NINE-TENTHS

A short story, by JWCurry

(2026 by John W. Curry Jr. Any similarties to any person or persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental).

The argument had been going on for about an hour. Sally felt she was at her wit’s end with Horace. Though her back was turned to him, she knew exactly where he was— she could feel him. She placed both hands on the mantle and gripped it as tightly as she could. It was all she could do to not start throwing Knick-knacks at him. She was so angry right now, that the little porcelain figurines on the mantle began to vibrate slightly.

Horace was standing his ground. This was his house too. Leaving was simply inconceivable. Then there was the girl, Maggie. He had as much right to Maggie as Sally. Sure, he hadn’t been there when Maggie was little, but that wasn’t his fault. If he could have been there, he would have been there. She was not a baby any longer. 

Sally turned to Horace. 

“Why? Why do you keep thinking you have a right to her”, Sally asked, barely containing her contempt.

”It’s my right”, Horace answered without any emotion. 

“You have no right,” Sally yelled. “I’m the one that has been there for her since she was a baby! You just can’t waltz in and declare that you’re taking over!” 

“You don’t own her,” Horace said, as he moved closer to Maggie. 

“I’ve always been with her.” Sally had taken a deep breath to calm herself down. She was very aware of what she was capable of when she was truly angry. 

“I worked everyday providing for you two ingrates. She’s twenty-two,” Horace continued, “She’s old enough now to be whomever she wishes. She just needs to be allowed a choice.”

”Fuck you,” Sally whispered. 

“What language,” Horace chuckled, “I always knew you were nothing but trailer trash.”

”I thought you’d be different sober,” Sally snarled. 

Sally turned back to the mantle and grabbed it. She tried to rip it from the wall, but the mantle held fast. She slammed her fist against the mantle. The little figurines bounced around the shelf, but none fell. Sally turned back to Horace. He wasn’t there. She glanced at Maggie, but she was fine. He had left the room.

Sally moved to Maggie. She wanted to comfort her, but knew it might not be the best time to do so. Maggie was beautiful. Maggie was about five-foot-six, trim but not skinny, hazel eyes and blonde hair. She was sitting in the corner of the room by the bookshelf. She had an old blanket wrapped around her, seemingly for protection. The fight surely scared her.

Maggie and Sally loved the house when they first walked into it. Outside it was a little rough, but the roof didn’t leak and Maggie would take care of the outside when she had the money. The inside, well, Maggie sort of splurged on that. Sally understood why…who wanted to eat and sleep in a hovel? Maggie refinished the inside within two weeks. She fixed the broken chair-rail in the parlor, replaced rotten flooring in the bathroom, and installed new hinges and drawer pulls in the kitchen. The kitchen was a bright pale yellow with off-white cabinets. It was a combination from the sixties that she had always loved. It reminded her of Doris Day. The parlor was a Williamsburg grey with white trim. The bedrooms were a light mocha with white trim.

Sally looked at the lump of blanket in the corner that was Maggie. Everything had been going great the past month. She tried to comfort Maggie just as she had comforted her when she was alone in her crib. She was there when she was crying herself to sleep because she was afraid of the dark. Sally was there for her first boyfriend and her first breakup. Whenever Maggie needed anything, anything at all, Sally would find a way for it to happen. Sally had never felt like a mother, instead she felt she had  been Maggie’s protector.

Then, Horace shows up…acting as if he had a right to be a part of Maggie’s life. Now, he thinks he can just be there for Maggie—as if. Sally was having none of it and Horace needed to figure this out fast and then get out. Horace wasn’t just uninvited, but he had arrived seemingly out of nowhere. Horace was pushy and rude. He insisted his rights be honored, while ignoring the fact that he wasn’t part of either Maggie’s or Sally’s life.

Sally sighed and turned to leave the room so Maggie would have some peace. As she did so, she found the doorway blocked by Horace. Horace had a fiery temper, this had been proven time and again. As he stood in the doorway now, his face was darkened with fury.  His eyes were wild and black. Sally was genuinely surprised for a moment, then she screamed as loudly as she could. Horace recoiled as pictures on the walls vibrated and a wine glass exploded on the coffee table. Sally had been a singer before wasting her life with marriage and a spoiled child, and it had been years since her voice had been able to do this. Apparently, Horace could resurrect long dead talent. 

Sally screamed again. More glass shattered. 

