by Ben Mears
It’s always watching.
|I see it watching, the thing that’s not there. Tiny glimpses out of the corner of my eye.
Watching...waiting...biding it’s time.
The moon casts shadows on the wall at night, a deeper black than the darkness around it while the light glints off it’s teeth.
I feel the breath on the back of my neck, and the light touch of it on my skin, and always when I look, it isn’t there.
But it is.
Guttural tones of its heavy breathing come to my ears, mixed with choking chuckles.
Sometimes I feel the mattress sink down, because it’s getting tired of just watching.
I can smell it when it’s close,
and it smells like Death.