Vision

Following a full cornea transplant, Katie starts to see things. Is her donor trying to tell her something?

Written for Madness and (May)hem Day 10

“Please don't worry, Mrs. King,” the anaesthetist as she lowered the clear plastic mask with the black rubber hose over her mouth. “It'll all be over in an hour or so. Now count back from ten for me. Ten, nine, eight, seven…”

Her words faded into blackness.

The next thing Katie knew was the sensation of being lifted and deposited on top of the clean, crisp sheets of the hospital bed. The soft drop of the sheet and thin blanket. The gentle words of the porters and nurses.

“Could I have some water, please—and something to wash my mouth out with?” she croaked.

A nurse soon provided these, but warned, “You'll have to lie flat on your back for the next few days.” She raised the top of the bed enough for Katie to wash her mouth out and to drink some water, then lowered it again.

Katie's eye hurt a little, but she expected that.

She had just had a full cornea transplant.

***

She was glad to get the patch off, and was careful to follow the advice from the doctor: don't get water in the eye, wear sunglasses as and when required, no strenuous activity.

The doctor pronounced the surgery a complete success, and Katie's vision soon improved. In fact, it was better than before, considering the fact that an accident at work had left her blind in her left eye for two years. A paper cut, no less. She hadn't sued on the understanding that they would arrange the necessary treatment—which they had.

***

The first incident occurred while she was eating her dinner in front of the telly. Dale was sitting in companiable silence nearby, furiously thumbing his phone, occasionally cheering when he ‘busted a level.’ The kids were in bed. She was dozing off.

She was somewhere else, getting ready for bed. She was tall enough to reach to top shelves of the kitchen cupboards as she put the glasses away. One last check to ensure all the lights were off. She took the stairs one at a time, then switched off the hall light. She was standing in total darkness in the hall. Something felt wrong. She hesitated before entering the bedroom. The door was ajar. Weird. She could smell a faint whiff of stale sweat, hoppy ale, and cigarette smoke.

“Katie!”

“Yeah? What?”

Dale was standing over her. “Are you alright, love?” he asked. His big calloused hand cupped her face. “You looked a bit funny just now. Like someone just switched you off.”

“I'm fine, Dale,” she replied. “Just tired.”

“Will you be alright to go back to work tomorrow?” he asked, crouching down to bring himself to eye level.

“I'm alright, love,” she replied. “Really. Nothing to worry about.”

The next was while she was out shopping. A shape that appeared in the corner of her eye, and seemed to insist on keeping itself at the periphery of her vision. She knew it was Him. She shook her head. He was gone.

The one that dragged her out of denial was when she was typing up her property inspection report. On her screen, these words appeared in an iridescent shade of bold purple text that she had seen many times before—and made her blood run like liquid ice through her veins: You are so sexy! I like that black lace and lilac on you best. It contrasts nicely with that lush coffee-coloured skin of yours. You have no idea how much I want to…

Katie!

Katie blinked. On her laptop screen she could see ‘102 Denton Road, Dursley. Found the front lawn freshly mown. Driveway empty and clear. Tnt was away. You are so sexy! I like that black lace and lilac on you bes’

“Are you alright?” her manager asked. “You look horrified. Has someone sent you a dirty picture?”

Katie put the lid of her laptop down and stood up. She pursed her lips and said, “I don't feel right, Patricia. Ever since the operation, I've been seeing things. Strange things. Feelings.”

Patricia nodded. “Before I get you a cup of tea, I want a look at your screen.”

Katie froze. She knew she'd typed those creepy words herself. What would Patricia think?

“Katie,” Patricia said, with steel in her tone, “Let me see.”

Katie nodded, as if accepting a death sentence. She sat back down as her manager walked around her desk to stand beside her. She opened the laptop, typed in her password, and cringed as Patricia read her screen.

“Katie,” she said brusquely, “if I didn't know you so well, and hadn't seen that look on your face just now, I'd have thought you were having a pervy timeout at your desk.” She pulled a chair over and sat on it. “What exactly did they do to you at that hospital? Was it some kind of transplant?”

