George

His eyes. His nose. And his little, almost rotten fingers.

Remember—I used to call them donuts.

They were so squishy, soft, and alive.

I often consider offering you tea; maybe it can warm your body for a little while, but at the same time, I imagine all your well-dead organs boiling inside. That offering makes sense in my head since you will eventually decompose.

Well, guess what—we now have time to think about that tea, at least until spring.

Your lifeless body grows heavier with each step I take up the stairs to place you gently on the bed as if you were sleeping. Oh, dear George, if only you would help me a little. You are not helpful; you are just as stubborn as your mother.

The room is cold; I know you dont care, but still, I tuck you in like I used to. The ritual is almost comforting.

But your eyes. They are still open. They are staring at the ceiling. I know it would bore you to stare at nothing. I will close them gently. There. So much better.

I sit by the fire. Oh, flames. At times, I am prepared to ignite within them, yet often I observe them.

The light plays tricks on my mind, playing just above my body. That is an old but cruel trick. It looks like you moved. My heart starts pounding. I believe it is just the fire, but still. My mind is on the loose.

But then, again, after couple of minutes, that flame movement. This time, the blankets move with the flame.

Could it be?

No, impossible.

The air in this room is thick with tension.

My hand is trembling, but I am pulling back the blanket. Your eyes snap open, and a cold, lifeless hand grabs my wrist. A scream catches in my throat, unable to escape. Your grip is icy, devoid of any warmth or life.

I try to pull away, but your hold is surprisingly strong.

George?

Your eyes are empty, yet they seem to bore into my soul. And then you speak.

Your voice is sore, but yours.

Why Mommy?

I try to pull my wrist free again, but your hand tightens.

I am sorry, George. I sob.

I am here waiting, you say, but your voice is eerily calm. Your sinister smile says it all—join me, Mommy.

I stumble back, finally breaking free of your touch.

The room feels as if it is closing in on me. I am not able to breathe or think. I want to get out. I ran down the stairs.

The front door is ahead—my only salvation.

I grab the handle, but it's ice cold, and my fingers slip off.

Mommy, your voice cries from behind me, and I turn around, pressing my back against the door.

You are at the top of the stairs, moving slowly toward me. You have that awful smile on your face.

Come here, play with me, Mommy, you say, in a tone meant to be inviting but chills me to the bone.

I scream.

I wrenched the door open, stumbling into the cold night. As the darkness fills me, I know I’ll never truly escape but I ran until my legs gave out.

My lungs are hurting. But more than that, there is the pain from the voice in my head. Yours.

Hours, maybe minutes passed—I don't know. Time has lost all meaning. I'm trying to make sense here, but it’s almost impossible.

My mind is in chaos. I finally manage to stand up, but I feel dizzy. Disoriented.

It's almost like a maze, all of this. I don't know where I am.

I stumble forward, picking a direction at random. Each step is a monumental effort; my body is exhausted and my mind is drained.

I don’t know how long I wander, but eventually, the forest begins to thin, and I think I see the light in the distance. I feel - hope?

It is a town. Or, at least civilization.

I make my way to the nearest house, a tiny one, with warm light spilling from the windows.

I knock frantically on the door, praying someone will answer.

After a moment, the door creaks open, and an elderly woman peers out, her eyes wide with surprise.

Oh my, dear, what happened to you? she asks, her voice gentle and concerned.

Please, I need help, I manage to say, my voice trembling.

My son... my son...

She takes me inside, guiding me to a chair by the fire.

The warmth is a welcome relief, and I feel some of the tension in my body ease. She disappears for a moment and returns with a blanket and a cup of tea.

I take the cup with shaking hands, sipping the hot liquid. It soothes my throat but does little to calm my racing heart.

Now, tell me what happened, the woman says, sitting down across from me.

I try to explain, but the words are stick in my throat. How can I possibly make her understand? The guilt and the fear?

As I struggle to find my own, I hear yours words again. Your voice is faint but unmistakable.

Mommy, I am waiting.

I drop the cup, the hot tea spilling across the floor.

The woman looks at me in alarm, but I can’t focus on her. All I can think about is your voice and the terror it brings.

I have to go - barely a whisper - I have to get away.

Wait, dear, you’re not well, the woman protests, but I’m already on my feet, stumbling toward the door.

The cold air is hitting me again. It is night again.

I can still hear your voice, growing louder and closer.

I run, driven by fear, but deep down, I know I can’t escape.

You are the shadow that will haunt me forever.

And as I run through the dark streets, your voice is echoing in my mind.

No matter where I go or how far I run, you will always be waiting.

Mommy