Happy Place

You’re in your happy place.

You’re in your home. It’s late at night. Your spouse is asleep. So are the kids. You should be asleep, too. You’ll regret it in the morning. But this is the best part of the day. When you’re finally alone. When you finally get to do what you want.

You crack open a beer, maybe a bottle of wine. You sit on the couch. You scroll through your phone. You watch funny gifs and look at amusing memes. It’s not fulfilling. It’s not productive. It’s completely mindless. And, right now, at the end of a long day, that’s all you want. No guilt. No shame.

It’s me time.

You notice how quiet it is. Without the kids, without the TV on, it’s finally peaceful. You’re finally yourself. Your real self. Family is fun. It’s great. It’s wonderful. But it’s not everything you hoped it would be. The grass is always greener. But at least you get a couple hours at the end of the day.

For a second, you look up from your phone and you notice the sounds. The small little noises that make up your home at night. The hum of the fridge. The tock of the clock. The kids upstairs changing position in their sleep. Sounds you only notice when it’s truly quiet. And you become mindful of the small noises you make yourself.

You look back at your phone.

In the corner of your eye, something moves. How can this be? You’re alone. You look up. You swivel your head. A full 360. And you don’t see anything. You don’t see anyone. A trick of the mind, you’re sure.

Back to the phone.

You try to read a comment thread about a funny question: What’s the weirdest thing that’s ever turned you on?

You should be laughing at the answers, but you’re not. Why? Because something’s in the room with you. You can’t see it. You feel it. It’s as real as if it were standing right in front of you.

It’s fear. Irrational fear.

All the same, you’ll feel better if you do a sweep. You get off the couch. You make sure the doors and windows are locked. They are. No signs of forced entry. No signs of an intruder. You know it’s stupid, but you check the bathroom. You even check inside the shower. You look under the couch.

Don’t worry. You’re alone. You’re being ridiculous.

Another answer to that funny thread: I get the biggest boner every time I smell this one woman’s farts. I know it’s foul, but there’s just something about this particular stinky bouquet coming out of her butthole. It’s actually how I ended up knowing she was the one. That woman is now my wife.

That’s funny, right? Ha. Ha. Ha.

But you’re not laughing.

Why?

Because for some fucking reason you know you’re still not alone.

You start to shiver. It’s so cold all of a sudden.

You look up from your phone again. This time, it’s more than a feeling. You see the intruder in your home, in the room with you.

It’s a shadow in the corner, looking at you. Right at you.

Why doesn’t it move? Why isn’t it afraid?

You know the answer. Because it has the upper hand. Because, if it wants to kill you, there’s not a goddamn thing you can do.

Suddenly, your fear isn’t so irrational.

You think it’s a trick of the light.

You think it’s a trick of the mind.

It’s just a creepy shadow. A jacket your spouse hung up after a cold day. That’s all it is. Stay calm.

The shadow walks towards you. It’s alive. It’s aware of you. You’re what it wants.

You want to scream. In fact, you do. But no sound comes out because the shadow’s hand covers your mouth.

You should’ve screamed sooner. Now it’s too late.

The shadow’s hand moves into your mouth.

You’re choking on the shadow.

You can’t breathe.

It’s whole arm’s in your body now.

It’s flowing into you.

It’s entering you.

No more shadow.

It’s inside you now.

Did that just happen?

You look at your hands. You feel your body. No differences. You’re okay. You’re the same person. There was never a shadow.

You feel incomplete though. There’s something you’re missing.

You go to the kitchen. Something you want is in there. Your missing piece. What it is, you don’t know. But you act on the compulsion. You’ll know what you want when you see it.

It’s a knife. It’s the chef’s knife you used earlier in the day to chop up the vegetables your kids and your spouse didn’t eat.

You grip the handle.

There it is.

That’s what you wanted.

Now you’re complete.

You walk up the stairs.

You reach the upstairs hallway and there’s two closed doors. Your spouse is in one. Your children are in the other.

You open the door to your kids’ room.

They’re asleep. No way for them to know you’re standing in their doorway with a knife.

You inch closer to their beds. Your two daughters. You love them so much. The last thing you’d ever want to do is hurt them.