Horace dashed past Sally in the direction of Maggie. Sally moved to intercept Horace, forcing him to the bookcase. Horace was finished toying with these two. Horace snatched figurines from the bookshelf and hurled them at Sally. The projectiles missed and this outraged Horace even more. His eyes took on a reddish glare and his skin turned pallor. Horace moved to the front door of the house. He began opening and slamming shut the heavy wooden door as hard as he could while repeatedly screaming, “Get Out!”

Sally’s anger was boiling over also. Bloodcurdling screams erupted from deep within her. The room appeared to darken as Sally’s eyes began to glow red and her skin darkened and cracked. The room began to fill with a white fog. Horace stopped opening and slamming the door and returned to the bookcase near Maggie. He began pulling the few books from the shelves and flinging them toward Maggie and Sally. Books and porcelain figurines lay broken and scattered on the floor. 

Maggie’s evening began with a shower and short nap after she arrived home from work. After waking up, she walked to the kitchen and began preparing a cheese and cracker tray. She laid out some Wheat Thins and Trisketts, alongside slices of sharp cheddar, Jarlsberg, and a few slices of Swiss. Maggie used Swiss cheese to clear her pallet between the cheese and crackers. Swiss had a neutrality to it that seemed to clear her taste buds for the next bit of Jarlsberg or cheddar with a Triskett. She reached to the wine rack and pulled a bottle of Pinot Noir. She never drank white wine. White wines tended to give her heart burn. She grabbed her little snack tray and  took her picnic to the front room. She settled in on the sofa and turned on the stereo.

 Maggie grew up glued to the family television. The television had been her escape. The comedies and dramas showed her what was in the world, away from her dreary day-to-day life and terror laden nights. Her family didn’t vacation. Maggie’s father had grown up in a strict farming family. There were no weeks off. The best they could count on was a Saturday at the state fair. Consequently, Maggie’s father used his company vacation weeks to clean the yard and make household repairs. When he wasn’t working at his job, he was working at home. He continued that until he died of a heart attack when she was seventeen. 

Maggie’s father had a violent temper. He was verbally abusive to Maggie, but was at times, physically violent with her mother. He always stopped before going too far. He was a coward in that way. He knew what he was doing was wrong and knew to hide his temper from friends and his job. It wouldn’t be good for his reputation at work. Maggie’s biggest fear was his voyeurism. 

At seventeen it was unavoidable to miss the fact Maggie had grown into a beautiful and healthy young woman. Unfortunately, Maggie’s father also noticed that she was no longer a girl, but a young woman who could have been a model. Since she had begun growing into womanhood, she had realized that her father often found some obscure reason to enter the bathroom when she was showering. Maggie’s mom had to have known that it was wrong, because it was when puberty arrived that her mom replaced translucent shower curtains with opaque curtains with colorful designs. That didn’t stop her father. Whenever she was undressing, and he was home, which fortunately was only to sleep and shower between his job and hanging out with the guys, there was always something he needed from the bathroom whenever she was in there. It irked her to no end that her mom just dismissed her as being shy.

Since she was a little girl, Maggie had always felt someone, or something, was watching her. This had been happening since she was a little girl, even before first grade. Over the years she had felt someone looking at her, watching her no matter which room she entered. Several times, she almost saw them out of the corner of her eye…someone always just out of sight. She tried many times to catch them, but never could. That was the truly scary part—feeling someone in the room, but never able to see them.

On this night, she finally found her answer. She had been restless all night. Again, it was the odd feeling of being watched. She tossed and turned for three hours. She was just beginning to drift off when the door to her room creaked. Maggie remained still and pretended to sleep. It was a warm night and she was sleeping half under the covers. She felt a presence. She smelled alcohol and cigarettes, and she knew it was her father. She opened her eyes slightly, just enough to see through her eyelashes. The room was dim. The street light from the outside spilled through the window, creating strong shadows. Her father looked like a dark hooded figure as he crept slowly into the room. 

Maggie held her breath as he eased to the side of the bed. He quietly leaned forward and raised her pajama top. Her scream caught in her throat, her body was frozen in disbelief and terror. She couldn’t move as her father leered hungrily at her breasts. She tried to move and managed to flick her hand. The sudden movement startled her father. He dropped her pajama top and snatched his hands back, as Maggie suddenly sat up. Her father took a step back and began to say something. She jumped from her bed at the sight of a woman, seeming to be standing behind him just as he collapsed. A woman dressed in a dark hooded robe, the fingers of her right hand were long tentacles wrapped around her father’s neck, while the figure’s left was slamming into Horace like a jack-hammer. With each hit, his chest ballooned outward.

