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Stalkerby Kathryn Gossow
She sees it through closed eyes.
The Lion. Lithe, smooth bellied. The ceiling, suddenly see-through, buckles
beneath his weight.He has found her.
Eyes closed, she is frozen. Her body, so still it burns. Her strength seeps
into the mattress.He moves, his paws tread softly, stealthily.
The clear ceiling dips and bows like soft plastic. He preens, his chest
rising. He shakes his stinking mane. The stench floats, drifts to her. His
mouth is thick with pooling drool. His nostrils are deep pits blasting hot
air in rhythmic gusts.
Her body is a cage of adrenalin pumping against her skin.With cavernous mouth he roars. The guttural sound is an avalanche, a rain of
boulders crushing her chest. Yellow teeth bared, he leaps and thumps down
with his mammoth paws. The ceiling bends and creaks. A shower of dust
trickles down the walls. He leaps again in frenzy. The ceiling cracks and
slips.Her heart punches her chest. Her eyes pounce open. The ceiling is flat
white, the light shade trembles.And there--she can see him, his shadow stalking.
Every pore, every cell, every minute muscle from her fingertips to her heels
throbs as blood pushes itself through her body. Her chest is empty,
labouring for small desperate breathes.She cannot move.
The shadow seems closer, more distinct.
With determination she moves one finger, and then another. At last her elbow
bends. She rests her palm across her heart. The shadow twitches at the
movement. She sits upright. The smell of rotten meat clings like a layer of
fog.She moves fast, tearing back the sheets and throwing her feet on the cold
floor. She stands, her bare arms shiver. In the darkness she searches for
the light switch. She bangs her shin on an open drawer. A small tear of
blood rises beneath the torn skin. A low needy rumble vibrates around her.
She freezes. The rumble grows. Frantic, she feels the wall and finds the
switch. Nothing. She flicks it off and on, but there is nothing. Darkness.
She waits.Still.
Listening.
Checking.
His invisible presence sends spikes into her spine.
Move, she demands of herself.
She moves. In the next bedroom she shakes the oldest one awake first.
“Get up. Get dressed.”
“Mummy?” The child’s voice is quiet, pathetic, croaking with sleep.
“Don’t argue. Just get up.” She grabs the girl and rips her out of bed. Her
fingers dig into smooth flesh.The boy is easier, younger, more docile; she pushes his fragile arms into a
jumper.The scrape of claws on floorboards makes her heart leap. She turns and
spasms of pain shoot up her neck.“Did you hear that?”
Her daughter’s eyes are dark. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Ignore it.”
She has to move. March on the spot; shake her head back and forth. Jiggle
her shoulders. Anything but stillness.Still marching, she pulls the boy to his feet. Half asleep he flops against
her. “Wake up!” She pushes her fingers hard into his shoulder. He cries in
pain.“Mummy?” The girl’s voice begs.
“Move,” she screams back. The girl is standing so still she is a shadow.
“I said move.” She throws her through the door, dragging the crying boy
behind her. “Get to the car. Fast”Outside she fumbles with the keys. Her hands clammy, her fingers fat with
clumsiness. The cold air circles her bare feet.
The sound of gravel crunches behind her. Pinpricks of fear stab her ankles,
her shins. She marches again, dancing up puffs of dust.“Damn it.” She breathes deeply and concentrates her attention. Finally, the
door unlocked, they crawl into the car. It is dark and musty.She starts the car. They back into the deserted street. One hand grips the
wheel. The other she shakes vigorously, purposely.
As long as she moves they can’t get her.Stillness is her enemy. In stillness there is too much of herself.
© Gossow, 2007
Kathryn Gossow lives in rural Australia. She spends much of her time paying
off the mortgage and making school lunches. She has some published fiction
and poetry. Her website is www.kathryngossow.net or blog at
http://katwrites.blogspot.com