Do you sometimes imagine someone standing behind you when you look up in the mirror?
Because I do.
She’s just a couple of blurred lines, too impatient to be sharply visible. She’s prettier and she’s thinner and she’s wittier but she likes the taste of blood. She has a cackling laugh that echoes in my head when she has left.
She loves reading badly written horror novels and revels in the irony of it. She likes reading them aloud too as if her voice was a gift to the world. It’s as bad as her laugh, really. And it smells.
I always know the ending.