Shovel

I froze in fear. My hand gripped the stone-cold blade with white knuckles. The sound of slow footsteps moved ever closer towards me.
It was a warm night. This Summer had been the hottest yet, the sweltering heat continuing into the latest hours. I clambered onto my bed like a clumsy animal, drowsy and tired after a day of work. As my pupils drifted towards the ceiling, my eyelids slid closed and I fell asleep to the low whirring of my fan.
The sounds of my deep breathing filled my ears. Then, it came. A shuffle, quiet at first, before silence. I sat bolt upright in my bed; eyes wide. My pupils drifted towards my bedroom door. Then, it came again. Only this time, it was longer. A shuffle, quiet but piercing, resounded from outside my door.
I stood up, my bare feet meeting the creaking wood. With the footing of a panther, I crept across my room, sliding open a drawer and unsheathing a large knife. I held it in my frozen fist and turned towards the door.
The shuffles turned into hushed footsteps, moving slowly towards my door.
I froze in fear. My hand gripped the stone-cold blade with white knuckles. The sound of slow footsteps moved ever closer towards me.
The door creaked open.
From the darkness, the figure of a woman apparated, dressed in worn clothes and covered in mud. She held a shovel in her lacerated hand.
The words fell shakily out of my mouth. “Honey?”
My wife spoke back to me in a hoarse cry.
“I hoped you would die this way.”
I dropped the knife as she tore towards me, raising the shovel above her head and bringing it down to my skull.
I should never have buried her in the back garden.

(c) Isher Jagdev