You Can't Hurt Me Now

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

The thin, ethereal voice came as soft as a whisper on the wind; but a chill wind… and it woke him. He looked at the clock: 01:00 SUN 24 OCT 2027

The date was familiar yet, half-awake as he was, it took him a moment to remember. Then it came to him: it was a year to the day since she’d gone. Those same words her parting message, the last words she’d spoken to him.

Sighing, he rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. But sleep did not come easily.

*

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

The voice was louder, firmer… it was as if she was actually in the room with him. But that was impossible. He stared at the clock: 01:00 MON 25 OCT 2027

The same time… exactly the same time. Not just the same as last night, but the same as that night: when he’d found her and she’d turned to him and said it, those same words. He’d laughed at her at first, but then he saw what she’d done.

He got up and went downstairs. Pouring himself a large glass of whisky, he sat at the kitchen table, telling himself it would help him get back to sleep. Perhaps it might: if he could drown the memories, make them go away. He’d never imagined she would resort to that, he’d thought he had her under control, that she would never leave him. But she had found a way.

One glass wasn’t enough, nor was two… but eventually he staggered back upstairs, collapsed onto the bed, and fell into a drunken stupor.

*

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

He sat bolt upright, trembling in fear. He knew what the clock would say before he looked: 01:00 TUE 26 OCT 2027

The voice hadn’t floated like an ethereal whisper on the wind, it hadn’t echoed around the room: it had come from one direction… from the bathroom, from the place she had done it, the last place he’d seen her alive.

Hesitantly, he swung his feet onto the floor and stumbled across the carpet to the bathroom door. He switched on the light, as he had that night, and pulled the door open.

The old neon tube flickered as it slowly came to life. For a split-second, he saw her, lying in the bath, the water stained by her blood, the knife lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. Then the light flickered again and she was gone.

Even a whole bottle couldn’t get him back to sleep.

*

He waited until midnight to take the tablets. They kicked in nicely about thirty minutes later and he drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. “You can’t hurt me now,” he whispered softly to himself.

He woke with a start and looked at the clock: 00:59 WED 27 OCT 2027

That shouldn’t be, he’d taken twice the dose the doctor prescribed, he should have slept like a log ‘til the morning.

His heart pounding, a cold sweat running down his face, he stared at the clock, waiting. The numbers sat, unmoving, as the seconds ticked by until suddenly, they became: 01:00 WED 27 OCT 2027

For a moment, nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and settled back against the pillows. His heartbeat slowed…

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

It came from the bathroom, as clear as a bell. He stared in horror at the door. The bathroom light came on, the doorknob started to turn.

“No, no, this isn’t happening, I’m imagining things… it’s just a nightmare.”

The door opened. She was standing there, silhouetted against the light, her nightdress soaked in the same blood that dripped from the knife in her hand.

“You’re just an apparition, this isn’t real… y-you’re… y-you’re dead; y-you k-killed yourself.”

She staggered towards him, the raised knife glinting in the moonlight. He could see her face was wasted, her sunken flesh pale, with a greenish hue. Her eyes were dead, almost white, yet they stared at him as she spoke without moving her black lips, ‘I’m coming for you, Malcolm.’

Then she disappeared.

The clock displayed 02:00 WED 27 OCT as the warm liquid soaked into the sheet beneath him.

*

It was a cheap hotel, all he could afford booking at such short notice. The room was damp, musty, smelly. But he didn’t care; she wouldn’t find him here.

He downed the last of the whisky, turned off the television, and settled down to sleep. It was all just his imagination of course, hallucinations brought on by stress and anxiety… perhaps even some guilt. But why should he feel guilty, she’d taken her own life, hadn’t she? He hadn’t killed her.

He glanced at the bedside clock: 12:30. He smiled, she’d be sorely disappointed if she tried to visit him at the house tonight. Stupid bitch, she was just as dumb dead as she’d been when she was alive. He yawned, he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for days. His eyelids started to droop.

*

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

His eyes snapped open. He screamed. He was back in his bedroom, she was shuffling across the floor towards him, her dead eyes fixed on him, the dripping knife raised high above her head.

‘You can’t hide from me, Malcolm. Wherever you go, I will follow,’ once again, she spoke without moving her lips; ‘I’m coming to get you.’

“Y-y-you’re not real, you’re just a…”

‘A ghost, a spirit… call me what you like, but I will have my vengeance. You murdered me, Malcolm, now it’s time for you to pay.’

“I didn’t, I… I… you killed yourself.”

The apparition laughed, a rasping cackle that sent shivers running up and down his spine, ‘I had to escape the beatings, the abuse, the torment you put me though… the Hell you made my life… it was a cry for help, I didn’t want to die… but you waited… you murdered me.’

“What do you mean, I waited?”

‘You know what I mean, Malcolm.’

 “I… I…”

She vanished. His bedroom vanished. He was back in the hotel room. He looked at the bedside clock: 02:00.

*

There was no point taking sleeping pills: he would only wake when she arrived. No point staying at the hotel, or going anywhere else for that matter: she would only find him again. No point telling anyone… they’d never believe him, they’d think he was going mad. Perhaps he was?

So, here he was, back at home, sitting at the kitchen table, demolishing another bottle of whisky, nowhere to run, no-one to turn to for help. He certainly wasn’t going to the police, he remembered the interview all too well.

“Do you have any idea what may have made your wife want to take her life, Mr Jones?”

“No, er… no, I had no idea she was so, er… so depressed.”

“According to the coroner’s report, she had a number of bruises on her arms and face. Do you think there might be a connection?”

“How? She slit her wrists, that’s what killed her; the bruises didn’t kill her.”

“No, of course not,” the detective smiled, “but how did she get the bruises?”

