WORDY WEDNESDAY

PART THREE - THE WHISPER by Barbara Chioffi

Part 3

With a silent gulp, Anne asked, “What kind of story do you want?”

Without hesitation, the clown answered, “One where I get to kill.”

“Oh,” was the only reply Anne could muster. “I’ll see what I can do. Is that all you want?”

“Yes,” the clown replied with a sinister grin.

Anne shuddered. “What is your name?”

“You can call me Thomas.”

Anne swallowed. Her mouth was dry and closing her eyes, she rested her head on the table.

Sitting up suddenly, she looked around. Had she been dreaming? There was no clown, no chair suspended in the air. Shaking her head and laughing at herself, she decided it was definitely a dream. It was late, and she’d fallen asleep. That was it. She rose, wondering why her table was in the corner. Too sleepy to think about it, she walked her tired ass to bed.

Almost asleep, she heard it. “Anne.”

Opening her eyes, she looked around. The glow from the bathroom night light showed nothing. She rolled over and curled up under the cover.

“Anne.”

Shit, shit, shit. Sitting up suddenly, she screamed. Sitting on the end of the bed was Thomas. His face was the same . . . slits for eyes, two holes for a nose, and that hideous toothy grin. This time, however, a halo of red hair surrounded his head. “Have you started my story yet?” He asked in that ‘fingernail on a chalkboard’ voice.

Gathering her nerve, Anne answered, “I need my sleep. I don’t write well when I’m tired. If you want me to include you in my story, you’ll have to let me rest.”

The slits blinked, and Anne had an impression of solid black eyes, if only for a second. Grumbling, she rose, put on her robe, and made her way to the kitchen. She could feel him following her, a slight clicking sound accompanying them both. A large cup of strong coffee was called for if she was going to make it through this night.

Purposely facing away from Thomas, Anne made her coffee. “Would you like a cup?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t eat or drink anything. I have no sight for the most part and no sense of smell. Nothing interests me . . . except for…”

A chill went up Anne’s back. “Except for what?”

“Blood.”

Part Four next week...

Peace,

Barb