Remy
Approx. 280 words, horror, narrated by you
You’re lying in bed. It’s still early – not even 9.30pm at night – but the world is cold and dark outside.
You can’t sleep, as much as you would like to, because your bed is above the kitchen and you can hear your dog whining and scratching from the outside, ready to come in for the night. You wish your husband would let her in already.
.
The scratching hasn’t stopped. It’s 9.27 now – so you text your husband.
Let Remy inside please
.
It is now quarter to ten. Remy’s scratching and howling has become incessant. You huff, frustrated, because your husband hasn’t replied – no doubt he is sat, headset on, eyes focused on 2.1 million little pixels – so you’re going to have to get up and let her in.
.
Downstairs is pitch darkness, but you don’t turn the light on. Six years of living here has given you impeccable muscle memory.
You reach the kitchen. Tug on the handle – you can still hear Remy’s cries and scratches, louder still with one nail after the other after the other clawing down the plastic. The door is locked, but you shrug it off – like your muscle memory, you assume your husband locked the door after Remy on instinct.
She brushes past your leg when you let her in. “Come in,” you say.
You go back to your bed. Pull the covers up tight, check your phone one last time – finally, a response from your husband.
??? I haven’t put her outside yet
Your face drops.
What – or who – did you just invite inside your home?
I rarely write horror or supernatural genres, as they’re not my strength – but I enjoyed writing this short piece last night.
Paige Briscoe 