Not the way a scratch or a mosquito bite itches—not a surface thing. This was deep, a slow crawl beneath the gauze, like tiny legs moving along the seam where her skin used to be. Lukas wanted to scratch it for her. He always did. But Elias held his wrist under the table.
Outside, the cornfields rustled in a wind that wasn’t there. And somewhere in the dark house, a pair of scissors opened. Closed. Opened.
And the way she said it—like a line from a script she’d found in the attic—made Lukas think of the barn. Of the jars of water in the cellar. Of the way she’d stopped using their names. goodnight mommy 1
Don’t.
Click.
Here’s a short piece inspired by the tense, atmospheric horror of Goodnight Mommy (2014): The bandage itched.
Click.
Elias said nothing. He was watching the corner of her jaw, where the bandage met the hairline. A dark sliver of something—not skin, not scab. Suture thread. Black and glistening.
She sat across from them, eating soup with small, precise movements. The spoon clicked against her teeth each time—too loud, too regular. A metronome counting down to something. Not the way a scratch or a mosquito