As she looked at him with all the hatred she had hidden for years coming to a head,  she saw her father mouthed words, but nothing came out. His mouth slowly stretched and opened, but there were no still words. His breathing became labored, he gulped for air, he grasped at this throat. Maggie realized he was shirtless and was only wearing his boxers. Her anger waned when she realized that she could see his heart thumping through the skin of his chest. A grapefruit size bulge began to squeeze to the surface. Her father was still pulling at his throat, grasping at something unseen, choking him. His heart pumped harder and faster through his chest. It was so fast that it appeared to be vibrating…until in a pulposus wet pop, his heart exploded within his chest. She could see it under his skin as it stopped suddenly and blood spread as a darkening Rorschach test just under his skin.  

Her father stopped grasping at his throat. He held his arms out to her as he collapsed onto the floor. Maggie’s father, Horace, died that night. 

Maggie found herself standing at the foot of her bed—screaming. She saw the figure look at her for a brief moment before Maggie blacked out. She snapped out of it when her mother rushed in and screamed when she found her husband lying on the floor. Maggie’s mother cradled her dead husband in her arms, looked at Maggie, and asked, “What did you do?”

  ”Nothing. He…he was just standing there and something grabbed him,” Maggie said, terrified. 

“What did you do,” her mother repeated crying. Then, again and again. She cried and rocked forward and back, while Maggie stood watching and not feeling anything. Her mind was as clear as she could ever remember. This wasn’t a tragedy, it was the start of her new life. 

Horace’s autopsy revealed he was intoxicated and in very poor health. His arteries were as clogged as an old storm sewer. His liver was months from full-on cirrhosis. He was a walking corpse waiting to be buried. This news did not dispel Maggie’s mother from continuing to think her daughter did something to the breadwinner of the house and blamed Maggie whenever she saw the girl. It wasn’t just the constant hints and veiled insinuendo, It was the staring. Whenever Maggie walked into a room where her mother was, her eyes would follow her around the room. Maggie’s relief from being watched was short-lived. Now her mother had taken up the task.

Two months after Horace had died, Maggie’s mother received a letter from a New York City insurance company. There was a letter of condolences. There was also a check for $50,000. It turned out that Horace wasn’t just slapping his wife around and spying on his daughter, he had actually made a wise investment. He had bought life insurance through his company. 

Maggie and her mother sat staring at the check laying upon the coffee table.

“Maggie,” her Mother haltingly said, “did you know about this? Is this why you did it?”

“No,” Maggie said, then added angrily, “I didn’t do anything. He died of a massive heart attack, Mom!”

 “And now you’re the beneficiary of his life insurance? I knew you were a slut. I knew something was up between you two.”

”Then you let him do it,” Maggie was suddenly livid, her face a bright red. “You bitch!” Her father had never actually touched her, but even if her mother knew about the spying, she was guilty.

Her mother slapped Maggie hard leaving her handprint on Maggie’s already reddened cheek.  Maggie raised her hand to return the slap, but her Mother grabbed her arm and slapped Maggie again. Then, using Maggie’s arm as leverage, shoved Maggie to the floor. 

Maggie, shocked but unhurt, jumped up and started to grab her check from the coffee table. Her Mother intercepted her and grabbed the check first. 

“What are you going to do with this?” Maggie’s mother teased, “You can’t cash it. You don’t have a bank account…because you’re a minor. We’ll go to the bank tomorrow, after you get out of school, and deposit it into my account for safe keeping.” 

Maggie was at a loss as to what to do. Feeling defeated, she walked away, heading toward her bedroom. The next morning she was up early and looked around the house for the insurance check. Her mother had hidden it well. Hell, she was probably sleeping with it under her pillow. Maggie showered and found her mom in the kitchen. She didn’t normally cook breakfast on a weekday, but she was in her pajamas, wearing an apron, and standing at the stove frying bacon. Eggs and milk rested on the counter top next to her.

”Good morning,” her mother said in a fake sweet tone. “Sleep well, dear?”

Maggie looked at the suddenly sweet voiced woman standing before her and realized that her mother had realized the same thing Maggie had during the night: the check was in Maggie’s name. There was no way around that and as soon as they got to the bank, Maggie was going to flat-out ask about her own account. Maybe even one of those trusts that she couldn’t touch until she was…well, eighteen sounded good and her birthday was only a few months away. She turned and left the kitchen. She searched her Mother’s room but found nothing. When she went back to the kitchen, breakfast was on the table. Maggie noticed the check, folded and visible through the thin apron pocket.

