I only remember two things about my death: that I was murdered, though I do not know why or by whom, and that it took me twelve hours to die. I died in this house, in this very room. If I look closely I can still see the bloodstains like splatter paint on the walls. They’ve faded considerably. The bloodstains I mean.  I’ve lost count over the years, but my best guess is that I died a little over sixty years ago.</div>
<div>

I don’t have a body anymore. I don’t really have a form, either. As far as I can tell, I am little more than a vapor, a lucent fog. If I concentrate hard enough I can shape appendages similar to arms. With more effort, I can do hands. It takes a lot out of me, and sometimes it doesn’t work. Other times though, it happens against my will.</div>
<div>

My bones are in a pile in the corner of the room; my flesh decayed long ago. For a while it was greatly disturbing for me to look over and see myself as I once was, rotting in a bloody mess on the floor. I got used to it after a while, but every so often I catch a glance of my crumpled skeleton out of the corner of my eye and I shutter. No one will ever know what happened to me.</div>
<div>

Twelve people have entered this house since I died in it. There are twelve skeletons in this house besides my own. Twelve bloodstained walls. Twelve people dead. And I killed them. I killed them all.</div>
<div>

But I didn’t. Not really. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this over the years, and my current belief is that when I was dying, the barrier between the land of the living and the land of the dead became very weak. After twelve hours it was stretched so thin that it was easy for something to cross over. That something, which I consider to be equivalent to a demon, latched on to my soul. When I finally died, I couldn’t cross over. I was forced to stay.</div>
<div>

I didn’t know the demon was there until someone came to the house. It was the first human I had seen since I died. He was a police officer. I don’t know what he was doing at the house. Maybe it’s police protocol to check out abandoned houses in the middle of nowhere every so often. It was only a short time after I died. Maybe he was looking for me.</div>
<div>

I knew someone was coming before I saw the police cruiser come up the long driveway. I was hearing voices. More like a voice. It was thick and raspy. It was paralysing. It wasn’t mine, but it was coming from my head.</div>
<div>

It said things like, I smell blood. Rip. Drink. KILL. The voice got louder as the cop drew near. I heard the door creak open. When he stepped over the threshold it was all over.</div>
<div>

I lost complete control. Of my movements, of everything. The poor guy never had a chance. Someone was making me do things I didn’t want to do. My arms and hands materialized. I tried to hold them back, but it was no use. Rip. Drink. KILL. He was dead in ten minutes. His screams still echo through my head when I think back to that day.</div>
<div>

Once he was dead the voice went away. It was like it was never there. I was left alone, looking at the man that I had killed. Something caught my eye. Something square, by his hand. I went over to see what it was.</div>
<div>

If I could throw up I would have. It was a photograph. It was covered in blood, but I could see it clearly. It was of a little girl, maybe three years old, wearing a ruffly pink dress. His daughter. Her arms are around a beautiful smiling young woman. His wife.</div>
<div>

If I wasn’t dead I would have killed myself. But that police officer, he was only the first. There was the teenager seeking shelter from the rain after her convertible broke down. And the realtor, who was trying to sell the house. In fact, there were three realtors.  And a woman with her husband. And runaway looking for a place to hide out. And four others. Twelve in total, and I killed them all.</div>
<div>

But I didn’t. Not really. It was my hands, but it wasn’t my brain.</div>
<div>

Blood. I smell blood. Sweet, young blood. Oh no. Rip. No. Drink. No! Kill. NO! I didn’t want this to happen again. I wasn’t going to let this happen again. I heard footsteps in the driveway. It’s okay. It’s alright. They might not come inside. They could turn around and go back to where it’s safe. I wanted to scream, “Go away! It’s not safe! Don’t come in or I’ll have to kill you!” but I haven’t spoken in over sixty years.</div>
<div>

The door creaks. No! Stop! The intruder steps over the threshold.</div>
<div>

SNAP</div>
<div>

Now I’m in the hallway. The door is still open. There’s nothing I can do but watch myself slaughter an innocent human being. This time it’s a boy. He looks about six, dark curls float around his face like a  halo. His eyes are blue. He looks lost, uncertain.</div>
<div>

I don’t want to watch, but in the sixty plus years I’ve been dead, of the twelve people I’ve killed, I have never been able to close my eyes.</div>
<div>

My hands appear. I watch them reach out to the boy. They’re pale, translucent. They sink right in to the boy’s chest and rip it wide open. His scream is high and sharp. His eyes are big and bright. I can smell his fear. His pain.</div>
<div>

I take his heart in my hands. It is pulsating weakly and weeping crimson. The boy collapses, though his body is still quivering. This is the worst part. I bring the heart to my lips. It is sweet and juicy. It is disgusting and gruesome. And I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.</div>
<div>

It is over.</div>
<div>

The hallway is dripping with blood. The body lays where it fell, like a mutilated rag doll on the floor. I hate myself so much. That boy had a family. He was loved. He will never grow up.</div>
<div>

But I am innocent. I am guilty. I am sorry. For the boy’s mother. For the boy’s father. His siblings, friends. I am sorry for the life he will never have the chance to live. I am sorry that his family will never know what happened to him.</div>
<div>

I feel a strange sensation where my feet would be. It’s like I’m dissolving, evaporating. Under different circumstances it would be an unpleasant feeling, but it masks my overwhelming amount of self-hatred, so I’m merely curious. Why is this happening? Don’t get me wrong. I would love to just fade away, forget everything that I’ve done. I have the blood of thirteen people on my hands; remembering is my punishment.</div>
<div>

I’m fading faster now. I don’t need to look; I can feel it. Any moment now I will be gone. I don’t care where. Anything would be an improvement from this bloodstained house that echos with the remnants of screams and final breaths.</div>
<div>

The world is getting paler. Every sound is so distant, so soft. I feel faint. Light. I’ll be gone soon. It’s getting closer and closer. I’ve been waiting sixty years fo……..</div>
<div>

 </div>