Dread

A week after my father’s funeral, I woke to a murky figure standing in a dark corner of my bedroom and knew it was the specter of the abusive bastard I’d finally buried.

It said nothing.

I said nothing.

It stayed there. For weeks, I’d a wake in the middle of the night to find the skulking shadow. Its heaviness was palpable. Finally I get sick of that nightmare lurking behind my drapes.

“Dad?!” I call out softly.

“It’s so cold, Lara.”

I practically leap out my skin at its dreadful whisper. I hadn’t really expected a response. But quickly recompose myself.

“Dad, I need you to move on to the next place.”

“I cannot.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s dark here.”

“What did you expect? To go to the good place?”

“No.” it sighed, “The bad.”

“It’s not supposed to be a party.”

“Tell that to all the clowns here.”