”You know dear, there is no need for you to go with me to the bank. All you have to do is sign it over to me, and I’ll take care of it,” her mother said, gleefully.   

“I’m going with you,” Maggie assured her.

Her mother turned from cooking and looked at Maggie. The cheerful tone was replaced with a cold proclamation.

”I don’t need you anyway. I’m the adult. I’m your legal representative. Honestly, you have no rights here.” Her mother returned to moving the eggs around in the pan. Maggie thought about making a grab for the check and running, but where would she go? She didn’t know if she actually could go to the bank and open an account without a parent. Maggie thought about her options, then simply left before she truly became too angry and did something before she could stop herself. This was the final straw though. The check revealed how vile her mother was and how she had been a perfectly complicit partner to her perverted husband—and Maggie’s father.

When Maggie arrived home from school she was anxious to get this confrontation over with. She had decided to stand up to her mother. She was also ready to leave home. Even living on the street would be preferable to living with her so-called mother. The woman hadn’t really been there for her at all, never. Maggie called out to her mom, but there was no answer. She found her mother’s bedroom door unlocked, but the bathroom door was locked and the shower was running. 

Maggie went into her room and waited. After fifteen minutes or so, she wondered why it was taking so long for her mother to shower. She went into the hall bath and she splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth and touched up her face. Her mother’s shower was still running. Maggie sat in her room, but after another ten minutes she really wanted to know what was taking so long and walked to her Mother’s bedroom. She approached the door to the bathroom and knocked, calling her Mother’s name. There was no answer. She checked the door and found it unlocked. She walked through the doorway, repeatedly calling for her mother. Her mother still didn’t answer.

Maggie moved the shower curtain and looked inside the shower. She gasped and fell back. She took a deep breath and flung the shower curtain aside. She reached in and turned off the water. Her mother lay naked on the shower floor. Maggie reached to check her pulse, but her skin was eerily cold to the touch.  Her mother’s face was contorted into a grotesque mask of wet pale skin wearing a toothy grin.

This was the day that Maggie’s mother, Sally, died.

About two weeks later, the autopsy revealed that Sally had died from a massive heart attack just like her husband. No external wounds were found. There wasn’t even any bruising from when she collapsed in the shower; peculiar, but without a witness, it was assumed she suffered briefly, then slowly sank to the floor as her life faded away. Maggie deposited her check, in her own account. She petitioned for the court to allow her to live on her own, citing she would turn into a legal adult in a couple of months. 

A month or so later, a lawyer, Dave Chapman, called about the estate. He remembered the name from a meeting he had with the deceased after her husband died. She took advantage of his free ten minute consult service. Usually, he could turn it into some quick cash, but this woman just asked questions and took off. Now he was reading that she had died—and a daughter survives. He was seeing an opportunity to get some quick cash as he read the obituary. He made some calls and found that this seventeen-year-old had a nice bank account and now word is she will own her dead parent’s house. By volunteering to help this “poor young child”, he could gain control of some of the cash and, with luck, the house. If nothing else, he can convince her to sell it and he can take a nice cut.

He called a few days after the obituary, hoping no one else had stepped up to do the same. He was in luck as no one had done so. He told her that he could help organize her parent’s money, and the land title, for a small one-time fee. He didn’t mention he had plans to also take a commission on the side. He’ll call it a bonus, just so it isn’t so obvious and it will sound like she offered it to him for a job well done. She sounded more mature than he had hoped she would, but that wouldn’t be a problem for Dave. He could sweet talk anyone.

He arrived five minutes early—not too early but not late—so he snapped a few photos before knocking on the door. He waited, no one answered. He knocked a couple of more times. Finally, he knocked as firmly and as loudly as he could without thinking he was being rude. He tried the door knob. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open. He was surprised it hadn’t been locked, being that she was alone now. He could, he thought, be her best friend and caretaker until she, say turns eighteen and legal? So many possibilities here. If he could remember what she looked like…her mom was attractive for her age, so if the daughter took after the mom? Possibilities were definitely many.

He entered quietly, calling “Maggie” as he did so.  The interior was decorated in a late two-decade-ago style. The rooms smelled musty and showed that Maggie was not one to dust and clean. She probably never had to do so before; the poor deceased mother would have done that for her wonderful, spoiled daughter. 

