Last night the most bizarre thing happened. I am scared and think I may be losing my mind.

I was very drunk, zombied out from the pills. The apartment had descended with the light into a place of shapes and shadows. I sat in the kitchen with a night-lite burning, drinking glass after glass of cheap wine. I was unsteady on my legs and unsteady in my head. The dark seemed to be encompassing me, and the more I drank the more it inched closer. I was zoned out in a world of nothing. No thoughts, no feeling, no hope or dreams. Just a night-lite, a hand, a bottle and a glass. Nothing existed past that. And then in a moment I fell or was shaken out my stupor by the night. It began whirring and coming to life.

At first it was a car headlight. It passed across the ceiling and lit up the room. Then I heard the wind, great trees whispering secrets and air conditioning units working away. It was all filtering in, like blinding light, disturbing my numbness and freaking the shit out of me.

I remember it was way past midnight, ten to one actually. I recall looking at the clock and thinking that the shape the hands cut out looked like a quarter of cheese. I blew out the candle  and followed the smoke as it writhed up off the dead wick. It was now a night where a door to another reality somehow seemed to be open, like anything was possible. I felt as if I had drank myself into the twilight zone.

I had been thinking of the toilet for a while. A full bladder just another thing annoying my oblivion. I got up and veered and bumped my way down the hallway. I had to concentrate on each step and was feeling along the wall for the door frame to the bathroom. I remember pissing in the shower unit, laughing away at some insane notion that had entered my thougts and then feeling sick. Drunk-way-too-much type sick. In the dark my head started spinning and it was suddenly hard to keep my feet. The scent of cheap sweet wine curled up my nose and vomit rose to the base of my throat then descended again. It was there that my mind became flooded with terrifying thoughts. Thoughts of death and sharp edges and unconsciousness.

With watery eyes and regret I stood swaying over the toilet bowl dribbling and retching. I had horrible visions of falling and smashing my head on the bowl. Me laying there jerking and bleeding to death with blood pooling up across the floor tiles. “I could die this night” I thought “I could quite easily die.” And then I felt a presence, something behind me. A shape, a man, a pair of eyes, something. I turned around but the dark was just blurry. “Who's there?” I yelled “Who is it?!”

There was no answer. All I could make out was the door frame and a rectangle of black that seemed to extend into forever. I stood for a moment breathing heavy, just looking,waiting. Then there it was again, only this time a noise, a squeak. I picked up the toilet brush and stood back, my legs now trembling. “Who's there?!” I screamed “I can see you! I heard you!”. Still no reply. Of course I hadn't seen anybody but unless my drunken, pilled up mind was playing tricks on me, I was not alone.

In a desperate attempt to discover who or what was in the hallway I reached for the brush holder and dashed it out with all my might. I listened as it hit the wall, then the floor, then rolled, span and came to a stop. But nothing else moved or sounded. “God!” I cursed “I can't be stuck in here until morning! I've a body that needs poisoning! Fuck youl” And in a fit of bravery and sobriety I rushed out wielding the toilet brush like a baseball bat. Nothing... just darkness. And then it came from behind: BrriiiIINNNNGGG!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck!!! My bowels almost collapsed under the strain and for a moment I thought the noise was coming from inside the flat. BriiiiIIIIINNNGGGG BrriiIIIINNNGGGG. It was the doorbell, but who the hell was ringing me up like that at 1am in the morning? And then whoever it was put a finger on the bell and held: BrrrriiiiIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!

I flicked the hallway light on. 30 watt bulb, no shade. In a way it was even more depressing and hallucinatory than the darkness. BrrriiiiIIIIINNNNGGGGG. I nervously approached the door and looked out through the spy glass. No-one was out there. All I could see was an open garden gate, a couple of parked cars and the edge of a ripped binbag. Still, my bell was sounding without stop.

I gave the door a drunken kick “Who the fuck is it?” I screamed hitting the door again with my palm. But no reply, just the incessant ringing or the bell, now rattling through the entire apartment. I bent down into a squat and pushed the letter box open. Fuck! Shit! Two eyes greeted me. I left the letter box spring close and fell back in horror and shock bashing my head on the floor. “What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!” At that point the bell stopped ringing and I lay on the floor just staring at the door, the box. “Er... who's out there? What d'you want? Mr Spencer's not here... he's dead!” But still the anonymous caller didn't reply. Then BrrriiIIINNGGG BrrriiiIIIIIINNNGGGG BrriiIIINNNGGG!!!!. With a thudding heart and a stomach of slush I raised myself, disconnected the chain and opened the door.

Out on the doorstep, sitting in a wheelchair was a man. He wore Elvis Costello type glasses and looked like John. Well kind of, except he had bleach blond hair and a moulded, rubbery, expressionless face. I took a step back, covered my mouth and started to cry. “John? John is that you???” The man said nothing but pressed a button on the arm of his chair and drove in passed me and down the hall. From behind all I could see was the top of his head and a piece of elbow. Then he turned into the kitchen and was gone.


  1. you have me on the edge of my seat!

  2. See;

    All's well that ends well.

  3. Thank God your flat is wheelchair accessible.

    Tell me he brought a sandwich with him.

  4. Brilliant .. I love the way you write .. I have been in the bathroom situation more times than a lady should admit to xx

  5. I agree with Stacy, edge of your seat stuff; can't wait for your next post, will be Retweeting it for sure.

    Helena xx

  6. I do sympathize if John is in a wheelchair. On the odd occasions my nephew is allowed out in his state of the art contraption ('Electric chair on wheels' he calls it, and it IS rather ostentatious) he gets terrible abuse. Fat little children wearing t-shirts with the name of a sports team or something - South Park - scream at him

    'Timmy! Timmy!'

    over and over.

    Before outings I set his voice-box to 'Gollum from Lord of the Rings'. A few 'Fuck off!'s from that usually scatters the trouble makers.

    If it doesn't well, I take matters into my own hands.

    I shall spare you the details.

    Suffice to say that those chubby little retards won't be pointing mobile phones at anyone ever again...

  7. Re: your response in number 48.

    I fail to see how you could have any idea what my nephew's jumpers are like.

    He is under 24 hour surveillance and could in no way have had contact with you.

    No photographs of him have been allowed since The Incident.

    I do not knit.

  8. Thanks to you, my fingernails are gone.


  10. @ Stacy: I fell off the edge of mine! X

    @ Jason: Wheelchair accessible??? You know what I never even gave it a thought! haha But yes it is, completely, (author's priviledge: make it up as you go along!). No sandwich I'm afraid, not that I remember anyway. X

    @ Wildernesschic: Oh it's great to see you here! And thank you! X (and for the tweet!) X

    @ Helena: XXX's not as many as you deserve, but all I've got for now. X

    @ Abigail: i knew you had a human side! I like the Gollum idea... thanks (it's mine now!).

    Your nephew, hmmm. Well there are photo's off him. They're pinned up on every tree from here to You; darts and knives stuck in them. On one poster someone had even nailled a dead cat to his face. I bet that's the first time he's ever had pussy on his lips!
    Of course he wears jumpers! It's obvious. I wouldn't even be surprised if he had a TeleTubby knitted into the design. If anyone knits, it's you! X

    @ David: Your presence is an honour. One of the secret holders. "Fingernails grow back; fingers don't." (Oscar Wilde, I think... or was it Tristram Spencer??? X

    @ Mother: FFFffffrrrrppppp!!! (That's a wet fart!)


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