The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

I lived in a one level house.  It was blue with a basketball hoop outside.  The crows used to love to perch themselves on top of the green, metal chairs near my porch, and there were three other houses that surrounded mine.  They’re empty now, and most of the town forgot that my son and I even live here.  That was until when we almost died.

When I awoke that morning, I was ice cold.  I took a long, hot shower, but it was like death’s grip that wouldn’t let go.  My son was at work, and I was tempted to call him to pick me up some soup.  Instead, I took a nap on the couch, and I was out a very long time.  My son woke me, and I remembered I kissed him on the cheek.  Then, I went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Someone was crying.  It was dark.  I couldn’t see anything, but I heard her.  I struggled to think of who could be crying.  It wasn’t me, and I opened the bedroom door.  A wall of smoke struck me in the face.  I waved my hand, trying to chase it away, and the floor creaked nearby.  I looked toward the couch and watched a hand rise up before falling back down.  Her skin was on fire, and her crying grew louder.  She struggled to her feet, and I watched the fire climb up her long, brown hair.  Before I could reach her, my son grabbed me.

The family room was engulfed in flames.  There was no way to reach the front door.  There was no way out except through the windows, and my son dragged me into his bedroom.  I called out, still trying to reach her, and she walked toward us, completely on fire.  But it was like my son never saw her.  Instead, he threw his blanket over me.  Then, he kicked out his bedroom window and pushed me through.  He followed a moment later, and I tore the covers away from me.  I turned toward the house, and there was the woman on fire, staring back at me.  She was me, and a moment later, the house exploded.  Its debris buried me.