Dave walked slowly through the living room and through the dining room. Every piece of furniture was covered and obviously unused. Except for the kitchen. It was spotless. Only breakfast dishes were in the sink and even they were neatly stacked. He opened the refrigerator door and found it was well stocked with healthy choices. No junk food, no alcohol. He expected a teenager’s fridge to be filled with left-over pizza and beer.  He continued through the hallway, engrossed in his thoughts about the house, the girl and the money he would make. Especially the “young woman” he might also—“make”.   

 He continued down the hallway. He opened one door and found a bathroom. Another door down was Maggie’s room, based on the teenager decor. Still he found no one. He closed Maggie’s bedroom door and stepped farther down the hall to another closed door. He opened it and found what looked to be a guest bedroom. Across from that door was another. This Dave guessed would be the master bedroom. 

He grasped the door knob. He was startled to feel it was ice cold to the touch. He pulled away instinctively, then composed, reached and turned the knob. The door opened. 

Dave entered the room. It was so cold he could see an icy mist in the room, as well as his breath. A low rumble filled the room and Dave assumed it was the air conditioning. He continued slowly, continuously calling for Maggie. He approached the bathroom door. It was closed and he eased it open. The knob was so cold he felt he could develop frostbite simply touching it. He slowly opened the door.  He was horror-struck to see a nude woman laying facedown across the bathtub, half in, half out. 

Dave started to rush to her, but stopped quickly when the woman raised her head. “Are you okay,” he began but did not finish. The woman’s face was a watery grey color, veins spiderwebbed across her face and neck, her eyes black and lifeless. Her mouth opened slowly, revealing a blackened tongue and teeth. She made no sound. The low rumbling began to increase until it was a deafening roar. Dave covered his ears and ran out of the bedroom. As he ran through the kitchen, cabinet doors flung open, spilling the contents into his path blocking his exit through the back door. He ran through the dining room as chairs overturned by an unseen force, tripping him.  He crashed painfully onto a chair and it gave way under his weight, breaking with a loud cracking. The roaring noise, like a tornado, followed him. He pulled himself up and made his way to the front door. He flung the heavy door open, but the glass storm door was frozen and wouldn’t budge. He pushed and pulled as hard as he could, but the door would not give way. He started through the living room looking for another way out. To his horror, his way was blocked by the nude woman. The roaring of the unseen tornado intensified. 

The woman had begun to twist into a demonic shape. A black robed figure whose face was barely visible under the dark hood. It was the same face as the woman in the bathtub. The woman’s mouth stretched even larger as the roaring noise intensified to a point Dave felt his head would explode. 

He ran to the front doorway, and without slowing down, burst through the storm door. The tempered glass did its job—it shattered into small, almost harmless bits. The frame tore loose as Dave threw himself through the door and the jagged metal sliced into his neck. He fell onto the front walkway. Bright red blood spurted from his throat. He wrapped his hand around his neck to stem the bleeding. He lay on the walkway, holding his throat, as he looked up at the house. In the open doorway was the woman. Now, she was wearing a white flowing dress that waved upon a non-existent breeze, pointing at him.

“I’ll see you in hell,” she growled. Then the heavy wooden door slammed shut. 

Attorney David G. Chapman died that day on Maggie’s front walkway in a pool of thickening blood.

A neighbor called Maggie at school, telling her that police were in her yard and house. The neighbor had heard from another neighbor that someone was hurt…maybe even dead. When she arrived on her street she found it blocked just before her house. She left her car and made her way to a crime tape, telling the officer guarding the spot that it was her home. The officer called to someone in the yard and this man walked over and introduced himself as Jake Casper, the lead detective working the case. 

Detective Case escorted Maggie to the body, now covered, laying in her yard. He pulled the bloody white sheet back, only far enough to reveal the face, carefully hiding the large gash in the man’s neck. “You recognize him?”

Maggie looked closely without bending next to the body. He was familiar. She had seen him before.

”I think it’s the guy my mother talked to about legal stuff when my father died,” she said, “ I saw his picture on a business card.”

 Detective Case noticed that Maggie didn’t seem very emotional about a dead man in her yard. She was a little unnerving in her demeanor. Case asked, “Any reason he was in your house?”