“She walked into a door.”

“Are you sure it was a door?”

“It was a door. She was always a clumsy cow.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you’re very upset that she’s dead.”

“Look, she killed herself, right? I’ve had enough of your word games; unless you’re gonna charge me with something, I want to leave… now.”

“No,” the detective sighed, shaking his head, “no, we’re not charging you with anything. The coroner’s report confirms it was most likely suicide, so you’re free to go. But there will be an inquest, so… don’t leave town.”

The inquest had been a nightmare, more stupid questions about bruises, how it had taken him so long to realise she wasn’t in the bed, why he’d been so slow checking the en-suite bathroom, too late calling the ambulance.

But he’d got through it. He could tell they didn’t believe she’d walked into a door, but no-one could prove anything, and it was nothing to do with the cause of death: even the police admitted that. As for being too slow checking the bathroom, that was easy. The paramedics told the inquest how he stank of whisky when they arrived, so he just said he was too drunk to notice Suzanne wasn’t in the bed anymore… and they believed him. Perfect alibi!

He sighed. Time for bed. There was no point putting it off, she’d find him wherever he was.

*

He stared at the clock, waiting for the numbers to change. Eventually, 00:59 FRI 29 OCT changed to 01:00 FRI 29 OCT. A moment later, he heard her voice, ‘You Can’t Hurt Me Now,’ and she appeared, shuffling slowly across the room, her dead eyes staring at him, the blood-drenched knife in her hand, dripping onto the carpet, but leaving no stain.

“W-w-why are you h-here? W-w-what d-do you w-want?”

‘You murdered me, Malcolm… you stood there, smiling, sipping your whisky… watching me die.’

“P-p-please, S-Suzanne, I… I didn’t mean to let you die, I…”

She gave her rasping cackle, drawing her lips back in a ghoulish travesty of a smile, ‘You can’t lie to me, Malcolm; I see everything now, every dark, devious thought in your tiny little brain. You waited for me to die, you murdered me.’

“But, I…”

‘I will haunt you, torment you, the same hour every night, the hour you watched me die… from one ‘til two; until I have my revenge.’

“S-s-so y-you only have an hour… y-you always d-disappear at t-two? Y-you can’t hurt me after that?” He glanced at the clock, 01:45; time ran fast in her presence. He watched her shuffling slowly towards him, then laughed nervously, hesitantly, as it occurred to him: she couldn’t reach him in time, couldn’t actually harm him. All she could do was scare him, and all he had to do was watch her for an hour: an hour of this strange, distorted time, that felt like a few minutes… and then she would be gone.

She was still a few feet away when the clock reached 01:59. He smiled, “You can’t hurt me now.”

She screamed in frustration as she vanished before his eyes.

*

01:00 SAT 30 OCT

He smiled as he put down his glass and waited for her to appear.

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

“Right on cue,” he watched the ghostly figure silhouetted in the doorway as she began shuffling towards him.

‘I’m coming for you, Malcolm, I will not rest until I am avenged,’ she raised the knife as she advanced slowly across the bedroom floor.

“You killed yourself, Suzanne… that’s official, the coroner said so. There’s no-one to take vengeance on.”

‘You waited, you murdered me.’

“Well, I may have been a bit slow calling the ambulance…”

‘An hour you waited while my lifeblood drained away. They could have saved me, but you waited… it was murder.’

“And an hour is all you’ve got, isn’t it, Suzanne? From one o’clock, when I found you, to two o’clock, when you died. That’s when you disappear again, when your window for vengeance closes.”

‘I will have my revenge.’

“I don’t think so, Suzanne. You move slowly, and time’s running fast. I mean, look, it’s already…” he glanced at the clock, “already 01:43; you’re not going to reach me in time.”

‘I will slit your throat as you lie helpless, paralysed by fear.’

He watched her shuffling towards him and laughed, “You’ll never make it at that pace.”

‘You will regret your mockery, you…’

He looked at the clock once more. “Time’s up,” he grinned, “you can’t hurt me now.”

She shrieked like a wounded banshee as she disappeared.

*

01:00 SUN 31 OCT

‘You can’t hurt me now.’

“Good evening, Suzanne,” he watched her shambling towards him; “you know, I’m beginning to enjoy this. There you are, a ghostly representation of your rotting corpse, and here I am, comfortable in bed, whisky in hand, watching you suffer. I mean,” he laughed, “when it comes down to it, who’s tormenting who?”

‘I will have vengeance, I will have it tonight.’

“Yes, yes, very scary,” he mocked, “but you won’t; you haven’t got enough time. You might as well give up, you don’t scare me anymore, you’re the only one suffering here.”

‘You have forgotten, tonight is different, tonight I will watch you die… as you watched me.’

“Why, because it’s Halloween? Does that change all the rules? You really think I’m going to believe that nonsense?” He looked at the clock, it was 01:52 already, she didn’t have long.

‘No, Malcolm, not because it’s Halloween, because of something else… something you have forgotten.’

Something in her voice sent a chill up his spine; she seemed sure of herself tonight. He looked at the clock for reassurance: 01:56. He looked at her, shuffling as slowly as ever, still a few feet away, the dripping knife raised high, ready to strike; he laughed uneasily, “Well, er… whatever I’ve forgotten, you can’t hurt me now.”          

She grinned her dark, toothless grin, her cold, dead eyes glowing in the moonlight, ‘Watch the clock, Malcolm.’

And suddenly, he remembered: it wasn’t just Halloween, it was also the night the clocks went back… 01:59 became 01:00.

Cackling in delight, she slashed the knife across his throat, watching the light fading from his eyes as the life drained from his body.

‘You can’t hurt me now!’ she screeched.