I woke up to the sound of running water. Sitting up in bed, I realized that my mattress was soaking wet. Still, in a daze, I flinched as a large, cold drop of water splashed my head.I reached up to wipe it off and realized my bedroom door was ajar. Stumbling out of bed, my feet on the cold wet floor, I surveyed my room. It looked like the mess it usually is but for some reason, it seemed different. Groggily I look at the clock on the wall, rubbing my eyes to get a clearer look; the clock face read 4:25am. I looked out of the window, the moon was full, alluding to something sinister. The trees outside shook, their claw like branches shivering and entwining. I must check where the water is coming from. I silently creep downstairs. Stopping for a moment, I listen by the stairs. Someone is in the kitchen. Now thoroughly spooked, I tip-toe into the doorway of the kitchen and stick my head in. The sink is overflowing. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw standing there. I feel light headed as I grip the wall. It was too much to look at so I spiral to the floor, losing consciousness. The last thing I remember was a dark black shadow engulfing me and the scent of freshly baked vanilla muffins.
I awoke to a blinding white light, almost brighter than the sun. My body hurt as though I’d been flung down a hundred flights of steps like a ragdoll. Bruises and grazes covered every inch of me. I was sore and purple. The dark green carpet under me was damp and had a faintly arabic pattern on it. There were red specks on it too. I looked to my left and saw the dark black shadow again. It was slowly moving in towards me. Terror choked my throat, the light shut and I was plunged into utter darkness. I don’t know what scared me more, the thought of not being able to see the monster’s face in the dark or the thought of seeing it reach out to me in the light, the anger burning in it. So I waited, my body paralyzed on the floor. It had an overpowering smell. I hated it. A mixture of flour and rotten flesh. Something about it triggered many unhappy images of dinner in my own home. I fumbled around with clumsy fingers, touching a hard plastic object. It had a distinct shape. My fingers slithered around it, slipping it into some kind of socket. It was a light switch. Decisions, decisions. Should I press ‘on’ and illuminate the horror again or should I let my imagination take control. Time seemed to stand still. Why was nothing happening? The silence was deafeningly loud, eerie. It was crazy. I pushed the button, immediately wishing I hadn't. The shadow had taken the shape of something resembling a woman. I knew it would. It’s face, if you can call it that, loomed close to mine, close enough to see its small, beady brown eyes, so similar to mine. It disgusts me. The putrid stench entered my nostrils a second later. Its body was bound in a loose cloth, pieces of it falling away to reveal patches of revolting skin. A shade of yellow. A yellow like that of my mother’s favourite dress. Slowly, so slowly I backed away. Crawling. My eyes never leaving it. In my mind it was taunting me, I wanted to rip it in two. It began to circle me, its feet never touching the ground. It swooped in, one final time, its hands outstretched, reaching out to grab me off the ground. I struggled and twisted but then gave in. Its going to be alright, everything will be fine. I will be victorious. The last thing I remember was the smell of stale vanilla muffins.
I lapsed in and out of consciousness. It almost had a kind of pattern to it now. I keep hearing my dead mother calling to me “Daniel, Daniel! Come in, desert’s getting cold. You won't like your muffins cold, will you?’’. That was a memory from 10 years ago. Then there are the times when the distorted woman shadow would be there, silently watching, for what, I don't know. There were flashes of light and flashes of darkness, like a war, each element struggling to dominate. Hunger, thirst or any other necessities faded to the background, in the fore of my mind was just the smells that lingered. Sometimes flesh, sometimes muffins sometimes something I could not place my finger on. I dug my nails into my scalp trying to distract myself from them but it never worked. I don't know how long I was suspended in this state, not yet awake not yet asleep.
Cold. Icy cold. Water. A rude awakening. I am drenched. I am on a bed with stark white sheets. They contrast with my dark skin. The blood stains are still on my hands but the familiar round handle of the knife was missing. Panicking, I thrashed on this bed, looking for my companion. I’d hate to lose that knife, it had been my saviour. I heard a door open from somewhere far away. Hushed whispers and a jovial laugh. Who were these people? I just wanted to go home. I wondered, did I remember to clean up the blood from the kitchen? Hmm. I’ll have to get around to doing that. Suddenly my ponderings were interrupted. A door I had not noticed in the corner of this room opened. A lady in entered. She was holding some metallic tray. Squinting, I realised it was only a nurse. I like the red emblem on her pocket, it reminds me of blood. She is saying something to me, what is she saying? I cannot hear. I look at the way her mouth moves, enjoying the red lipstick she had applied that morning. I want to tell her she has smudged a bit but how? My own mouth seems to be a different part of me. She turns away and leaves. Her heels making resounding echoes upon the marble floor. I am sad.
It has been 2 months since I’ve been here. Why am I in a psychological ward? The male doctors seem to think I am mentally unstable. They are wrong. They’ve accused me of a murder. My mother’s I think. These doctors, they just shake their heads, make some notes and leave. I do not listen to them. The numbers, 22-48-24-6-31, they’re like that song on the radio, they keep replaying. They flow and swirl and swoop in my mind like the waves of an ocean. I try to make them listen to me, a favourite game of mine. I wish to see the nurse with the red lips, the one who came to me before. Im just glad I am away from that monster, the one in my dreams. She will not haunt me anymore with her putrid smells.
On the evening of the 22nd of March 1992 the body of Katherine Holdings, aged 48, was found in her house. A neighbor noticed the smell and alerted the police. A large butcher knife with a rounded handle was found lying near her in a pool of blood. She had 24 stab wounds to her legs, arms and chest. 6 burnt vanilla muffins were found in the oven. There are some pills on the floor of his bedroom, upon analysing, they were found to be Zolpidem. Her 31 year old son , Daniel Holdings, is suspected. His whereabouts are hidden from the general public. He has been admitted into ‘The Greendale Psychological Ward’ in downtown Kansas, upon his lawyers request.
Simran Ali Malik
