This Old House

Disturbed is she, the one who does not sleep. Disturbed I am as I sit awake for another night in this old house. Usually, the cause of such insomnia is the darkness, the utter deep darkness filled with the disturbing sounds of the night. Tonight is different though; tonight there is something more. Thunder cackles outside while the spitting drops of rain keep hitting my window, pounding in my head like a parade drum. Tossing and turning in this old creaky bed, even when I breathe it moans for mercy. Whispering winds imitate a familiar voice of my dead mother, ripping me from sleep. Troubled, I wrestle with the sheets trying to drown out her lingering presence. Even less calming is the dead tree resembling a skeletal arm scratching its long finger branches along my window.
Brick filled, my stomach sinks deep, almost pulling me to scream. Frightened and frozen, I lay there like a corpse; dazed and cold.  Dark, this room has so sinisterly taken hold of me. Lightning flashes, in sequence with the bolts of thunder, being my only light. Each flash of light brings my mothers face, her being, before my eyes. This process so vividly repeats itself until I can no longer feel fear of her. Gripping tightly on my arm is a cold bony hand, I know it belongs to her. Crawling up from the grave, denying the afterlife solely to terrorize me.
Words of complex structure exit her mouth, the voice dancing out of the room. Lured by the demonic tongues, I obediently follow behind its calling. Croaking floorboards under my feet as I step though the lonely hallway. Halting in the frame of the bathroom, it points a bony finger inside. Minus hesitation, I peer inside and before my eyes lay a sight my eyes shouldn’t have been able to see. Hanging there, dangling, was my body struggling to stay alive. Unfolding the truth before my eyes meant nothing to ceasing my demise; I waited there happily watching the losing battle. Omen of my mother laughing at me, when this whole time they had been cries; the tears of a mother watching her offspring die. Lost soul had been me, this whole time, abandoning her with the haunting image of her daughter being stripped of life. Bloody were my hands, that the blood of an innocent, my hands of a killer.