Sinister

That night, John haunted my dreams. His head was bloody and as he reached for me, I let him. With sickening revulsion, I stepped into his embrace, pressing my ear to his chest, expecting to hear the thump of his heart.

I knew I wouldn't.

He was dead. Scott was dead. And I was getting closer to losing myself every day.

The thoughts of killing Ray stayed with me when I rose the next morning. I made coffee, and as I drank it, I tasted iron in my mouth. I saw Ray's shattered face in the mirror as I dressed. And when I arrived at work and saw him crossing the road to get into the precinct, I imagined myself swerving and hitting him, pinning him against the bumper of a parked car, and pressing the gas until his bones broke.

I was as sick as John, maybe more, but neither the images or the urges stopped. As I collapsed into the chair my office, there was a knock on the door.

When Scott appeared, the smell of decay following him, every part of my body was paralyzed.

"I know what's in your heart," he said, smirking, his teeth red with blood.