I NEVER LET GO

A dark psychological horror where a young girl isn't what she seems

I used to love lying in the dark. Now it’s the only thing that looks back.

Since Daddy died, everyone learned to pretend again. Since Daddy died, the silence isn’t as scary anymore.

The choking stopped first. The pain followed. Then the nausea, clawing at my throat. Then everything stopped altogether. Mummy always told me not to mention Daddy.

Now, lying in the dark again, the clock strikes one.

My duvet wrapped too tightly around my neck.

That’s when I noticed it.

I thought I had burned them all.

Mechanically, I turned my head toward the drawer that was always empty.

A small picture frame.

Spotless. No marks. No cracks.

The same one. I remember watching it melt in the flames.

My hand shook as I reached for it.

Nothing.

Darkness seeped through the walls, pooling into the doorway, like breath trapped in a closed room.  The room shifted as the darkness enclosed me inside.

I could hear something�"faint, uneven. Not my breathing.

Something softer. Closer.

I held mine, just to be sure.

It didn’t stop.

The air grew warmer against my face, thick, suffocating, as if it had nowhere to go�"the faint crackling, the ghost of smoke.

My fingers twitched. I don’t remember telling them to.

Especially when it mattered.

They used to do the same around Daddy.

He never liked it when I told Mummy what we were doing in the dark.

The choking felt familiar then. Reassuring. Grounding.

Cut lips. Purple eyes. Sore hands.

They used to greet me every night�"every time the clock struck one.

Then he died. And it stopped.

Mummy said it was better this way.

But I only ever felt safe with Daddy.

My sheets beneath me twisted into deep maroon shapes�"shadows of something darker. Their colours bleeding into each other, their patterns folding into each other.

Then it returned. The choking.

Charcoal. Smoke. Heat pressed against my skin. The stinging in my eyes.

I could almost touch him.

My hands always trembled when I burned things I love.

That’s why I held him so tightly.

I never let go.

It was better this way.

Author's Note

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