in the dark corners of my mind

I lie down again, sinking into the mattress. Every bone in my body aches, my skin feels tight over brittle bones, and breathing is like inhaling shards of glass. Sleep used to be a small mercy, a break from the constant war my body waged against itself. But not anymore. Not since the kids left.

They didn’t even say goodbye.

It happened so fast—a late-night phone call, two officers at the door, muttered apologies, and meaningless words like “accident” and “instant.” What does "instant" even mean? They were here this morning. Laughing. Breathing. I remember that—Ellie begging for pancakes, Sam sneaking chocolate syrup straight from the bottle. I blinked, and they were gone. Just like that.

Now it’s just me and the shadows in this cold, rotting house.

The moment I close my eyes, they’re back again. I can feel their small hands in mine, sticky with melted candy. I hear Ellie’s giggle from the hallway. Her voice has that sugary sweetness, the way she always said my name: “Mommyyyyy!” It drags out like an eternal lullaby. Sam trails behind, his too-big sneakers slapping against the floor.

But something’s wrong.

Ellie’s eyes are too wide, her pupils stretched into black pits. She giggles, louder this time, and it echoes in a way that makes my stomach twist. Sam opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a high-pitched squeal, like a balloon deflating. The sound crawls inside my skull and scrapes at my nerves until I want to scream.

They turn and sprint down the hall, and I follow, feet dragging like lead. The walls around me breathe—inhale, exhale. The wallpaper peels away in thick, fleshy strips. I see tendrils slithering beneath, veins writhing in the dark. I know I shouldn’t follow them. But what else do I have?

I jolt awake in a cold sweat. The house is silent, too silent.

The clock reads 2:34 AM.

I try to stand, but my legs don’t want to work. My limbs are heavy, swollen with the weight of chemo and regret. I wonder if I’ll ever move properly again. Probably not. The doctors say it won’t be long now. I think they meant it as comfort. It wasn’t.

I shuffle to the kitchen, but when I flick the light switch, the room stays dark. My heart races. Something moves in the corner of my eye—a flicker of motion by the refrigerator. I squint, but it’s gone.

Then I hear it.

“Mommyyyyy.”

Ellie’s voice.

I spin around, my pulse hammering. Nothing.

The floor beneath me groans, and for a moment, I think it’s my imagination. But no—it keeps going. The floorboards creak and shift, almost like something is crawling beneath them. The sound trails up the stairs, one heavy thud at a time.

I try to sit down, to breathe, but the visions come back.

Ellie is sitting at the dining table, her little hands folded neatly in front of her. She smiles, but it’s too wide—unnatural. Her teeth are tiny and sharp, each one a pointed dagger. Sam stands beside her, his eyes glassy and unfocused, as if something has sucked all the life out of him.

"Come sit with us, Mommy," Ellie says. "We saved you a seat."

I take a step forward, and suddenly, the walls around me collapse. The kitchen disintegrates into ash. The air turns thick and wet, smelling like spoiled meat. I hear whispers now—soft, slithering sounds that crawl through my ears and lodge in my brain.

I try to blink it away, but the vision doesn’t stop.

Ellie is still smiling, her lips stretched too far. Blood drips from her eyes, black and sticky. Sam’s head twists at an impossible angle, cracking and popping like dry twigs.

"Mommy," Ellie whispers. "Stay with us."

I wake again. Or maybe I never did.

The house is alive now—pulsing, breathing. Shadows stretch like tendrils, curling around my wrists and ankles. I try to scream, but my voice is gone, swallowed by the thick, rancid air.

The kids are standing at the foot of my bed.

Their skin is pale, almost translucent. Black veins spider-web beneath the surface, throbbing with each beat of my dying heart. They lean closer, their faces inches from mine. Ellie smells like earth—damp soil and rot. Sam touches my hand, and it’s ice cold.

"You’ll be with us soon," Ellie whispers. Her voice is a lullaby, pulling me under. "Don’t fight it, Mommy. It’s better here."

I close my eyes, and when I open them again, the visions are gone.

But so is the house.

I’m standing in a field, the sky heavy with storm clouds. Rain pelts my skin, but I don’t feel cold. The kids are here, holding my hands. They smile—normal smiles this time, soft and sweet.

I feel light.

The cancer, the pain, the fear—it’s all gone. I take a deep breath, and the air smells clean, like spring mornings and freshly cut grass.

Maybe this is what dying feels like. Maybe I was always meant to find them here, on the other side.

The world begins to blur at the edges, like ink bleeding through paper. The kids’ hands slip from mine, but I don’t feel sad. I know they’re waiting for me just beyond the horizon.

I let go.

And everything fades to black.