If only he had listened to her


He felt a gloomy foreboding. Something was wrong. A shiver ran down his spine.The faster he drove, the further the house seemed to be. He was gripping the wheel so hard that his hands hurt.

The house appeared in front of his eyes dark and eerily quiet. As he hurried up the staircase he was filled with cold horror. She wasn't there. Nevertheless all her things were in the bedroom. Everything in its place.

Those nightmares. He had begun to dread going to bed. Night after night he saw that formless, inhuman, white face. Over and over again.  He woke up soaking wet with sweat. She had begged him to leave the house.She was utterly terrified. That story about the killings.Those children so brutally murdered. She was alarmed by his outbursts of anger but he was  pig-headed, stubborn as a mule.

Under no circumstances would he leave that house. Never had he lived in such breathtakingly enchanting place.Yet she was genuinely frightened to death. If only he had listened to her. Had he known better , they would have run away. Now it was too late. He had a premonition.

A fortnight went by.  No news. She had vanished. He looked out of the window. No sooner had he seen the pond than he knew. He dived into the dark, ominous water. His body was numb with cold, his hands stiff, his fingertips almost blue. She was there. Her face was grotesque, swollen beyond recognition. All of a sudden he remembered. It was like a movie at high speed.

He shuffled across the path, went up to the attic and hanged himself. He chose the same beam where that man had done it before him. That man whose face he saw in his nightmares night after night.

© Plataforma creada por Alfonso Hinojosa - Profesor de Ingl├ęs de la E.O.I. de Santander