A few days ago, Dr Fontaine said I should write it all down, like it was just another one of my novels. He said it might help me come to terms with her disappearance, and to understand that what I think I saw was not real. Couldn’t be real. If I wrote it down as though I were writing fiction, he said, I might be able to see that it was just another story created by my mind.
I ignored him at first. I thought it was stupid advice, not least of all because it fundamentally misunderstands how I write. I don’t sit there and consciously think about the next sentence, the next word. I tried telling him that it was more like I was excavating, finding new pieces of the story as I went. I usually have an idea of where I want a story to go, but often I feel that I’m merely following the trail, rather than making it up. In that sense, writing fiction has always been a strange beast for me, where I know I’m essentially crafting one big elaborate lie, while simultaneously believing it’s all true. I didn’t want to make this any more real than it already was, but he was adamant this would help.
It was easier to ignore the doctor’s advice in the light of day, but right now it’s just after 3 AM, and I’ve woken up from a series of terrible nightmares to the sound of that awful dripping noise again. It’s louder than ever, and always sounds like it’s right behind me.
At this stage, I’m willing to try anything to escape this horrible shadow that’s looming over me. Even if I think it won’t work.
When I came home that night, the lights were on, but the house seemed empty. I dropped my bag on the table near the front door and started to take off my shoes. It had been a really long few weeks of travel for work, and I was exhausted, but I was also apprehensive about coming home. Sara had been acting erratically over the past couple of months, and she had begged me not to go on this trip. Her anxiety had been slowly getting worse, but her psychiatrist had assured her that things were under control, so I decided that I’d go. This trip was a big deal because I was promoting my new book after it had suddenly gone viral. It seemed like everyone was buying it, and the publisher said that I needed to strike while it was still popular, or I’d fade from everyone’s memory.
So I went. I left her alone.
At first, things were okay. We’d speak on the phone twice a day: once in the morning, and again at night before bed. We’d also message each other throughout the days. She was trying to deal with everything, and it was difficult, but she was managing. However, she soon started getting distant. She began missing my calls and not responding to my messages. When she did answer the phone or respond to a message, she was cold, saying things in short sentences or one-word replies. I have to admit that things were so busy where I was that I was a little relieved. I was concerned, of course, but trying to split my attention between her and my work was really difficult. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t realise until I arrived at the airport to go home that I hadn’t heard from her in three days.
I tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail. My flight was boarding, so I sent her a quick message telling her I was on my way home. When the plane landed, and I got signal again, I tried to call her straight away, but the same thing happened. It was like her phone was off. I was really worried now, but had to wait hours to get my baggage. There was apparently some kind of strike going on, which was delaying everything. Then it took almost as long to get a taxi for the same reason. I’d landed at five and the sun was still in the sky. By the time I left in the taxi, it was nearly ten and the sun had long since set.
Like I said, when I got home, the lights were on, so I called out to her while I took my shoes off. There was no answer. I thought at first that she might be in the shower or something, so I walked to the base of the stairs and called again. The upstairs lights were off, and there was still no answer.
I was about to climb the stairs when I heard a noise in the lounge room, like a thump and then a creak. A cold feeling washed over me like someone had doused me in icy water. I looked at my hand resting on the bannister and noticed I was shaking. All sorts of terrible thoughts began to fly around my head. How had I forgotten to talk to her for three fucking days? I forced myself to move towards the lounge.
When I walked into the room, I knew instantly that something was wrong. The room looked empty—I couldn’t see Sara anywhere—but I felt something there with me. Something watching me.
I stepped forward, breaking out in goosebumps all over my body. I shivered, wondering what the hell was going on, and was about to call out again when I heard something behind me. It sounded like drops of water falling to the floor.
Drip. Drip.
A low, regular sound that should not have scared me so much, but which sent a spike of terror through me. It was like someone had stuck a live wire at the base of my spine, sending the electricity coursing through my body. I tensed up, my muscles frozen in wild terror, and for a few moments I couldn’t move.
I could still hear, though, and in that deep, unsettling quiet, I heard the rhythmic falling droplets behind me as clear as if they were words and someone was whispering them into my ear.
Drip. Drip.
I could also hear a strangled wheezing, as if someone was struggling to breathe. That sound was coming from behind me as well, but somehow above me. I didn’t want to turn and see whatever was making that noise—I knew it would be something I’d never forget—but my body betrayed me and turned anyway. I was still so tense I almost expected the muscles in my neck to creak like a taut rope; that didn’t happen, but I was shaking so much my movements were far from smooth.
Drip. Drip.
As I turned, I kept my gaze on the floor, to where the dripping noise was coming from. Something in my head screamed for me to keep my eyes down, to not look at anything above me. I knew I would look eventually but, for now, I listened to that panicked voice in my mind, content to hold off from the horror I knew waited for me for as long as possible. The raspy breathing continued.
