"Silence" by JoC

Competition 4 Winner

The woman, Mallory, let out a small breath. The door behind her closed with a click, the distant vehicle sounds being shut out as well.

The inside of her house was warm. The moment she stepped inside, it was like she was receiving a hug from a blanket. Although it wasn’t too cold outside, a small tingle ran down her spine, causing her body to shake involuntarily.

A silence fell upon her. A dreadful, awful silence. It hung around in the air, filling every corner of the room. Before her lungs could close up, she managed to open her mouth, reciting three words.

“Honey? I’m home.” It was barely more than a whisper— a breath —but still, it did just the trick. The rooms of her house seemed less eerie, more welcoming, than it had when she had first stepped in.

“Oh good, I’ve done the groceries today.” Her head whipped about her small flat, eyes inspecting every wall, every corner. Her ears strained to hear breathing, footsteps, any other indication of another person. There was nothing. Silence.

And still… the voice haunted her. It was set on replay, like a tape being rewound and played over and over, again and again.

It’s not real. She told herself. Then again. Then twice more. But the more she tried to convince herself, the more she could see that the voice was so, so real. Her head shook and she pressed her hands against her ears.

There was a quiet laugh. And then another. And another. Three laughs. Three voices. All so different, but all so real. She spun around in a circle, eyes searching for the source. There was no one. Empty. It wasn't real.

“Oh but, we are very, very real.” There was a man in front of her. She screamed, stepping backwards. Her back hit the door behind her. Beside the man stood two children: a boy and a girl. Their shirts were covered in red.

“W-who are you?” The children began laughing. The man sneered, stepping closer, one pale hand pointed at her.

“Don’t remember, do we? Maybe this will help.” He ripped his shirt open, buttons flying across the room. There wasn't much to see. Only one giant, giant hole where his heart should've been resting, blood still pouring from it.

The room began to spin. Her breathing sped up. Her legs wobbled, threatening to collapse beneath her.

“You can’t run forever.” You can’t run forever. They’ll catch up to you. And when they do, I’ll be laughing. It will be my turn.

It hit her square in the chest. Like a freight train ramming into her lungs, because she remembered.

All of it. Every single detail. The house. The knife. The lighter. The children. The time. The date. She remembered.

She remembered the glint of the metal as it went through his chest. The cries of the children as they watched their father bleed, knowing they were next. The spark of the lighter. The flames that engulfed the house.

But none of that mattered now. The room was spinning, the children were laughing, screaming, crying. The father was cackling, his voice like a bass drum pounding into her ears. Their bodies clashed together, merging as one.

“Let’s see how you like it.” There was no second warning. No movement. Just sharp, sharp pain. Stomach. Legs. Eyes. Arms.

The floor moved upward. She fell, hands grasping at the hilt of a knife lodged into her chest. She looked down at it, body shaking. Their voices echoed together in her head, a cacophony of laughing.

And the blood. It pooled from her chest, her arms, her legs, her face. But it was the blood on her hands she saw. There was so much, so much blood. Too much blood.

A scream pierced the air. One loud enough to drown out the laughter. Loud enough for the darkness to fill her vision.

And then there was silence.

“She’s gone. Time of death?”

“4:30 am.”

“I’m sorry, doctor, but with a tumor that big in her heart, it was near impossible.”

There was a pause. One beat. Two beats. Three beats. The doctors hung their heads. Nurses, shaking their heads.

Silence filled the room. Silence for the father and his children. Silence for the house that burned in the fire. Silence for the mourning doctors.

And silent it will forever be for the dead woman laying on the operation table.