Red Hands
a disturbing short by Alisa Zorina
Red hands can mean a lot of things. It could be a child finger-painting, the red paint covering her hands. Or they could be red from blood flow beneath the skin, like from hard clapping or sudden warmth. They could be red with raspberries, this child stuffing his face and smooshing them into his palms and cheeks. Or they could be red from Christmas mittens, bright red and fuzzy, ready to brave the cold.
But usually, red hands indicate blood. Or, metaphorically, guilt. Caught red-handed, for instance, the red stain of blood a clear mark of culpability in a heinous crime of death.
The red hands in this story are none of the above. While it may bear shades of blood and guilt, and you are free to read between the lines (no pun intended) and assign some sort of moral to the story, this is something far more sinister, coming from a place much deeper and darker. You have been warned.
Red Hands
by Alisa Zorina
Her place was not a 1-bedroom-flat, but a portal cleverly disguised as such and placed at the center of Dublin. Anyone’s guess where it led. Hell, the Catholics warned.
But those who had studied the phenomenon scoffed at such a simplistic explanation. The apartment on 31st Grafton Street, they argued, was no mere moralizing tale. It had preceded man’s settlement on the isle, and it would long outlast it as well. The reports as to what went on inside bore an uncanny resemblance to the half-forgotten myths which had awed and terrified their noble ancestors. Tales of the Aos sí or Sídhe, Ireland’s first inhabitants, and their unseen, crepuscular world.
All that, Alex couldn’t care less about. Rent was €900 pcm, pets allowed, and right next to Trinity. So, she moved in.
At first, she only saw the red hands in the corner of her eye. Creeping from between dark crevices—the split in the sofa, the space between the oven and fridge, the clearance beneath the bed. Waving, beckoning her with crimson, curling fingers, then disappearing as soon as she’d turn around.
Polite and unbothersome, she thought to herself. I’d much rather have them around than three noisy roommates.
Later, the hands began pilfering. Small, insignificant things at first. Cigarette butts, crumpled paper, cat kibbles. They’d drag them swiftly through the fissures, never to be found again.
Like little housekeepers, taking the trash out for me. Free of charge, too. So long as she remembered not to leave cash lying around, of course.
Then they stole her clothes. She’d missed work that day, and the boss threatened to fire her if it happened again. Henceforth, she’d sleep with her working outfit on. Drawers were too full of gaps and joints through which the hands could enter.
The cat was gone after that. They’d grabbed her by the tail and pulled her to the in-between before Alex could catch her. Her meows echoed as if sinking in a deep, dark well, before suddenly turning silent.
Mrs. Mittens had been her best friend, but Alex didn’t even get the time to properly mourn her. From that day, the hands became touchier. They pulled her hair as she walked down the hallway, and she could feel their cold grip on her ankle when she lay in bed.
She bought duct tape to cover up all the cracks in the apartment. After 137 spools, she’d sealed away every centimeter of every crevice. The nightmare was over.
But the hands wouldn’t retreat so easily. All night they tap-tap-tapped on the material, a monotonous symphony scratching her brain.
She went to the internet and googled “how to exorcise your house.” Hours later, she had found the perfect ritual. She’d get to it first thing next morning. Exhausted, she dozed off with her head resting upon the laptop.
Little did she realize that the slight gap between the lid and the base of the laptop could serve as yet another gateway for the red hands.
Meet the author:
Alisa Zorina is a student and aspiring writer currently living in Bucharest. The "underside" is here interpreted as the suffocating feeling of not having enough time in the day for all your work, studies, passions and social life.
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