Not All Monsters Get Along
Alexandra: The Death Speaker
I rolled onto my back, sighing. I opened my eyes and glared at the woman at the end of my bed.
“Something I can help you with?” I barked and she just stared at me with wide eyes.
After a long minute, I kicked my blankets off, got out of bed and ignored her, going to my kitchen. She waited in the doorway, and then stood across from me when I sat on my couch. I sighed and looked up at her impatiently.
“What can I do for you?” My voice was softer than before and she drifted closer.
“Call my husband and tell him to hand himself over to police. Instead of divorcing me like most men would do, he murdered me and buried in my own garden to be with his mistress.” I nodded, not fazed by her story. I had heard countless stories.
“So I should call him, and then the police,” I guessed and she nodded slowly. I sighed and picked up my house phone. I dialed the numbers she spelled out for me and on the fifth ring, a male voice answered.
“Hello?” I picked at my nails.
“Your ex wife, the one your buried in the garden, says to turn yourself in,” I told him and he stopped breathing.
“Who are you? What the fuck, you stupid cunt,” he roared into the phone but I hung up. I called the police, relayed the address the woman told me, and told whoever I was on the phone with that she was buried in the garden. Once that was finished, I hung up and the woman was gone.
She had passed on. Oh the simple things that make us happy enough to move onto the afterlife.
I flicked on the television and drowned my morning with news and talk shows. No work today meant that I could sit at home all day and do nothing: the best thing to do on a Saturday when you had worked long hours during the week.
“Something I can help you with?” I barked and she just stared at me with wide eyes.
After a long minute, I kicked my blankets off, got out of bed and ignored her, going to my kitchen. She waited in the doorway, and then stood across from me when I sat on my couch. I sighed and looked up at her impatiently.
“What can I do for you?” My voice was softer than before and she drifted closer.
“Call my husband and tell him to hand himself over to police. Instead of divorcing me like most men would do, he murdered me and buried in my own garden to be with his mistress.” I nodded, not fazed by her story. I had heard countless stories.
“So I should call him, and then the police,” I guessed and she nodded slowly. I sighed and picked up my house phone. I dialed the numbers she spelled out for me and on the fifth ring, a male voice answered.
“Hello?” I picked at my nails.
“Your ex wife, the one your buried in the garden, says to turn yourself in,” I told him and he stopped breathing.
“Who are you? What the fuck, you stupid cunt,” he roared into the phone but I hung up. I called the police, relayed the address the woman told me, and told whoever I was on the phone with that she was buried in the garden. Once that was finished, I hung up and the woman was gone.
She had passed on. Oh the simple things that make us happy enough to move onto the afterlife.
I flicked on the television and drowned my morning with news and talk shows. No work today meant that I could sit at home all day and do nothing: the best thing to do on a Saturday when you had worked long hours during the week.