Closet

Marc Wanicko, Icon nº1

(third in a series of ghost stories)

He always locks it when he leaves on business. I know it’s off limits. But I can’t help wondering what hides there. I searched the key many times, curious worm darkmawing  my chest. But always empty handed.

I’m glad when he leaves town for business, a hurricane here, a revolt there. Massacres too. He assures me there’s always a demand for his skills and one day I’ll take over the family business.

When he comes home he’s so tired, his hands feel of stone. I glance up into his eyes, lost. Can’t seem to find him in shadows. His cheeks move higher on his face.

“This job is killing me,” he sighs. He brings home a dark air, some long wind foreboding and I shiver. He dusts my hair with a withered hand and I gasp. A sinking deep. A feeling to run. To scream, but my body too still. too still.

He opens a beer. Sits mute on the table. Unharmed. Tie flung aside and sunk into the recliner. His bones, a heap. Fingers dripping over arm rests. And I can’t see who I am looking at. I have forgotten.

I notice behind him the door to his room sliced open.

That dark wind swirls me. To the closet door standing –  cracked.  No heart in my chest. I see into space Dusk outlined  souls and glint of sicklesteel and fire. Fear and trembling and teeth scattered round. My teeth falling. Then vast nothing

of no end

“I hoped you wouldn’t see this, yet”

I jump- skin out of pocket, arms tight held around me. The darkness horrible and bright. Faint smells of matches extinguished and scentless nothing.

“This is the family business?”

And his eyes stone sink back into a fleshless skull. my father, now the mask of Death.

“soon this will all be yours”