Beyond the drapes
Beyond The Drapes
The image on the filigreed mirror remains the same, for the moment at least, until the gloom infiltrates and the twilight reverts to dark. The changes are subtle and cautious. There’s no-one here apart from me, my nictophobia and an increasing sense of anxiety as shadows begin to scurry across the walls as though performing a grotesque dance. The TV offers no release from a worsening plight, as it sits idly mumbling in the corner boasting a screen of sights and sounds that entertain nobody. I pace the echoey house with its distortion of noises and check the windows and doors. Everything is secure, although an inaudible whispering sound seems to emanate from the small bedroom. This deafening silence is playing havoc with my overrun imagination so I swiftly close the curtains to blot the silhouetted external scene. I am convinced I have just seen a tall, cloaked figure standing beside the cedar tree in the front garden. Bravely I inch the fabric open again casting a daring glance beyond the glazing. The cedar is calmly responding to a night time breeze under the dim street light with feathery branches brushing the air, but the figure has gone. I swiftly reconnect the heavy drapes before adjusting the volume on the television. Weather reports have alerted me to a local evening thunderstorm and this is confirmed by tonight’s matter of fact news reader. As though by magic, a faint grumbling is heard followed by a patter of relentless watery drops hammering the window and for once the weather report is right. I congratulate myself on containing my phobic symptoms feeling safe and secure in this haven, away from the raging elements outside. My family would be returning late, hopefully when the tempest has abated. I settle down to watch a game show intrigued by the antics of one of the contestants. She is corpulent and middle aged with a voice to match and is commiserating her low score refusing to accept that her lack of knowledge is largely to blame. Now she is challenging the presenter to the accompaniment of sympathetic comments from other equally as loud participants. Increasingly the program becomes a furore rather like the one in progress outside and by now the red-faced presenter has called for help in case there is a punch-up. The fat woman has begun to gesticulate wildly prodding the presenter’s chest with a finger, her ardor fueled by the audience and gamers. His cool broken, the presenter stiffly pushes her away causing a rumpus. She forcefully returns the push making the presenter stumble and suddenly the stage becomes a deluge of shouting, remonstrating people. I am now watching a complete farce and in total disbelief. A sudden ear piercing crack followed by a grating splintering sound alerts me to the storm and its proximity It had sounded like a lightening strike leaving me to guess the target of its strike and I find myself bemoaning the loss of my beloved cedar tree. I wouldn’t know for sure unless I look, so cautiously I tweak the drapes accompanied by the wailing of police sirens on TV. A sudden bang simultaneously lights up the outside like a fireworks display. I can see it as I ease back the blinds, but the image now emerging is terrifyingly unexpected. The puffy fat faced game show contestant leers back from behind the pane, a trickle of blood oozing from her fat lips. I am now static with the horror of it all and worse she is holding the severed arm of the presenter in her chubby fingers.
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