Twisted: Flash Fiction

Skin of My Teeth

The blood-curdling scream hurls itself at me from beyond the darkness, stopping me dead in my tracks.

Goddammit. Why did I think it was a good idea to go jogging at night? Eighty hours a week, poor eating habits and a history of diabetes in my family all but demands it, but still. I have USA Today in my newsfeed. CNN doesn't lie. I know full well how psychotic people are in this day and age.

Goose bumps claw their way up my back and down my arms, my breath comes out in ragged bursts as the scream stretches itself into a wail. This is no cry for help. It doesn't even sound human.

It sounds like it's time for me to run like hell.

My heart pumps furiously, sending massive amounts of adrenaline through my body. Good, because I'm about to bust ass moving faster than I've ever moved before, and those underused things I call muscles are going to need all the help they can get.

I spin in the opposite direction as the screaming and, digging the toes of my sneakers as far into the slippery asphalt as they'll go, launch myself down the pathway.

The screaming goes digital surround-sound, from behind me to over me to in front of me again.

I skid to a stop, using my arms as balance and counterbalance to keep me from falling. Gasping for air, I desperately try to keep any more urine from escaping my bladder. It's bad enough bile is making its way up my throat, which is already aching from panic, and threatening to jettison itself onto the pavement.

If I can help it, I want to prevent my homicide report from including: Area woman found murdered on local running path wearing pants soaked in piss.

Ten yards in front of me, in a shroud of rolling mist, I spot the source of the terrifying screams. A hooded figure, keening low and guttural, hovers menacingly in the dark. In horrified disbelief, I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep my own scream—and vomit—from flying out. Right on cue, the moaning grows louder, and the apparition begins to move closer.

Five yards away.

I swing my head from side to side, frantically searching for a way out, but the tree-lined path only ensures my impending doom... darkness, gnarled roots, and fallen trees become cohorts in my imminent death. Besides, darting off into the woods never works out well in the horror movies, now does it?

Four yards away.

Raising an arm, the sleeve of the whatever it is falls away to reveal more of the withered appendage than I care to see. Its long claw-like fingers are splayed and reaching, its robe billowing in the wind that isn't blowing. 

Three yards away.

The howling grows shrill, whipping and whistling with gale-like force. The sound of it sends a shiver racing up my spine. Chest heaving, I turn tail again and run, only to immediately connect with something as tall and wide as a linebacker before tumbling backward and crashing to the wet ground.

The creature is towering over me, arms now raised toward the sky, when it suddenly stops shrieking. Leaning down, it cranes forward, as if to get a closer look. Other than the involuntary trembling rippling through me, I don't dare move. I can only see inky blackness where its face should be, but its reeking breath wafts down, making my stomach turn.

Slowly, it slides back the hood of its emerald green robe. A pair of watery, bloodshot eyes appear and squint down at me. The banshee—because I've suddenly put two and two together regarding all the screaming—reaches one of her clawed hands into the tangled and matted gray hair at the top of her head and pulls out a pair of spectacles. After perching them on the end of her hooked nose, she withdraws a wrinkled piece of parchment from deep within the folds of her musty garment.

"Is your name Kennedy?" the banshee croaks, her eyes darting back and forth between the list and my face.

"N-n-n-o," I stammer, barely able to catch my breath. "It's Kimberly."

"Spell it," the old hag commands.

"K-I-M-B-E-R-L-Y."

"D?" Her toothless mouth hangs open in question.

"No, B... as in boy."

"No N?" she says, consulting her list one last time.

"No." I project as much confidence as I can muster under the circumstances.

"Oh. Well, then. My bad. Have a nice night." 

The spirit sent heralding my time to go turns into nothing but a swirling wisp of mist faster than I can stop more pee from dribbling out. I hop up, wasting no time walk-running back to my apartment. 

Shaken as I am, I still check my mailbox as though nothing were amiss. When I'm finally safely inside, I toss the stack of mail, all addressed to me—Kimberly Kennedy—and collapse onto the couch, thanking my lucky stars banshees aren't a stickler for details.