Henry the 8th

How I got here. I cannot say. All I know is that I’m somehow in the middle of some psycho’s horror story and I need to get the hell out of here. There has to be some form of an escape. If the writer can pull me in, he can undoubtedly kick me out. Maybe I should piss him off and do something unrelated to horror.

Perhaps a little round of Henry the Eighth I am? That could annoy the best of ‘em. I cannot suppress the devious smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth and move to the corner of this dark room, resting my back against the wall.

I wait; only silence surrounds me, but an eerie chill is in the room, creeping up my spine.

“I’m, Henry the eighth I am, Henry the eighth I am, I am,” I whisper, testing the waters.

Silence.

“I got married to the widow next door, she’s been married seven times before.”

Again I wait. Straining my ears to hear the faintest sound. I hear a dripping sound like someone forgot to turn the faucet off, though I don’t recall seeing a sink anywhere. I mean, how would I see a sink when I just dropped into this dark room, like I was sucked through a vacuum. A dripping faucet wasn’t scary to me, and yet I still wanted out of this place, so I did the only thing I could do.

“And every one was a Henry. Henry. She wouldn’t have a Willy or a Sam. I’m her eighth old man, I’m Henry. Henry the eighth I am, I am.”

And just like that, something pulled me from behind the wall, as if a vise wrapped around my torso and yanked me through the wall.

Sunshine blinded my eyes and I soon realized I was back in my yard.

I smiled again. That’s the last time anyone will put me in their horror story!


WC: 326