Maggie looked at Case, then noticed for the first time that the glass door was shattered. Her eyes followed the trail of blood from the porch to where the lawyer lay. A chill ran down her spine. Case noticed she shivered. Maybe she was just in shock. He had been assigned to her father’s death, but he hadn’t been the lead detective and the details were vague. This little girl had seen a lot of dead bodies within the past year or two, Dad and then Mom. She asked if she could go inside. Case followed her and accompanied her from room to room. Nothing was out of place. The furniture was still covered and dust was undisturbed on photographs and lamp tables. 

Detective Case followed along and his watching made her uneasy. She entered the kitchen and glanced at the sink. She could have sworn she left her breakfast dishes undone, but now they were washed and in the countertop drain. Maybe it was yesterday she left them dirty. She couldn’t remember. 

She went to the bathroom, looked inside and then onto her room, stopping first to take a quick look in the guest room. 

“Can I get some things to take with me,” she asked.

”Maybe later, I’ll get you some gloves, but since he was obviously inside, we do have to perform some forensics.”

“Nothin’ I want here except stuff to get by for a couple of days,” she said. 

She was being honest. She never returned. She grabbed a couple of shirts and some panties and put the house up for sale. At first, even heavily discounted, no one seemed to be interested in a house with a reputation for death. Maggie, seeing an opportunity, hit social media with stories of the “death house” she was selling. She sold the house at thirty percent above market simply bragging about the strange deaths that happened in the house…instead of trying to avoid it.

The ghost fans who bought it were really disappointed. In the five years they lived there, not one paranormal incident happened. It was as if the dark cloud over the house left when Maggie did.

Maggie left her family home and rented an apartment across town. She had lived there carefree for a couple weeks before anything unusual happened. At first, it was a small figurine moved from one coffee table to an end table. One she didn’t recall moving. As days went by, she noticed other objects not where she had originally placed them.  She began to question her sanity again. Was she simply forgetting that she moved it? Was she sleepwalking?  An object moved from one spot to another. A door creaking without an obvious reason.  One morning she got out of the shower to find clothes laid out for her, that for the life of her, she could not remember setting out. Yet, they were exactly what she had been thinking about wearing today while she was showering. 

The excuses she told herself, ended one night as Maggie listened to some music while reading a novel. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught slight movement. At first, she just thought it was a quirk of the eye. But, then it happened again. A comb she had left on the coffee table moved slowly about four inches away from the table’s edge. It was undeniable. There was no mistake. It moved! She stared at the comb for several minutes. She was hoping it would move again and she would see what was causing it. She also feared it would move and there would be no visible explanation. The familiar feeling of someone, or maybe something, watching her returned. For the next few weeks, her anxiety grew as the feeling intensified and more objects moved. The final straw was when her Luke Skywalker action figure’s light saber moved. As she watched, the figure’s arm slowly rose from a down position to hold the lightsaber up, in an attack position…and as it did so, the head turned slowly and looked at her. 

She got rid of Luke immediately. She also got rid of the apartment. Fortunately, this house popped up and it was so cheap, the monthly payments were practically the same as what she was paying in rent. It was as if fate always had an answer for her whenever trouble arrived.

*******

Maggie remained hidden under the blanket. It was mostly for protection from flying glass and bric-a-brac, but it also kept her from seeing what was happening—she didn’t think she could handle seeing that. She could hear the crashing of glass. The slamming of a door. The worst part of it was that, at times, she believed she could hear her parents' voices, arguing as they often did when she was little…and when they were alive.

She could feel her mind slipping away. With every shiver of her spine, a piece of her sanity vanished. It seemed her resolve and her will to fight were also slipping away. She was emotionally and physically drained. She frightened herself with a sudden thought…would I be better off…dead? She dismissed this immediately. She hadn’t lived through all this crap just to give up. Maggie had always been a fighter. She thought it was the reason her father never actually touched her. He was too scared.

Maggie drew in deep breath, opened the blanket and stood up. The room was a complete disaster of broken glass and overturned furniture. Pictures were off the walls and lay broken on the floor. She noticed several were across the room from where they had been hanging. The whole room was demolished. Figurines lay broken and scattered around the room. The coffee tables and end tables were overturned blocking her way out. 

Sally and Horace watched Maggie rise and stand. Maggie was haggard and looked completely exhausted. Sally almost felt sorry for her daughter, but not enough to stop. She gave her life for Maggie and Maggie owed her—-and judging by Maggie’s appearance, her resistance to Sally was weakening. But, that also made her vulnerable to Horace taking her.

