“Please, get rid of it.”

I could not bring myself to do that.

I guess at some point she had taken all she could take. I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of one of my phantoms screaming in my head to find that she had gone, the knife was gone and the wound on my hand had begun to bleed again.  Anxiously, I called all the people we knew but nobody would tell me anything. Frantically I searched all of her favorite places. Nobody had seen her. I filed a missing persons report. That was all I could do.

My nights alone in that big house became more intense. The visions became increasing more vivid. I could sense pure thought pure energy flowing out  of the foundation in fountains of violet shadows, boiling and bubbling every night when I would lay  down to sleep in that cold cell I call my bedroom .

The fleeting smells of ancient blood, ash and urine stung the nostrils as the shadows flew across the surface of the crumbling plaster walls of that small windowless room. Shadows of people no longer here filed by all night in the light of passing cars, flashing red and yellow lights and that sharp, abrupt honk of the banshee wagon that often passes in the night its lights reveling on the walls the blood from some forgotten murder  echoing the screaming moan in the flashing lights of passing time.  There’s no time to see any details. It’s all too quick, too fast. Nothing lasts like it use to. In an instant, it would all be gone, the flashing lights and the scream of sirens and the whoosh of the wind. I could smell death and see the blood that stains the lives of all the shadow people who populated the plastered walls of the crumble that stands where it happened.  I knew in my soul that it happened. I had no proof except my visions. I sensed it in the essence and fiber of my being. Perhaps this structure was built on the spot to hide the crime from mortal eyes. A crime now only to be seen in dreams and nightmares and projected as shadows against cracked walls in the night.  I could see it? I could hear the screaming and the thud and the sucking pull of the knife that  after being plunged in was pulled out of her heart, their hearts, hearts that are buried somewhere beneath this structure, hearts  that have become part of the earth and beat with metrical time to the ticking of my alarm clock?  I thought why? Who? Tomorrow I would dig.