our wall, and something amazing happened — amazing, but ghastly. My wife, the miniature figure in the photograph, seized Johnny — her tiny hands wrapped around his throat and pulled him backwards.
Screeching, the man disappeared into the frame, and I watched as the phantom photograph moved — my wife strangled the man until he lay limp, and then she dragged him out of view. My children and I remained static in the photograph, oblivious to the terrifying events unfolding around us.
“No… I’m not dying here…” Mike, the final intruder, shrieked.
He turned on his heel and ran to the front door, but as he placed his hands on the woodwork, something inexplicable happened. He began to melt into the wood — he hands liquified, as did his arms, and then his body.
“Stop it!” Mike screamed, vanishing into the door. “Make it…”
He trailed off as his body melded with the house. But I didn’t care — I was fixated on my son’s body, lying lifelessly in my arms. That was the only thing which terrified me. Cassie crept downstairs as I dialled 999, and we rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.
Due to massive blood loss, my son slipped into a coma. I don’t know whether he’s going to make it. But I’m typing this post because my daughter and I witnessed one final spectacle of simultaneous beauty and terror.
“Look, Dad,” Cassie whispered, pointing at a vase of flowers on the windowsill of the hospital room.
Peonies. Anna’s favourite. And the way the night breeze caught the perfectly-pink bulbs, the flowers seemed to take the form of a woman holding the hand of a young boy — no, a young man. It was undoubtedly Anna and Jake.
The billowing wind danced across the room, carrying wispy words to Cassie and me.
“Jake’s safe,” Anna whispered. “I’m trying to wake him up.”