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“Waiting for Independence Day” – By Cheryl Dyson [SFM Storytime Season One]

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Waiting for Independence Day by Cheryl Dyson

JULY

She was seated at the kitchen table when Bob slumped in to find breakfast. Her gaze bored into the tabletop as if she read an invisible newspaper. Bob poured himself a bowl of cereal with a splash of milk. He sat down across from her and began to eat.

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Its been so nice out, she said. We should go to the farmer’s market. It’s been so long and this place could use some fresh flowers. Look at this kitchen, it’s so… dingy.

Bob shoveled the cereal into his mouth, chewing loudly to drown her words in the resultant crunch crunch crunch.

AUGUST

There wasn’t much on television, but the weather had turned wet and windy, making the indoors the best option. Bob pressed the UP arrow on the remote, flitting through channels like a bee searching for a choice flower, except the selections were more like weeds: infomercials, cooking shows, and true crime stories with the sensationalism turned up to fifty and the lack of evidence nearly on mute.

Carolyn sat three feet away, curled up on a corner of the sofa with her legs drawn in and her chin resting on one knee.

We never talk anymore. Remember when we used to read together and then talk about things for hours? I miss those days so much. Her voice was thick with longing.

Bob shut off the television and put on his coat. The corner pub was only a short walk away and it wasn’t pouring that hard. Plus, they had alcohol.

SEPTEMBER

Bob sat up, heart pounding and hands flailing as he reached for his phone, the switch to the lamp, something! Carolyn stood next to the bed, sobbing and clutching her nightgown into bunches with her fists.

I dreamed that you left me! Please dont leave me! Im sorry! Ill try harder to be better! I can be the person you need me to be! I can! I promise! Just don’t!

Will you shut up? Bob yelled. He rolled over and snatched a pillow to cover his head, clamping it tightly against his ears to muffle the sounds of her crying. Morning was a long time coming.

OCTOBER

Bob opened the closet and let out a high-pitched squeak. Carolyn stood motionless, staring at his shirts that hung in a neat row next to his pressed trousers. The other half of the closet was empty.

Your mother is coming this weekend. Her hand brushed the sleeve of his pale blue shirt, his favorite. I dont know what to wear. She hates me so much. Shell never let us get married. I wish I knew what to do to make her like me. She sighed. Maybe the pink dress. It’s isnt really trashy or frumpy. Is it?

Bob shut the closet door, leaving her inside.



NOVEMBER

Bob was busy. Year-end was a terrible time in his department. His presentation was due the next day and hed only received the most critical information the day before. His fingers flew over the keys of his laptop, his attention fixed on the data before him. Even so, his gaze would occasionally stray to the bank of windows. She stood there, staring out at something only she could see, saying nothing. The silence lasted for hours.

DECEMBER

He was frying a steak for dinner when she appeared at his elbow.

I know about Alice, she said.

What? He was startled enough to respond, and turned down the heat lest he set the apartment on fire.

I understand. She’s an attractive woman and youre a man. With needs.

Bob glanced at the pepper, wanting to season the steak, but reluctant to move. A serrated steak knife sat next to the pepper, shining with malicious promise.

I hope if it’s something more than a temporary fling that youll let me know. Okay? I just need to know.

Bob turned off the heat. He wasnt hungry anymore.

JANUARY

It was cold. Rain hammered against the window and poured down in rivulets hampered by ice crystals. Bob wished he had leased an apartment with a fireplace. Hell, he wished he had leased any other apartment anywhere.

Carolyn was pacing. The movement was erratic, agitated. Bob stared harder at the book he was trying to read, forcing himself to concentrate on the words.

It rained like this the night you killed me,” she whispered. Do you remember?

FEBRUARY

The library was quiet, as libraries are. The table was piled high with books. Most of them had been worthless, but Bob made a list of notes anyway. At this point he was willing to try anything.

Later, he hummed to himself as he walked from room to room with a bell in one hand and a bowl of smoldering sage in the other. He noted her absence with satisfaction and hoped it was for good.

MARCH

Remember that Easter when we were at the little cabin and it snowed? I hit you with a snowball and you held me down in the snow until I passed out. Why did you do that? I never understood how you could do that to me.

