Something followed me back to the firehouse.

Dead bodies stopped bothering me around my fourth or fifth one. Nowadays, they’re just nameless corpses I have to put my hands on.

Jaywalkers smoked by cars, cardiac arrests, overdoses… you name it, I’ve seen it. And I’ll be honest, I probably joked about it.

I know. I’m an asshole.

I’m starting to think I deserved this.

This all happened a week ago. My crew got called on a welfare check: neighbor hasn’t been seen in days, standard stuff.

When I took my place to force open the front door, I had already ignored the first clue that something was wrong.

The welcome mat greeted me with a “May All Those Who Enter as Guests, Leave as Friends”, but the jagged and aggressive symbol carvings on the door frame told me to stay out.

But I entered anyway, splintering the door open with a harrowing crack. The door creaked gingerly, asking me if I was sure I wanted to come in. My flashlight beam pierced the pitch black living room, darkened by old newspaper slapped across the windows.

My light caught the dull shine of animal bones strung from the ceiling. Around the room, the carcasses of small animals were crudely nailed to the wall, all forming concentric triangles.

“What in the fuck?” I turned back to my crew, nodding my head towards the open door.

Our probie for the day, Andrew, was the first one to briefly poke his head in. “Nope. I’m ok, this is some Blair Witch shit.”

“Nah,” I scanned my flashlight across the room, “they just have a shitty interior decorator.” I took one step in and immediately recognized the stench of death.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever smelled death, but it’s a scent you don’t ever forget.

I huffed and brushed a chicken bone out of my face. “Hey, LT, possible DOA.” I continued making entry, my boots sticking to substances I’d rather not identify. I called out, “Fire department,” hoping that someone living might respond.

I followed my nose deeper into the house, pretending not to notice the symbols splattered on the wall in dark crimson paint. Reaching the kitchen threshold, I pulled down a barrier of bone chimes and made my way in.

And that’s when I saw her.

An elderly woman laid sprawl on the table, butcher knives pinning her by each extremity. Her skin was etched with more of those odd symbols, her flesh decomposing everywhere except the etchings themselves. Melted candles flanked her body, long since cold and untouched. Her mouth was stuffed with what I assumed was more animal bones, the upward ends slightly charred.

And at the sight of this horrific scene, you know what wonderfully insightful thought came out of my mouth?

“Damn, granny, you’re one kinky bitch, aren’t you?”

I’m not sure what I pissed off, but I’m pretty sure that’s when I did it.

Police made their entry and the entire building was taped off as an active investigation. And since firefighters can’t raise the dead, we were disregarded from the scene and were told to head back to station.

Quick side note: it’s an old superstition from fire and EMS that you wipe your feet at a doormat when you have a dead patient, or something will follow you back. Now I never fully took stock in that superstition, but I’m sitting here wishing that I did. I should’ve wiped my feet on that stupid welcome mat, because I sure as shit did not leave as a friend.

Once we got back, things went wrong almost immediately. I was getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth in the bathroom, when an image in the mirror made me double take: those red glyphs were plastered on the wall behind me.

I glanced back, the wall bare and boring. I sighed, assuming my nerves had gotten to me. No sooner had I turned back around before the mirror leapt off the wall and shattered on the floor.

“Motherfucker!”

“You alright?” My crewmate, Alison, called from the hallway.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I set my toothbrush down and searched for the broom, “Damn mirror fell off the wall.”

I went to work sweeping up all the shards, doing my best not to leave any behind. But before I threw them all away, the largest shard caught my eye. I picked it up and leaned closer, squinting to make sure I was seeing this right.

It was the dead granny, clear as day, pinned to a table just like she was at her home.

I turned the shard away, seeing if it was a trick of the light.

When I turned it back, she was still there.

I turned it again.

Still there.

Once more.

And back.

Then her head jerked towards me, drilling an empty stare through me. She yanked her limbs from her restraints, one by one with a soundless slice. She slid off the table and flopped face-first onto the floor. Face still dragging, she slithered across the tile and disappeared from sight. Once again, I was alone with my rapid heartbeat, holding an empty mirror shard.

Then, in an instant, she shot into the frame of the shard, pressing her face against her side of the glass.

I jumped, cutting my palm against the shard’s edge, and I let it drop. It shattered across the floor of my bathroom, the brick now littered with tiny shards reflecting granny’s visage. Her eyes tracked me as I pressed myself against the bathroom wall.

I ran from the bathroom, holding my wound and rushing to the kitchen. I flipped the faucet on and ran my hand under the water. Nothing seemed real. I drifted to the EMS cabinet and bandaged my hand, but I couldn’t get granny’s face out of my memory.

I made my way to my bunk and stared at the dark ceiling. I stayed that way for hours, unable to think or move. I just wanted to go home.

Then I heard it.

A wet slap shook the bunk room window.

A choked gurgle mumbled from outside; anyone else listening would have heard nonsense, but I knew what it said without even wanting to.

“Found you.”

I wanted to run. I wanted to grab something to protect myself with. I wanted to shake everyone out of their beds and warn them. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen.

I have no idea how long I lay frozen until I heard the sound of our bunk room door creaking open. The unforgettable stench of death followed.

Tears ran down my face as I lay motionless, a pathetic cry stuck in my throat. Moist footsteps staggered closer and closer, undeniably heading straight for me. They stopped right next to me, the figure staring at me from the side of my bed.

I muttered a single “Help.” before the figure of granny cocked her face over mine. Choking back the animal bones, her toothless smile offered no comfort as she drove a sharpened blade through the cut in my hand, pinning me against the mattress.

Finally able to make noise, I screamed, waking everyone in the bunk room. The lights flicked on and Alison rushed to my side.

“Eric, what the hell is going on?”

I shot up, grasping my still bleeding palm. My eyes flashed back and forth around the room, searching for granny. “I- but I…”

“Hey,” Alison shook me by my shoulders, “calm down. You had a nightmare and you scared the shit out of us. Go back to bed”

Everyone returned to their bunk and went back to bed. And I sat there, too terrified to get up and clean my hand once more.

That was a week ago, and I haven’t been back to work since. Nothing strange has happened at home, but my hand hasn’t healed at all. I’m due to go back to the firehouse tomorrow and I’m scared. I’m so scared.

If anyone else has experienced this before or has advice, please help me.