I was still turning in jerky, spasmodic movements, but I finally managed to turn completely. I looked at the floorboards that had been behind me just a moment ago. The rich, polished wood gleamed in the warm overhead lights. Sara and I had always prided ourselves on keeping a clean house, and didn’t mind the expense of hiring a cleaner to come in a few times a week. Especially since we’d both been so busy with work, and Sara had the added complication of her anxiety flaring up lately. I knew the cleaner had been in just that morning because the floor was free of dust and dirt. It was pristine. Well, except that now there was a small puddle of dark red blood just in front of the doorway to the lounge. It hadn’t been there when I came in, I know that. I would have seen it.
As I watched, another droplet fell into the small puddle, making a sickeningly thick sploosh as the fresh blood hit the quickly coagulating pool of it on the floor.
Drip.
A strange combination of terror and revulsion bubbled up inside of me at that moment, the two feelings warring with each other until they both burst from me in a strangled cry. I tried to step backwards, but the strength had gone from my legs and I simply collapsed. The back of the couch broke my fall, and I held on to it like it was a bit of floating wreckage in a stormy sea. My legs hung limp and useless beneath me.
In my shock and confusion, I didn’t listen the voice in my head that was screaming at me, saying Don’t look up! DON’T LOOK UP! because my eyes naturally looked up, following back along the trajectory of the falling blood.
Then I saw what waited for me.
I’ve always thought Sara had the most beautiful smile of anyone I’ve ever seen: it was one of the things that had captivated me from the moment I first saw her. We met at the grocery store, of all places. She had tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I could grab something from the top shelf for her. I looked around and saw this beautiful woman with the light green eyes and almost fell over myself trying to get her what she wanted. In my fluster, I grabbed the wrong item, and she very kindly said, ‘No, that one,’ and pointed back to the shelf. I look at what I had in my hand and burned with embarrassment, and then grabbed the right one. When I handed it to her, she laughed, and I was momentarily struck dumb by the smile that spread across her face. To this day, I don’t remember large portions of that first conversation because all I could think about in that moment was how beautiful she looked when she smiled.
Drip. Drip.
So when I looked up towards the ceiling now, my mind struggled to comprehend what it was seeing. In the confused terror, my mind latched onto the image of her face. I think it must have been trying to anchor itself to something—anything—to make sense out of the image before me. I remember thinking Oh god her smile what’s happened to her smile.
Sara was in an odd, impossible position. Her back was against the wall, though her head was angled slightly downwards where it met the ceiling. One arm was twisted back so that the palm lay flat against the ceiling, while the other hand pointed down, this one laying against the wall. Her legs were bent inhumanly. The left leg curled beneath her body like she was planning to sit on it. The right leg was a horrifying mess, twisted around so that it was positioned vertically along the side of her body.
Drip. Drip.
She was staring at me, unblinking, and breathing in that raspy, wheezing way that made it obvious she was struggling to get any air. I barely registered any of this because in my head all I could think was Her smile oh god her smile again and again and again. I started to feel faint, and the world began to get darker as I slipped into unconsciousness. I still never took my eyes from the red ruin of her face, and the sight of it has never left me. I still see it when I close my eyes now. I see it in my dreams every night.
Her lower jaw had been ripped from her face. I could see the top row of her teeth, stark white against the red blood, and the inside of her throat. Most of her cheeks had been ripped away, and blood seeped out in slow pumps, covering her chest and soaking the shirt she was wearing. Because of the way her head was angled, a few small droplets fell straight down into the pool of blood on the floor.
Drip. Drip.
I witnessed this sight this for maybe a second or two, and then I passed out. When I woke up, she was gone, and there was no trace of blood anywhere. I never saw her again.
Later
I had to take a break after finishing that. I think I drank half a bottle of whiskey, and now my head is spinning.
It’s around 4:30 AM, and I’m looking at the pages I wrote, but I’m not reading any of it. It’s all become too real again. Dr Fontaine said it could help me figure out the truth from the fiction created by my mind, but now it’s more real than ever.
If I told him what’s happening now, he’d sign the papers to commit me with no hesitation. Hell, I’d do it if I were in his position. It’s crazy. I must be crazy.
God, I’m talking around it. I don’t want to face it, I guess.
After I finished writing, I felt I’d purged something from myself, like I’d been covered in a thin skin of filmy slime and had finally washed it from my body. I reached into one of the cupboards and got out the good whiskey I kept there for moments of celebration. I sat down in my chair and drank it straight from the bottle, then sighed and closed my eyes.
I felt better than I had felt in months. I started composing the thank-you letter I was going to write to Dr Fontaine for his suggestion, and was even imagining the sleep I might now be able to sneak in before the sun came up.
But then.
Drip. Drip.
I’m hearing that sound again. It’s really loud, almost as loud as it had been on that awful night. I can’t look behind me because I know I’ll see her again. I can feel her there, watching me with those unblinking eyes and the sickening ruin of her face. If I look at her, I’ll start screaming, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop. They’ll have to cart me away, gag me and pump me full of drugs to shut me up, but I’ll still see her. I don’t think I’ll ever stop seeing her.
I know she’s there. It’s different from before, when I just heard the dripping. It’s different because this time I can hear the raspy, wheezing sound as she struggles to breathe.
I don’t want to look.
I think I’m going to look.
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