Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Death after Death for +Sarah Davis

"Well what was I suppose to do?" the man asked. "Was I supposed to let her live on like that?"

He was young, about 16 or 17. He was in therapy by court order.

"What do you mean?" asked the therapist, jotting down a note on his pad.

"Well..." the man replied, "It's not like she was alive anyway."

The man stopped writing. He looked over at his patient; a hard look that made him squirm a little in his chair.

"Not alive?"

"No." he replied, looking down at his tennis shoes.

"Tell me..." asked the therapist, "Why do you think that?"


It was a cold winter. The roads were frozen over, the house was kept warm by the combination of the fireplace and the heater. The snow was six feet deep. I remember the wind blasting at the windows outside.

Mother had gotten sick from the chill air. Father was a scholar; he had been many places. He had said she would be fine, that no harm would come to her.

Me, I was at her side constantly. I stayed their through the hallucinations and madness while her fever slowly rose. Father was in the library with his books, his reading glasses always perched on the tip of his nose.

He thought it made him look distinctive. I thought he was an old fool.

I went to get him at mother's request. he arrived, his glasses still perched on his nose. He looked strange, almost skeletal; he hadn't been eating well the last few days.

He said everything would be alright. Then he asked me to leave.


"And your mother died that night?"


"How long ago was this?"

"9 years." replied the man. "9 years of that...thing, walking around the house. Masquerading as human."

"That was your mother!"

"No." he answered, as the door opened. "I don't know what it was, but it wasn't my mother."

And then the police took him away. Elsewhere, his mother opened her eyes once more as the coroner performed his last autopsy.

Time: 16:30