Katie nodded.

“Well,” she declared, “it seems that your donor was a murder victim.”

Katie turned to face her. “So she's haunting me?” she asked, worry stretching her voice into a thin squeak.

“I dunno,” said Patricia. “Tell me all about it—and leave nothing out.”

Katie did.

“The thing to do is find out what she wants,” said Patricia. “Next time something happens, tell me about it. We'll work it out together. You're not alone with this.”

Katie stared at the screen. The memory of the terror she felt as those words appeared in bright bold purple still held her in its grip. She deleted the black facsimile from her screen all the way back to ‘away,’ then finished her report.

Nothing happened for a couple of weeks. Katie had almost forgotten all about it when a tall, chunky man came into the office. She cried out at the sudden stabbing pain in her left eye and went straight to the toilet. She looked in the mirror to see what the problem was.

Looking straight back at her was a beautiful young Black woman with gold pendant earrings.

Katie, who was, as she described herself, ‘a whiter shade of pale,’ gaped in amazement.

The woman's impassive gaze remained steady. She nodded slowly.

Katie blinked.

She was gone; the image gaping at her with a terrified expression was her own reflection. There was nothing wrong with her eye. The pain had stopped. Katie returned to the office just as Patricia walked in from the kitchen.

Their colleague, Sally, was beaming with excitement. “I've got a viewing for 33 Robertson Road!” she said. “It's tomorrow at 3:15. Can I go by myself this time? I know what to do.”

“Ow!” Katie's eye hurt sharply again. She could smell stale sweat, hoppy ale, and cigarette smoke. She felt the strong grip of large hands tightening against her throat. She jerked her right knee up, but he moved out of her way, squeezing her trachea. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She brought both her hands up between his arms to break his grip. It worked. She turned to run, but he grabbed the collar of her blouse and ripped it off. She ran downstairs, but he was faster. He seized her by the back of her neck…

“Katie!”

Why was she face down in the floor?

Patricia put a hand down to help her up. “What did you see?” she asked. “Katie, you're as white as a sheet!”

Katie took her hand and rose, trembling. “It's him!” she cried, her eyes wild and desperate. “It's him! It's him! Sally, he’ll kill you. Don't go!”

Sally shuddered and burst into tears.

Patricia nodded grimly. “We’ll do the viewing,” she said. “I'll get Gary and the lads to go too. We'll catch him in the act, then call the police.”

“Patricia, that's insane!” Sally shouted. “Can you hear yourself? We're not in a film—this is real life. Someone could get killed! Why don't we make an excuse and send one of the lads instead?”

Katie stood, an A-frame of determination. “I'll do it,” she said firmly. “It has to be me.”

“You've gone mad!” said Sally. “Absolutely barking mad. Both of you!”

“It has to be me,” said Katie, her lips a thin red line. “She wants me to do it.”

Patricia nodded. “You're probably right.”

Sally shouted at them. “Patricia! Katie! Are you listening to me?”

They turned to look at her, then said in unison, “No!”

***

Wednesday at 3:10pm saw Katie all dolled up, standing outside 33 Robertson Road. Mr. Tueur arrived a few minutes later.

“I thought I was meeting Sally,” he said, scowling. “Where is she?”

“She's not feeling well today,” said Katie. “I'm standing in for her.” She smiled breezily, digging her right hand's nails into her palm to hide her fear. Gary had better be watching her. She led Mr. Tueur inside and showed him around.

He followed her meekly around, asking questions about the house, the neighbourhood, and amenities, then left, saying that it wasn't what he wanted.

“I think we've spooked him,” she told Patricia later.

The following day, she found an advert for a florist with a special offer and a prize draw. She clicked the Unsubscribe button and thought no more of it. An hour later, the messages came, all in neon-bright bold type, and all overtly sexual in nature.

“Patricia,” she said, “here we are. We've got him.”

***

“I'd say he's using keyloggers to get your passwords and stuff,” said Dale, as they sat eating at a restaurant. “Did you receive any emails with a clickable link lately?”

