Hell
By Barbara-Anne Harrison
“Oh, God! No!”
I knew immediately I had done the wrong thing the moment the palm of my hand connected with his fleshy cheek. The slap was unexpectedly forceful.
He skid across the room, hit his head against the kitchen wall and crumpled to the floor. He wasn’t dead, thank heaven! That I could tell, but it took a couple of moments for him to regain consciousness.
Then he scrambled to his feet, screaming hysterically on his way out. There was a note of victory in his voice.
This could only end badly.
I flew up the stairs, into the bedroom cupboard and took shelter in the air-duct above it. Only then did I start sobbing.
“Oh, fuck! He’ll be coming back!” I thought, “Why? Why did I let my temper get the better of me?”
He was only verbal after all – screamed and cajoled, mocked and begged and cursed, but it had all just become too much! He started bringing an audience.
“Why are you still here? Leave! You don’t have to stay!” was one of his favourites. “Go, be on your way!”
The very last straw was when they turned up with the crackling EMF meter. That’s when I slapped the annoying paranormal investigator – stupidly enabling him to get everything on tape, and horribly, terribly putting me on the haunted house, tour-route forever.
An end
