Midnight Feast
Follow me, oh tiptoeing hero, downstairs to the kitchen where we see the remnants of the most peculiar battle strewn all over the floor. Tufts of matted hair dot like islands in a big pool of blood. There’s a box of cereal on its side, spewing its contents out like a starry night.
The fridge opens. Fingers with blood on them curl around the edge of the door. There’s someone inside. You hear muffled whumps and thumps and the door opens a little more, then thuds closed, thuds because the fingers are trapped, white-knuckled, holding fast to the frame. It’s then you realise they’re not trying to get out. Someone – or something – is pulling them into the fridge and it’s only the slowly slipping fingers holding them back.
Ping – the left pinkie slides off. Ping. Ping. A couple more from each hand. Now there’s only one middle finger and that’s when you bolt and jump down the last couple steps and run sliding through the blood and grab the handle and rip the door open and – oh my god – you wake up!
Just joking, that’s when the hairy hands reach outta the light. There’s dozens, hundreds, thousands with frantic fingers like fucked up eels reaching for your face. You notice a smell of almond liqueur and then you’re screaming, screaming, screaming down a tunnel of agony and despair.
You’re free falling, no, being pulled by a force too hard to swallow. All the air’s sucked outta your chest and you’re slowly being compressed. Your cavities collapse and skull implodes. You look like a withered leaf but still totally conscious and aware of the fact that this all really happening.
There’s no waking from this nightmare. Surrender control. Let go of your fear. Realise there is nothing you can possibly do to arrest the onrush of death at the end of your life.