She's Coming To Get You

Some people said it was a sad thing that happened to Aunt Jessica but they didn’t know her like I did. They didn’t know what a sick and cruel and evil woman she really was. How she used to torture me, her only neice, with midnight tales of Bloody Betty.

The first night I stayed at her house, after my parents died, I remember she introduced me to that horrible nightmare. “There’s a ghost in my old house and her name is Bloody Betty. If you don’t behave yourself in my house”, she said, her hand hovering over the light switch of my room, “Then Bloody Betty will come for you at night, when its dark. She’ll come up from hell, all covered in blood, with blood dripping from her mouth, blood all over her face, blood all down her black dress, blood coming from her eyes and dripping from the long black hair that covers her face. She’ll come with knives and scissors and she’ll come out of any corner of your room, whenever
you least expect it”.

Then she switched off the light and shut the door and left me shivering in terror the whole night; my imagination going mad as it filled the darkness of my room with gruesome visions of Bloody Betty; her mouth grinning; her skin blue like a corpse under her blood soaked dress, and every creak in my Aunt’s old house became the sound of Bloody Betty’s approaching footsteps.

Only my dear Mother and Father gave me comfort, for I knew they were looking down and smiling on me from Heaven and that, if Bloody Betty ever did come for me then I would go to be with them and not to Hell as my Aunt had said.

But that nightly torment went on for years; every night the same evil bed time story
of the bloody ghost; every night, me covering my ears and screaming “Stop it. I don’t want to know!” and every night my evil Aunt grinning disgustingly; revoltingly as she saw how terrified I was and kept on telling me about that horror.

But, the night my Aunt ‘died’, Bloody Betty came out of the shadows. It was all rain and thunder that night and the trees outside my window were throwing fits in the wind like mad women with long hair. I heard her, downstairs in the kitchen; her dead, bloody hands searching in the knife drawer; her bloody bare feet creeping through the darkened hallway, leaving bloody footprints on the wooden floor, then creaking up the stairs, scraping her butchers knife against the wall as she climbed up towards my Aunts room and, all the while I could hear a voice whispering in the dark, perhaps it was my own voice whispering, “Bloody Betty, pick up the knife; Bloody Betty, come up the stairs; Bloody Betty, open the door”.

Then I heard her twisting the handle of my Aunt’s room and the door opening slowly
and the old woman screaming as the knife came down and down again, flashing in the darkness and growing redder and redder.

That’s how it happened, I swear. It was Bloody Betty who killed my Aunt…not me…not me.