He got home just after six, the sky outside dimming to a soft violet, crimson fingers of clouds made the sky look as though it was losing a fight with the darkness. Everything was quiet since his girlfriend had left. No TV. No cooking sounds. No music, not even the dog barking next door. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the grandfather clock that sat in the corner.
Will dropped his keys in the bowl that sat on the oak entryway table and loosened his tie. He stretched with a groan and a sigh. The kitchen greeted him in the usual manner, plain, clean, too quiet. He opened the fridge and reached for the milk.
He paused and tilted his head.
A small, torn scrap of paper sat beneath the carton. Damp around the edges. He frowned, picked it up. It felt soft, as if it had been wet and dried. The image was hard to make out. A patch of floor, maybe, dark tile, smudged red in one corner.
He shrugged his shoulders, probably garbage. Maybe something that had stuck to the bottom at the store. He threw it away.
The second piece was in the silverware drawer. He spotted it while reaching for a spoon, wedged between the knives and forks. Same texture, slightly damp, curled corners. This one had a shadow in the corner. A shoulder maybe? A doorway?
He stared at it longer than he meant to. Then dropped it in the trash beside the first one.
The third piece was on the bathroom sink. Will noticed it after he had washed his hands. He reached for the towel and saw it. Had it been there before he washed his hands? He was sure that it wasn’t. It was as if it was placed there, tucked next to the faucet. Icy fingers ran up his spine, he didn’t throw this one away. His anxiety began to gnaw at his sanity.
He took it to the kitchen and pulled the other two pieces from the trash. All the pieces had the same off white border. Same torn edges. Same faint scent, like burnt plastic and Autumn leaves. They fit together. A little unevenly, but enough. The tiles from the first piece flowed into the second. The third pic looked like the corner of a leg, pale and stretched out.
His stomach did flip flops.
It was just a picture. Probably from an old magazine. Maybe one of those “crime scene art” pictures that his ex loved so much. Had she left this scattered through the house?
He laughed it off, a little too loud.
The fourth piece was inside the cabinet, behind the coffee filters. He wasn’t looking for it, he was just making sure he had enough for the morning brew. But there it was, slightly damp and folded waiting in the shadows.
Will took it to the table. He pressed the edges together, they locked together easily. The image expanded. A body laying on the floor, one leg bent under the other. A broken coffee mug near the hand. Dark liquid was smeared across the tile that looked all too familiar.
The same tile as his kitchen. He rubbed his face. Felt a throb behind his eyes, something about this photo made his head ache. He stared at the picture as beads of sweat began to form on his brow. He shook his head and shivered.
The house felt colder now. Not a broken furnace cold but empty cold. Like someone had opened a door and never shut it. He tried calling a friend, just to chat, to get out of his own head. No answer. Texted. No reply. The silence stretched between each second.
The final piece came as he stood at the kitchen sink sipping water. Outside, the street was quiet. One streetlight buzzed faintly. A moth fluttered against the glass, he looked down at the sill.
There it was. Wet and sticking to the wood. Its image was clear and terrible. His hand trembled as he set his cup down on the counter and carried the final piece to the table. He didn’t sit down.
He assembled the photo standing up. One piece at a time, no hesitation, like he knew what the image would be.
When he was done. He saw himself. Not metaphorically, not imagined. It was him. In his own kitchen, face down, one arm twisted under his chest. A small pool of blood beneath his head. Glass shards beneath his feet. Dead.
Will staggered back from the table, heart pounding. He looked down at the floor, the counter, and the cabinet. Every detail matched the picture perfectly.
Even the cup of water.
His elbow bumped the counter. The glass tipped, he reached for it…and missed. It hit the floor and exploded. Water splashed across the tile, shards spread around like jagged teeth. He froze.
A chill rolled up his spine, “no, no, no,” he whispered. He stepped back. His heel caught the edge of the spill.
He slipped. Time stretched.
He twisted, arms flailing, eyes wide. His forehead hit the corner of the granite countertop with a wet, sickening crack. The force bent his neck sideways. He collapsed, shoulder first then skull again. His temple bounced off the tile with a dull, bone splitting thud. One leg kicked, his body spasmed.
Then nothing.
On the kitchen table, the assembled picture sat undisturbed. For a moment, it held its awful image. A man face down on the tile, blood seeping from his head, frozen in the final beat of his life. Then, without wind or heat, the paper curled. The corners lifted and the image shimmered. Piece by piece it dissolved into thin air, vanishing like breath on glass.
No one saw it go. No one knew it had even been there. An unheeded warning, a little too late.
∼ Kathleen McCluskey
© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.
Pen of the Damned 