The missed call notification popped up on the screen. I dialed Sheila’s number. A piercing sound radiated from my cell. I threw the phone on the table and got ready for work.
The rest of the day was uneventful–a few meetings followed by an impromptu dinner date. Dave called an hour after I got home, asking if I’d seen Sheila. She sent him a weird message about something being inside her, but no one could find her.
Glass shattered in the kitchen as I hung up the phone. I ran downstairs. There she stood. Matted hair. Knife in hand. Sheila.
Sheila © 2024 Rena Aliston. All rights reserved.