A Whisper by Barbara Chioffi

It began with a whisper.

Sitting in the dining room, Anne felt a shift in the air behind her.  She paused, shook her head, then returned to her story. 

Anne was middle-aged, of medium height, with blue eyes and brown hair with red highlights. She considered herself attractive but not beautiful. Never having married, she amused herself by writing horror stories. She'd been somewhat successful and managed to live comfortably.

Sitting up suddenly, she froze. Someone had touched her! Whirling around, she jumped up, looking in every direction, even under the table. Nothing. What the hell was going on?

Feeling a bit foolish, but aware she had felt the touch, she repositioned her chair with her back to the corner. All the horror stories she'd written, all the things she'd envisioned ran through her mind.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she sat for a minute, thinking she could have imagined it. Laughing to herself, she once again returned to her story.

"Anne."

At first, she didn't acknowledge it. 

"Anne."

There it was again. The smallest whisper, unmistakable. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Remembering one of her favorite plot lines...no one ever looks up...she hesitated. This is foolish, she thought. Laughing to herself, she glanced upward. 

TO BE CONTINUED