“A florist with a special offer and a prize draw,” she replied. “I clicked the Unsubscribe button.”

Dale nodded. “That's how he got in. If you reckon he can actually see you, he's probably taken control of your camera.”

“So how does he know what I'm wearing at home?” she asked.

“Does he have your phone number?” he asked.

“He might have got it off Sally,” she replied.

“That's how he's tracking you,” Dale said grimly. “He's probably broken into the house and put some cameras down. You'd be amazed at how tiny they can be.”

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“I'll sort it out,” he replied. “Is Sally getting nasty messages?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And she lives alone. Oh, my God, she's the next target!”

***

The fluffy black and white cat twined around Sally's legs.

“Damn it, Sultan, I already fed you!” she snapped.

The cat cried nonetheless.

Sally spooned some food into his bowl, but he wasn't interested. “What is it, then?” she asked, exasperated.

Sultan meowed, rose up on his hind legs, and put his paws on her knee.

She picked him up and petted him, then put him down. “Sultan,” she said, “it's after midnight. I want to go to bed.” She turned her back on the protesting cat and went around her flat, turning off the lights. The bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar. “Funny,” she said aloud, “I thought I'd shut it.” She was just about to switch off the hall light when her doorbell rang.

Gary, the handyman, stood there with three other men. Without a word, they pushed her aside, rushed into the flat, and went straight into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” she shouted as she ran after them. She found Gary and a tall, well-built lad lifting her bed and looking under it, knocking the pillows off. The big Black one was poking around in her wardrobe with a cricket bat.

“Leon, what are you doing?” she demanded.

The smaller, wiry Asian man emerged from the ensuite bathroom saying, “There's nobody here, Gary.”

“Az, why are you in my bathroom?”

“Do you have any cupboards that someone could hide in?” Gary asked.

“No,” said Sally. “Why are you and Preston looking under my bed? Did Patricia put you up to this?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We know about the creepy messages. We were told he might be in here.”

“Gary!” Az called. “What's this, mate?” He held up a small black item the size of a cigarette. “I found it by the wardrobe.”

“It's like one of those cameras doctors use to take a look right inside you,” said Leon, turning over in his hands. “This is the lens. Look at it.”

Sally shuddered and clapped her hands over her face.

***

Katie walked around the house, making sure the lights were turned off and the doors were closed, while she waited for Dale to come back from the babysitter’s house. The cellar door was slightly ajar. “Who left that open?” she muttered. She opened it wider to take a quick look around.

A sharp pain in her eye, so severe she nearly passed out, made her crouch down. She felt something bump into her and heard it grunt and tumble down the stairs, leaving a trace of cigarette smoke and stale ale behind. Holding one hand up to her eye, she opened the door. In the bright light reflected from the white walls, she saw Mr. Tueur rising slowly up, his bare bloated face a mask of rage.

Her heart jumped, thumping like a demented boxer hitting a speed bag. She shut the door, locked it, and backed away, panting in fear.

A loud thump signified Tueur's furious attempt to get out.

He’ll be through in a minute. She couldn't leave the house; the kids were here. She went to the knife block. All the knives were gone. Thump! What could she do? The kids! She’d have to get him out of the house. Thump! The door frame cracked.

Think! She glanced around. The fire extinguisher! She grabbed it, positioned herself by the door just in time, lifted it high, and as the man crashed through the cellar door, she brought the thing down on his head as hard as she could.

Crunch. He faltered, then dropped to his knees and fell face down. A pool of blood spread around him.

The metallic smell made her gag. Katie froze. I've killed him! She felt a slight pressure like a hand resting on her left shoulder. It faded. Looking to her right, Katie saw nothing. She was alone.

The sound of a key turning in the lock, followed by familiar voices, made her look up.

Dale rushed in, took one look at the dead man on the floor, and stopped in his tracks.

Leon, who was right behind him, said, “Bloody Hell, Dale, she's killed him!”

The End.