Bob put earbuds into his ears and turned up the music. All the sage and chanting and bells hadn’t convinced her to leave.  Go to the light!” he had begged.

I like it here, she had replied.

APRIL

A late season blizzard had made roads impassable. Worst spring snowstorm in a decade! the news channels exhorted with inflated drama. Bob hunched under a blanket on the sofa and cursed the weather. The ancient radiant heat was not adequate to keep the place warm and it was too difficult to get anywhere should he try to leave.

A sultry voice spoke from the hallway that led to the bedroom. Do you want to take me to bed?

Surprised, he looked over to see a putrid corpse standing there. One eyeball slowly plopped out of the socket and trickled down her cheek, stopping just short of her jawbone, dangling by something red and organic-looking. Her teeth shone through rotting, distended lips.

Bob shuddered and stared at the television screen, sorry he had looked away. He hunched deeper into his blanket. I hate you so much, he muttered.

Didnt you always? she replied.

MAY

Despite the weather turning warmer and finally promising an end to the wet and cold of winter, Bob was near-overdosing on medication for anxiety. He had taken to sleeping on the sofa because there was a lesser chance of rolling over to find a putrescent corpse grinning at him from the next pillow.

His distress seemed to please her; her appearances had been rare in the beginning, but now he saw her almost daily. These days he was actually grateful when she appeared as a normal woman and not something that had clawed its way out of a grave.



JUNE

Bob poured a glass of bourbon and swallowed half of it in two gulps. He had discovered that half a bottle of the liquid gold each night made it easier to deal with his unwanted guest, even though staggering to bed was difficult and waking up was akin to facing the judgment of a vengeful god.

She was human-like tonight, thank all the gods of whatever fucked up pantheon had created her.

“Marcus, do you remember?

He slammed the glass down on the counter, causing a mini tidal wave of bourbon to splash out of the glass and onto the faux marble. “For the millionth time, lady, I am not Marcus! According to the newspaper, Marcus was your boyfriend. Remember? The one who strangled you and then shot himself to death, probably to escape your ghost. Funny how they didn’t disclose any of that in my rental agreement, but hey! My lease is up at the end of this month and then it is sayonara supernatural psycho!” He downed the rest of his drink and poured another, ignoring her to mentally count the days until his escape from this apartment from hell.

JULY

Bob stretched out on his sofa and admired the clean surfaces of his ghost-free apartment. The floor plan wasn’t as nice as the last place, and it was twenty minutes farther from his job, but the drive gave him a chance to reflect on how nice a normal, unhaunted life could be. He would have made twice the drive, if necessary.

He swallowed a mouthful of beer and burped loudly, snorting when he realized he’d even been suppressing his bodily functions for fear of giving the ghost of Carolyn something else to complain about. He burped again for good measure and got up to cook a blue box of mac & cheese, which he planned to eat straight from the pan with a mixing spoon.

He hummed while he cooked, danced a little jig in time with the tune, and then carried the pot of steaming noodles into the living room, intending to eat it on the sofa in front of the tube while watching televised fireworks shows. It was the fourth of July, after all. Independence Day. Cheers to Independence Day, he murmured fervently. Hell, he might even be able to see some fireworks from his–he stopped dead three feet from the sofa. The pan slipped from his fingers and bounced on the carpet, spraying orange noodles in a parody of vomit.

Carolyn stood on the other side of the sofa; she looked angry. “It took me a long time to find you, Marcus. Did you really think you could leave me?”

Bob struggled to find his voice. His throat felt stuffed with cotton. “I’m not Marcus,” he whimpered. “I’m not Marcus.”

She sidled closer and smiled seductively. “You are now,” she said and cackled as her pretty face melted and bloomed into stinking, skeletal decay. “Now give us a kiss.”

Bob screamed.

Read more original short stories from SFM Storytime!

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1 thought on ““Waiting for Independence Day” – By Cheryl Dyson [SFM Storytime Season One]

  1. What an excellent story! At first Bob seems like such a jerk, but you do a great job of turning the tables steadily and inexorably until the full horror is revealed. Horror seems to come natural to you!

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