Christmas

By Debangee Ganguly

I felt it then.

As I was walking down the well lit street, I felt someone watching me.

What gave me the creeps, was that however much I tried to disappear in the horde of people, I was still

able to feel the pair of bodiless eyes on me.

My back was wet with sweat as the hairs behind my neck stood up.

As I turned down the narrow lane where my house was, I kept looking behind my back, waiting for a

masked killer to jump out and grab me.

I could still feel those eyes on me.

Even in this empty street, I could not spot the source of my trepidation as I hurried towards my house.

When I reached my neighborhood I let out a sigh as my panic slightly dissipated seeing the well

decorated houses and people who were chatting merrily, celebrating Christmas Eve.

In spite of that, I was all jittery and cautious as I entered the safe threshold of my front lawn.

As soon as I stepped home, I slammed the door behind me, squeezing my eyes shut as I willed myself to

calm down.

‘Stacy, You’re home?’ called a voice from the kitchen, as the delicious smell of roasted turkey invaded

my senses.

‘Yes dad,' I called back as I removed my shoes and stepped inside, dying to be in the presence of my

father as the panic was starting to get to my head.

An old man in his sixties stepped from the kitchen, slightly bent by age, as his shriveled up face broke

into a toothy grin. His eyes surveyed me with happiness as he motioned towards the kitchen.

‘Come,' he said, ‘Let’s eat. Tell me how it is.’

He looked at me with his expectant gaze as he waited for my opinion.

I melted.

My unease all but forgotten, I bit into the turkey.

‘Its great,' I said between mouthfuls.

‘You are better than mom,' I joked.

His eyes lit up then dimmed. A faraway look came over his face as he reminisced, ‘I disagree. Her

cooking had something in it no one had.’

I stared at him.

He was right in a way. I should not have said that. My late mother is a sensitive topic for him.

She passed away from pneumonia last year.

I have pretty much let go, but it was harder for him.

‘Anyways,' he suddenly exclaimed as he looked up at me and smiled. ‘Tomorrow is a big day, we need to

spend this Christmas as jovially as we can. I will cook another turkey tomorrow. Go to sleep darling.’

He looked at me with those sad eyes of his. My father has suffered a lot.

I bid him a goodnight as I went upstairs.

*********************

There is someone inside my house.

As I lay awake in my bed, all hints of sleep gone, I feel the silent tremors of my body as I try to keep my

breathing as quiet as possible.

The footsteps I hear downstairs, whoever it is, they are not even trying to keep quiet.

I cross out the possibilities of petty thieves as I believe no thief is such an amateur at keeping quiet.

This only leaves dangerous criminals in my mind. Dangerous enough to not care before killing anyone in

this house.

I jolt with the realization that my father is also at a risk. He is just a frail man. I can’t lose him too.

My breaths come out in gasps as I struggle to breathe. My mind is killing me.

Pulling myself together, I decide to go check for the sake of my father.

As I slowly make my way down the stairs, the unease I felt that evening returned. I almost forgot about

that.

My feet touches the cold ground of the hall as I shiver at the chilly weather.

There is movement in the kitchen.

I steady myself. It takes everything in me not to turn back and quietly slip under the duvet, pretending

nothing is wrong.

Instead, I make my way towards the half open door, the once lively kitchen then seeming ominous.

As I push the door open I see someone — no something standing at a far corner, staring at the wall.

The thing turn towards me.

I almost throw up.

It’s face, half burnt, one eye being missing and the other is bulging out of it’s socket, completely white.

It’s nostrils looks stitched together.

A grin formed on its lipless mouth as it advanced towards me.

I back away as I hit the kitchen counter.

Just when I start to feel completely trapped, a solution strikes me.

I rush to open the drawers and cabinets until I find it.

Bingo.

My mother’s butcher knife.

I pick it up and face the creature. We were less than three feet apart.

It looks at the knife and then at me. It’s smile grew wider.

Two feet.

I lunge.

I stab the knife deep in it’s heart. I pull out and stab again. And again.

I lose count.

All I know is my eyes are leaking tears as I scream and stab. It is still smiling.

It’s smile gets under my skin. It’s smile mocks me, judges me. It’s smile makes me want to cry.

I bring the knife up and stab its mouth.

It’s smile makes me so very mad.

It falls.

The knife embeds in its mouth, which is now mangled. It looks dead.

Somehow it’s eye is still open. Looking at me.

I just realize, I am still screaming. My voice was hoarse as I sob, my hands dripping it’s blood on the

floor.

*******************

‘This is confusing as heck,' Detective Wright muttered as he stared at the girl through the one way

mirror.

She was sitting there, staring at nothing.

She looked worse than dead.

‘So, what’s her name again?’ Wright questioned, turning towards the attendant.

‘Stacy Miller,' replied the attendant.

Wright continued, ‘So she murdered her father. Any previous mental issues or criminal records I should

know about?’

Checking the files, the attendant replied, ‘Well, she was a victim of bullying in her college. She got

severe trauma and was diagnosed with Schizophrenia.’

‘Schizophrenia and a victim of bullying,' Wright murmured, ‘That explains it. So, lets go talk to her.’

As he entered the room Stacy did not show any signs of acknowledgement.

Detective Wright sat opposite to her and started the questioning.

‘So the neighbour was the one to report this case.’ He paused and looked at her.

No reaction.

He continued, ‘She heard your father and you screaming and assumed something was wrong. We were

surprised to find you staring at your father as the knife was stuck down his throat. Your hand were

covered with his blood so we arrested you. The knife was found to have your fingerprints.’

Another pause.

‘So Ms. Stacy Miller, why did you kill your father, Mr. Richard Miller?’

She finally, slowly looked up, her eyes blank as she smiled a carefree smile.

She replied with a light voice, ‘I finally killed it.’

By Debangee Ganguly