I knew something was wrong the moment I walked into the room. The door swung open on its own, revealing a space that should have been my sanctuary – a cozy living room bathed in the warm glow of a vintage floor lamp – but instead, it was shrouded in eerie disarray.
The furniture was toppled as if someone had meticulously overturned every item. My eyes were drawn to a wrinkled piece of paper lying on the coffee table, its ink smeared by an inexplicable dampness.
A chill trickled down my spine. I reached for the paper and unfolded it with trembling fingers. In hurried, uneven scrawl, it read, ‘You should have listened to me.’
I moved cautiously toward the window. A gentle breeze fanned the curtain, and there, on the sill, lay a cassette tape labelled ‘Truth’ in a neat, looping handwriting.
I found a small tape recorder on a side table and with a mix of dread and determination, I slid the tape in. The device crackled to life, and a shrill woman’s voice filled the silence. It was like a very bad imitation of Margaret Thatcher. It was my recently deceased mother.
It was typical; even after death she couldn’t resist running my life. The room was suddenly cold as if someone had opened a window wide on a brisk winter night. I felt mother’s vile presence in the room.
I pulled the tape from the recorder and stomped on it: a poor substitute for dancing on her grave.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 