Wayward Hallucinations

The stairs creaked and groaned as I slowly went downstairs. I was creeping past old family portraits hung haphazardly on the walls, tilted off kilter. I reached the landing and froze, not wanting to continue. I was chained in place by my imagination as it concocted pictures and scenes from horror movies I’ve never actually watched.

I could see it perfectly. I would walk into the living room, the raggedy carpet coarse against my bare feet. Then I’d called out, timid at first, but then growing louder and louder, until my voice was hoarse and raw.  I’d desperately look around. That’s when I would see it, a foot, no, a hand, reaching out from behind the couch. The fingers would be lifeless, the skin white, small flecks of red dotting it. I’d stare at it for a minute, my mouth hanging wide open on its hinges. I’d slowly walked over; my feet weighted down by fear, dragging like anchors through the carpet. My hand would grab hold of the cracked leather sofa, craving support. I would look over and…and…

I shook my head, throwing out the scene, throwing out the picture of the red stain on the floor, of…of…

“Stop!” I shouted, my voice reverberating through the house, echoing inside my head.  I ran my hand through my hair leaned against the wall, sitting hunched over on the landing. 

My parents always said I had an overactive imagination. One year, snow was falling outside my window, dancing in the wild winter wind. I was leaning against the window’s chilled glass, lost in thought. At least, I think I was. Back then it was…hard to tell what was real. I just stared for minutes when my mom came in and grabbed my shoulders. Her eyes were full of a nervous fire and she was shouting. I don’t remember what she said. Later the next day, I was outside kicking around the newly fallen fall leaves, which danced like flickering flames.

 They said I’d sit like that, staring at the window for hours. They said they took me to the doctor.  I don’t remember that. They said it has gotten better. But sometimes, I’m not sure.

I took a deep breath, starting to stand up again, not confident the attack wouldn’t happen again. I took a shaky step forward, then another, and another. I became surer with each small step. Eventually, I made it to the living room.

The raggedy carpet was coarse against my bare feet.