Horace had realized this also. He was ready to make his move to possess Maggie. This had been the fight between Sally and Horace, who would take possession of their daughter’s body and replace her soul. Maggie’s soul would forever roam this plane instead of one of theirs. Sally had given up her life for Horace, then before she could leave him, she was pregnant. Thinking how she had given up her dreams and desires to take care of these two reminded her how unfair life was and whenever she thought about the unfairness, the sacrifice she had made, the anger in her would erupt like a volcano.

Horace obviously felt the same way. Married in life, dead together. But, through Maggie, she could finally be rid of Horace and live the life she had always deserved. 

Sally’s scream was barely audible at the beginning, but it grew until it was a guttural roar. The scream stopped Horace from approaching Maggie. He turned to face Sally, his anger contorting his face. Horace began to advance towards Sally, his hands reaching for her throat. As he moved toward Sally, the broken glass and figurines began to rise and levitate, slowly at first, then objects began speeding up. The items began to spin around the room as if they were in an bizarre orbit around Horace and Sally. Sally’s scream intensified and a vibration began to spread throughout the room. An ethereal mist surrounded the two. The mist was unaffected by the force controlling the circling debris; two occurrences on two different planes of existence happening at once.

Maggie stood watching the incredible spectacle of broken glass and pottery. She couldn’t hear the screams of Sally, instead, to Maggie, the sound was a deep rumble felt in her chest, like a bass drum. The rumbling grew until it was like a freight train blasting through the room. A translucent vapor formed in the center of the room. At its center were two figures. Their shapes ebbed and flowed with the mist, until finally taking an almost solid appearance. 

Maggie stood in disbelief. The two ghostlike figures were her parents. They were locked in an argument in death as they had been in life. She couldn’t hear anything but the rumbling tornado that had invaded the room. The debris was spinning faster and faster, picking up speed and with it, a cloud of dust joined in the paranormal dance of floating glass and porcelain. 

As the ghastly sight and sound appeared to be reaching a crescendo, a single high-pitched, excruciating screech invaded the room. The screech drowned out the tornado. Maggie felt like the siren would split her head open. She covered her ears to only a tiny bit of relief. Maggie watched in horror as a third, hooded figure appeared, this one behind Horace.

Sally was locked in her scream. Her mouth stretched unnaturally open wide. Her scream began to be drowned out by a high-pitched siren. Horace turned his attention from Sally and began to search around for the source of the other voice. As the siren grew, Horace’s outline began to blur,  as if he were being erased. The sound of a tornado escalated in intensity to a point that Sally stopped screaming. The orbiting trash became a blur as it spun faster and faster. Horace suddenly reached for Maggie. As he did so, he burst into thousands of black droplets spreading across the room. 

With Horace’s disappearance, Sally could see the hooded presence that had been hidden behind him. The face was emotionless. The eyes sunken and black. The hooded figure turned to Sally. Sally was shocked she could feel fear. Fear was real, in life and in death. Sally began to back away from the creature.

“Who? Who are you?” Sally said. “What are you?”

The dark presence moved slowly and reached for Sally. Grabbing Sally by the neck, a voice deep from within the hood said, “She is mine. She has always been mine.”  

The hooded spirit raised its arm, exposing a blackened, deeply veined hand. The fingers were snake-like tentacles. As its fingers coiled and expanded, they reached for Sally’s throat. Sally tried to scream, she mouthed words, but couldn’t make a sound. The hand squeezed tightly around Sally’s throat until she burst into a thousand black droplets. The orbiting debris suddenly stopped and fell upon the floor silently. There was no sound. A loose bulb in a broken lamp flickered in a corner of the room.

Maggie had been lost in disbelief, her mind frozen, her body unable to move, until the hooded apparition destroyed both her parents. She tried to run and found her feet locked in place. She tried to break free only to find her arms locked by her sides. It was as if someone was suddenly holding her in place. Maggie was drenched in the black liquid that had been the souls of her parents. She watched as the hooded dark figure transformed into the apparition of an old woman, gray skin with darkened veins webbing across her face. She was dressed in flowing luminous veils. The old woman glided over to where Maggie stood, Maggie still couldn’t run.

”My dear,” the old woman spoke in a low graveled voice, “I’ve watched you since you were a baby. I’ve protected you. I’ve given you your riches. But now…now it is my time. Now, my dear, it’s time for me to take possession.”

“It is the law,” the old woman cackled. 

THE END