Although I couldn’t see, something told me that I definitely wasn’t alone in the cellar. Frozen, I stood in front of the dryer scared to make any sort of moment. They say your other senses heighten when one is useless. I never really noticed that until this moment. And I will never forget it. My ears located the tiniest of sounds and movements. Like a cat who cocks its head and twitches its ear after hearing the pitter-patter of tiny mouse feet through the wall. Noise people shouldn’t be able to hear. But I was hearing them. It’s like my body evolved thousands of years in mere seconds to maintain its safety.

But, against my better judgment, I turned the dryer on after throwing the soaking heap of clothes inside. Grabbing my guide cane, I swiftly move to the stairs trying to ignore the heavy energy I felt in the basement; and although it was involuntary, slamming the door.

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A few days pass with no sounds or feelings of another presence in the house. And why would there be? Twenty years in this house and I have never felt this way before.

“I’m being ridiculous”, I say aloud to myself as I stare in the direction of the door leading to the cellar with a basket of laundry in my arms.

I open the door, but slowly. Tapping my way down the stairs with my cane, even though I don’t need to, I feel a bead of sweat drip down my face.

I reach the floor and start tapping again. Floor. Floor. Floor. Floor. Flo….. what the hell is that? I know this house more than I know myself. If I move something, I immediately put it back after use. Nothing is ever out of place in this house.

I gasp quietly and stop myself with my hand from making any more sounds.

“He…hello”, I say in a shaky voice. I wait a few seconds before I say again, “h…”, my voice breaks, “…ello?”

I hear something. Just barely. I focus on this noise trying to understand what it is. It sounded like someone snoring, very quietly.... like breathing. It started to get louder, but only slightly. And then a small, but present, puff of warm air brushed my face like a hay broom. It smelled of cigarettes and bourbon.

I immediately drop the laundry basket and bolt up the stairs, miscounting the stairs on the way up and tripping into the kitchen.

“Fuck…”, I touch my nose and repeat the same word only louder, “fuck!”

I touch my shirt to be greeted by a warm liquid, only what I can assume to be blood. I lick my lips. Iron.

Suddenly, I feel a tight grip on my ankles and am violently dragged down the stairs by an unknown force. Thrashing my head on every stair as I plummet down, I start to scream but am stopped by the blood filling my mouth. Gurgling and bubbling like I was drowning.

I make it to the bottom. Turning my head to the side, I spit out the blood that was filling my mouth. A few minutes pass by while I’m on the cold, cement floor in front of the stairs. The temperature of the cement soothes my throbbing wounds, but only for a second. My body starts sliding on the cement towards the middle of the cellar, which, like a chain reaction, causes me to scream.

I am thrown up against the wall, head slamming back on the sharp brick. I feel more blood flowing down my back like a waterfall of molten lava.

This person-if I can even call them that-grabs a fist full of my hair and thrusts my head back into the brick again.

A mixture of blood, sweat, tears, and snot covers my face. I manage to get the word, “p..please” out of my mouth, spitting blood. They bash my head against the brick again.

I’m on the ground now, my entire body throbbing. I point my face to the ceiling. My mouth hangs open and then suddenly, things start to take shape.

The piping on the ceiling becomes more and more visible every second. I turn my head and squint at the window. Morning sunlight peaks through the little glass pane and onto my face.

I took a few seconds scanning the room, at how neat everything was. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen”, I whisper, spitting blood when trying to form the ’p’ sound. I start to cry.

My life was structured. Everything was neat. I was always on time and everything that I have done was supposed to happen.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen”, I spatter again.

I felt a presence over my body and slowly turn my head up toward the ceiling to see who was standing over me. To see who did this to me. And to see who was most likely about to kill me.

My eyes focus on the figure above me. But before my brain could make a connection, they kick me in the face. Two more times in the chest. I can no longer feel pain. I am completely and utterly numb.

Laying on the ground in the fetal position, I look across the cellar at what looks like a mattress. And I notice now that I am laying on some kind of tarp. I haven’t been alone for a while.

I turn to lay on my back, using up the rest of my strength. My vision is blurred and my breathing is interrupted by phlegm and blood coating my throat.

The figure appears above me again, this time sitting down, straddling me. They get close to my ear. I hear the labored breathing of a smoker and a voice that whispers, “I’m sorry mom.”

I look above my son's head to see a knife, raised in his hands above him. My eyes widen and I gasp for air trying to find the strength to move. But I cannot.

The knife swiftly falls toward my body and into my chest; tearing my flesh and cracking through bones. I let out a groan because that is all I can do.

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Standing over my fountain of a mother, I watch as the blood gushed from her chest. Her breathing gets more violent as she tries to gasp for just one more breath of air. And then, everything was still. Everything was quiet.

It was time to get to work. And I had to work fast. Running to the sink in the basement, I wash off my blood-soaked gloves and the knife stained by my mother. I walk over to the tarp she was on and drag it to the bucket.

I made sure everything was ready. Every detail and every plan was followed. Nothing could go wrong.

The bucket of hydrofluoric acid sits in the farthest corner from the door and waits for my mother. I pop it open and without thinking, pick her up and drop her in.

The reaction was immediate, and so was the smell. The acid bubbled and sizzled, letting off a vapor that smelled of burnt flesh. I maneuvered her limbs to fully fit inside the bucket and closed the lid.

After cleaning the cellar, I cleaned it again. And again. I cleaned the kitchen 3 times and every doorknob in the house 4 times. I made sure that my presence inside the house would be impossible to trace.

The house fell silent for days. I needed to wait until she was liquified to return. Until it was like she never existed. The way it should've been.