For years I didn’t understand what was happening to me. Young women, brutally murdered, appearing in my dreams. It wasn’t until I finally accepted the fact, dead people were talking to me, did they start appearing during my waking hours.
Invading my head like the Americans did on the beaches of Normandy, nothing I did could stop it, no matter how hard I tried.
Getting drunk and passing out; kept them at bay for a while longer; but when I got high, well, that was a different story. The voices became louder, demanding attention; placing images of their desperate last moments into the mind’s eye.
I’m not sure when it all began; my earliest recollection was in ‘51. I was 7 at the time, living in Brooklyn. My mom, a stay at home mom, as were most of the mom’s back then, wasn’t home one day when I arrived from school. The door was unlocked.
Our house was shaped like a railroad flat, my room was in the back. Facing the mirror on my dresser, I saw a man’s reflection by the front door. He looked like Fred Astaire. He had opened the front door just a tad, enough to lean his head in, black tux, black top hat. Tipping the hat, just slightly, he smiled. Thinking I heard him say, “Ready to go?” Turning from the mirror, he was gone. The door still ajar.
Walking slowly towards the front door, heart beating rapidly, the thought of fainting was pliable. An electric shock coursed through my hand and up my arm as I touched the doorknob, watching as the long, black hairs stood straight up. He was gone.
George. My best friend. We did everything together. Though no one else could see or hear him, we always had a fun time. He was around for quite a while and then he wasn’t.
Oh, and the basement. Something was there. It lived behind the heater in the darkest corner. Just a dark shadow with long spindly fingers, always tripping me as I ran up the basement stairs. It knew I knew. Never did see its’ face…I hate basements.
As I got older, the hissing in my ears was a clear indicator someone was trying to contact me. At first, it was only every once in a while. The quieter the house got, the louder the hissing. Always playing music whenever I was alone and falling asleep with the TV on. God forbid I acknowledged them.
The 1970s and 80s were the worst decades for me. Many women were brutally killed. Bundy, Berkowitz, Kemper, Bittaker, Norris, Bianchi, Buono, BTK, Gaskins. There is no rest. Even those I couldn’t understand came to tell me…what? I don’t know…little sleep and the hissing just got louder…
Eyes…the eyes of their killers…empty, crazy, soul less. And red lips. Lipstick? Blood? Didn’t matter, red was fear. And now, it’s my turn. Peace finally. The hissing has stopped. They came to help me. My ending, red with fear.
Though finally at peace, I can’t rest. Another chosen one. Strong, sane, believable, unable to have written this on her own. She, too, has inherited the hissing.