I was 10 years old when I first met the being who would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Growing up, my father spent long days away, toiling away at his construction job, giving me free reign of the house.

He'd entrusted me with a key, which every morning before school I'd slip under a flower

pot by the front step and use to get in. My friends thought I was living every kid's dream, and in a way I was.

When I got home, I would either kick off my shoes at the front door and bounce off to go watch cartoons

or go outside and play in the front lawn until the bright suburban days darkened into a misty orange haze.

It was on that day when I found myself indoors watching reruns of my favorite

cartoons when I felt a sudden presence on my bladder. Shifting a large ball of popcorn off my lap I headed upstairs to the bathroom

just as I was turning a corner on the landing. I saw her.

She was wearing what had once been a long white summer dress, now torn and smeared a reddish brown with colour.

Her stomach seemed to have been scooped out to the point a shaft of light from the window

behind her shone through her exposed flesh.

Intessans trailing down past the knees like some a car bridle train.

Her hair fell over a pale face in ropy, dishevelled strands

almost completely obscuring it.

Pale limbs twitching at her, as she blocked my way.

There was something static about her presence, as if she was about to fade out of existence

at any moment.

Her head tilted up to look at me with a throaty groan.

She wore the saddest expression I'd ever seen, that even now I find myself struggling to

describe.

It was as if she was seeing a whole world crumble around her.

...