HONORABLE MENTION, Summer 2025
The Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition

BY IQBAL HUSSAIN

She’s been hearing things: creaks, footsteps, whispers. Everyday sounds—but she’s alone. The nearest neighbour is a twenty-minute walk away.

“It’s an old house,” she tells herself.

She concentrates on the flowers: her wedding corsage, faded and fragile. The stems resist her touch, locked together.

She stops. It doesn’t matter—he won’t even notice.

A whisper behind her. She whips around. Nothing. Just a draft from the crumbling sashes. The cottage has seen better days, but there’s no money for repairs.

She settles at the table, hands around the Brown Betty. The tea is cold. She doesn’t recall brewing it—like so much these days. He tells her she lives in her own world. “Away with the fairies,” he laughs, pinching her.

The scrape of the vase jolts her from her thoughts. She looks up; all is still.

“Pull yourself together,” she scolds herself.

A couple of petals drop onto the scrubbed top with the softest rustle. Tears prick her eyes. She struggles to clear the table.

As night falls, shadows creep across the room. She hauls herself up and performs her checks.

“He’ll be back soon,” she reminds herself—though the certainty feels more like a question.

Morning. Sunlight pours in, vanquishing the shadows. She dances from room to room, humming—a song from the wireless in the café where they first held hands.

“See? It’s all clean. Just as you like it.”

She glances outside. The lane is dead. He chose this remote place. A farmer’s son, he prefers sheep to people. He’s away, helping at a neighbouring farm.

How did the carpet get so dusty?

Where are her keys?

Her mind flits, unsettled. She mustn’t upset him when he’s back.

A raven flaps past, making her jump. At the same time, she catches movement from the corner of her eye. Nothing.

Shaken, she sits. A minute later, a clatter from the kitchen, like dishes being put away. She stifles a scream.

Don’t be a ninny!

Is that her voice—or his?

She fixes on the second hand stuttering around the clock.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Counting to twenty, she walks slowly to the kitchen. She peers around the door. Nothing. Everything seems as it was.

Except … a knife lies on the counter, a smear of something dark and sticky on the blade.

Had she used it? She doesn’t remember.

She returns to the table. The teapot is cold.

Evening. She sits in the gloaming, her hands knotted in her lap. She should eat, but the cupboards are bare. When did she last go out? He usually takes care of that.

“You’ll only end up buying the whole shop, you little fool,” he says. He’s right. She forces her usual smile.

She should go to the neighbour’s—borrow bread, eggs, milk. Leaving now, she’ll be back before dark. She stands quickly, not giving herself time to reconsider.

Approaching the glass-panelled door, a pale face returns her gaze. For a moment she doesn’t recognise her own reflection. She turns away.

Outside, a full moon dusts the trees with silver. Her fingers, unsteady, hover over the handle. Darkness presses against the glass, threatening to encroach. Her chest tightens.

Stumbling back, she reaches for a chair—but the chairs are stacked upside-down on the table, seats hooked over the edge, as though someone means to sweep the floor.

She sobs, “Who did this? Where are you? Show yourself!” Her voice bounces off the walls. She’s alone in the kitchen. But she knows the house isn’t empty.

Daylight melts away her fears.

“I mustn’t be such a flibbertigibbet. He’ll be back soon.”

Time passes. The clock ticks down. The teapot remains cold. Petals fall like autumn leaves.

Night returns, and she’s once again a stranger in her own home. Voices drift through the vents. Dishes clink. A low rumble emanates from the cellar.

“I can hear you,” she calls out.

The house holds its breath. Then whispers that slip sibilantly through the air.

She rushes to the refuge of the bedroom and calms herself by tracing the pattern in the yellow wallpaper.

The peace doesn’t last. From upstairs, a dull dragging sound, then footsteps—something heavy being moved. Not by itself.

Grabbing her Bible, she turns to the well-worn pages of Psalm 23 and reads aloud with a trembling voice. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil. . .”

The attic door is ajar. Wind howls through the gaps. The door moves with unseen hands.

The room is empty.

She frowns. Weren’t there trunks, clothes, a cot for the baby?

A shaft of moonlight pierces the gloom. The floorboards are bare. Dust motes dance in the cold light. Wallpaper peels away like dead skin. Outside, skeletal branches tap the glass.

She shakes her head. He must have cleared it. Yet even as she looks around, she doubts her own memory. She hears him: “You’re losing your mind—just like your mother.”

A sudden gust sweeps through, followed by the sound of flapping.

She flinches. A bat? No—a scrap of yellowed newspaper, dislodged from somewhere. It whirls to the floor. Kneeling, she reads the blurry, shifting words in the headline:

Murdered . . . Anniversary . . . Husband.

Memories long buried rise to the surface: bruises beneath sleeves, locked doors, the dangerous glint of metal—

A strangled cry echoes around the room. It takes her a moment to realise—it’s her own.

Come morning, the silence settles once more, along with the dust. She grips the cold teapot. When did she last fill it?

First thing, breakfast. Humming softly, she rises and checks the cupboards. Empty. She resolves to visit the neighbour—later.

The table is strewn with petals. She momentarily stops humming.

From the lane, voices breach the silence. Visitors. She runs to the window, but sees nothing.

Disappointed, she glimpses herself in the mirror—a woman hollow-eyed and unfamiliar.

“He’ll be back soon.”

Footsteps. The voices grow louder. Then, laughter.

Someone’s coming!