And yet, here you are. Standing over your oldest with a chef’s knife.

She seems to be smiling at you in her sleep. She loves you so much, too.

Tears flow out of your eyes.

Because you know what you’re about to do.

You don’t want to do it.

But you’re not in control.

The Shadow is.

Or is it you? Isn’t this what you wanted? Was there ever even a shadow?

You don’t know the answer to these questions. All you know is that you’re surprised by how warm your daughter’s blood is. You’re surprised at the pressure that it sprays out of her throat and onto your chest, onto your face.

You watch as she chokes on her own blood. You watch her watching you. And you see the question in her eyes, the question she’ll never get an answer to: Why?

You hold her down. You put your hand over her mouth so she can’t wake anyone up. Just like

The Shadow did to you.

Don’t worry. She’ll stop convulsing soon. She’ll stop trying to breathe soon. You won’t have to hear the sounds of her blood filling her lungs. You won’t have to hear her feeble attempts to ask what she did to deserve this.

It’s over. She’s not moving anymore. Her body’s limp.

In the next bed over, your youngest daughter sits up. And she looks at you. And she’s afraid. She’s so fucking scared. She doesn’t recognize you. This isn’t her parent in front of her. This is someone – something – else.

You want to tell her it’s me. I’m your parent. I raised you. I love you.

But it doesn’t matter. Your daughter doesn’t want to listen. All she wants to do is run from you. She sees her dead sister. She sees the blood on your face. She sees the knife in your hand.

She’s in survival mode. All she wants is to live.

But you won’t let her.

You’re on a mission now.

It’s me time.

You chase her down. She even manages to get out of bed, into the hallway and to the top of the stairs before you stab the knife into her back. Right at the base of her spine. You don’t want any trouble.

She tumbles down the stairs. A bone or two breaks on the way down before she hits the wall neck first and twitches.

Are you going to put her out of her misery? Maybe you could if you weren’t laughing so hard.

Figure it out later.

Now’s not the time.

Your spouse is awake. And your spouse is screaming. Your spouse isn’t screaming words.

Your spouse screams grief and anguish.

Your spouse hates you. Your spouse wants to kill you. Your spouse charges you. But you’re too strong. You’re possessed. By the shadow? By hatred you didn’t know you had? What is it?

It doesn’t matter either. Your spouse is no match for the knife. You swing it with everything you got, enough to pierce the breastplate.

In it goes.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Deep.

Deeper.

Deepest.

Your spouse’s blood is so warm, too.

A finger’s on the ground by your feet. A defense wound. Your spouse tried. Your spouse tried so hard.

But your spouse is on the ground. Blood gushes on the hardwood. You’re going to have to clean that up later.

Why can’t you stop laughing?

One more stab.

Alright. One more for good measure.

Two more. Alright.

Off with your spouse’s head.

So be it.

You look down from the bannister. Your youngest daughter isn’t twitching anymore.

It’s all over now.

You pick up your spouse and drag your spouse to the bedroom.

You pick up your youngest daughter and put her in bed, tuck her in.

You kiss your daughters good night.

You kiss your spouse good night.

And the thought enters your mind: I haven’t showered today.

In you go.

Hot, hot water. Get all that blood off of you.

Put on a fresh set of clothes.

Back to the couch.

Back to the phone.

You resume reading the thread: What’s the weirdest thing that’s ever turned you on?

You didn’t before, but now you have an answer yourself. You chuckle. You think about replying, but decide not to. They wouldn’t find it as funny as you do.

Out of nowhere, you gag. You retch. You’re going to vomit.

And out it goes. Right out of your mouth. Pure black. The Shadow.

It’s out of your system now.

And you feel so much better.

You have no idea how it got so late. You have no memory of the last fifteen minutes whatsoever.

You lay on the couch.

It’s me time.

You hear the hum of the fridge. The tock of the clock. What you don’t hear is the kids upstairs changing their position in their sleep.

Must be because they’re sound asleep.

That’s gotta be it.

Don’t worry. Your loved ones will be waiting for you in the morning.

But, for right now, you’re in your happy place.