I hear it again—faintly at first—as my mind works to convince itself that it’s part of the dream I’m waking from.
But I know it’s not.
Wheezing, strained…tortured. Each breath sounds like agony.
She’s back.
Tears form in my eyes, but I keep them shut—I know what I’ll see if I open them.
Black hair covering a face of grey, decaying skin. Eye sockets empty, but somehow, I know she can see me. A dress that was once white falls over loose flesh and ends at rotting feet.
My heart pounds faster and faster. I’m shaking so severely that my breathing is confined to short, sharp bursts—whimpering is all I can do to keep myself from screaming.
I know what’s coming next.
Cold fingertips brush against my face—cold and dead. It’s the caress one would give to a lover, yet I know there’s no love behind it.
The fingers trace down my cheek and slide along my neck.
They wrap around my throat.
But they don’t squeeze—they just rest there.
This is her game.
She’s waiting for me to flinch—to jump up—to try and fight her. And I know that if I do, she’ll start to clamp tighter.
The first time she came, I panicked.
I didn’t wake until her hand was round my neck. I thrashed, and punched at her, and kicked, and yelled. She felt none of my blows—if she heard my cries, she took no heed of them—her strength was so immense that with one arm, she pinned me to my bed.
And the more I fought, the harder she crushed down on my windpipe, until I could scream no more. Until I could breathe no more. Until blackness closed in around me and I could perceive, no more.
The last my eyes beheld were the yellow teeth of a wicked smile as I knew that I would surely die.
Then, she loosened her grip.
I gasped wildly for air—my lungs inflated with the foul stench of her putrescence.
I was alive.
I began to fight again—she began to squeeze again—realizing that I was no match for her, I then resigned myself to my fate.
I laid back. I stopped struggling. I relinquished my life to her.
She loosened her grip again.
Terrified, I tried to remain as still as possible—the only motion of my body, the trembling of my fear.
She relaxed more—her fingers then just resting lightly on my throat—softly…threateningly…
I croaked out several questions through my battered larynx.
“Who are you?” “What do you want?” “Are you going to kill me?”
She remained silent.
For several hours, we stayed like this—her staring at me through hollow, black pits—me doing my best impression of a corpse.
Then, at precisely 3:36am, she removed her hand, turned, and slowly slunk out through my open bedroom door. For a brief moment, I considered following her, but I was too frightened to find where she might lead me.
That day, I did some research on my new home. I’d only just moved into it the week before—after having come to the city for work.
No one told me of its history.
A man had lived there many years before me. A man that was convicted of strangling several local women. A man who claimed they hadn’t found all the bodies. A man that I bear an unfortunate resemblance to.
I can’t afford to sell this house—I can’t afford to leave my job.
I’m trapped for now.
I’ve pleaded with her to stop coming, to stop punishing me for the deeds of another man, yet she doesn’t hear me—or at least, she doesn’t want to hear me.
Every night, I need several, stiff drinks to fall asleep—I never know when or if she’ll arrive. Sometimes it’s several weeks between visits, and I get hopeful that maybe she’s decided to leave me alone; that maybe, she’s finally understood that I’m not her killer.
But just when I begin to feel a sense of ease—to feel like my life could be normal once more…
I awake to rattled breathing.
And I feel her cold caress.