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
