Jordan Mercer 

2022

In college, I had an assignment to write a flash-fiction piece in the horror genre. I chose to write a persona fiction from the perspective of Jackie Kennedy the night before JFK's assassination. 

The Kennedy Curse

Jackie could feel her husband slipping through her fingers. She never got to see much of him ever since they moved into their massive new house and he was juggling the responsibilities of running the entire country. He left her alone in bed almost every night and came home every morning with cigarette smoke and a different perfume clinging to his wrinkled dress shirt. She knew he was with another woman— or perhaps multiple women— but she pretended not to notice and would kiss him good morning all the same. Jackie knew she was going to lose John, but she couldn’t help but love him unconditionally anyway.

The night before she was expected to be in a parade with her husband in Dallas, Jackie went to sleep early without John beside her. At 12:30 in the morning, she woke up abruptly from what sounded like the pop of a gunshot. She sat up straight in bed and fumbled for the lamp switch but in her haste, she knocked it off the nightstand and the cream ceramic base shattered onto the floor below her, leaving behind only the lampshade. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the translucent figure of a man holding the side of his head as blood leaked in between the crevices of his fingers and onto the pristine white rug. The figure was dressed impeccably in a sharply pressed Italian-made suit and from the looks of it, his dark hair seemed to be neatly combed. If it weren’t for all the blood, he might have looked handsome— even familiar. He turned his head slowly, continuing to clutch it while he moaned in pain, until his empty eye sockets were set on Jackie.

At first, he just stared at her as if he could see into her soul with his empty sockets. He did this for a fairly long time, making Jackie tremble in her discomfort. Blood continued to spurt out of the side of his head like a fountain and it rained onto his expensive attire in messy splatters. Jackie clutched the satin pillow beside her, wishing John was there to protect her from the grotesque monster that had taken an interest in her.

The phantom rasped a few broken breaths before he spoke. “Jackie,” he whispered as he trudged towards her.

Jackie scooted back further in her bed, as if the wooden headboard behind her would protect her from the eerie phantom before her. “Leave me alone!” she tried to demand, but it only came out in weak whimpers.

“Jackie,” he almost pleaded this time, extending his hand to touch her. His skin was cold and grey but there was an almost gentle, apologetic air to his touch. “I’m sorry.” Jackie caught a better glimpse of the ghostly figure— his strong jaw, soft hair, furrowed brows. It soon became clear that she knew exactly who this ghostly figure was: it was her husband, John. Jackie knew she was about to lose him forever.