I wrote this poem last year, as part of the one word challenge on Writer's Talkback, which was inspired by real events, the kind that happen all too often when we mix alcohol and driving, and the ignorant way that we often think we can get away with the occasional misdemeanour. Death has no obligation to young or old; he takes without prejudice or compunction, but more often than not it's our own fault that he comes knocking.
Literature draws him as a dark caped interloper carrying a scythe to harvest souls. I decided to keep to tradition and let the Grim Reaper keep his scythe for the title of the poem.
Death and the Scythe
When the darkness came,
I felt utterly alone,
Except for the moon;
His quicksilver smile,
Guided me to the scene.
The dark scar,
In the meadow,
That’s how I knew,
A black tide was coming,
To smother me, too.
Wheat gently swayed,
Unsullied by fear,
The wrecked car
Was silent; the breeze,
I could hear.
A gentle hum,
Of life letting go,
A last sigh into the night;
I was too late to save you,
Too late to know.
You were still warm,
But I grew cold,
I held you for a time,
As shadows retreated,
And stars hung low.
The tide was out,
Never coming back,
The silence crowded,
Despite the moon glow,
My life turned black.
A drunken night out, son,
You had nowhere to hide,
You baited the darkness,
He came for you...
Death and the Scythe.
Another winner...
For those who are regulars to Lily's Feardom, the weekly flash fiction Friday Prediction challenge provides the opportunity to stretch one's writing muscles by constructing a flash piece around three pre-chosen words. My piece 'The Road to Kigali' won, judged by fellow scribe R.S. Bohn.
The words leaped out at me and demanded I write this piece. The dark side of human nature fascinates me and this dark episode in human history still lingers. How unfortunate it is then that humanity can still act so atrociously. We never learn.
The Road to Kigali
Their semen glimmered like a garland of bloody pearls around her fleshy purse. Heart stilled by the fear they’d forced on her, she stared up at the sky, eyes locked, as though wresting the stars from the darkness.
Moments earlier, she’d sucked in her last breath.
Wide open wounds glistened as a dark shroud began to spread from a body that resembled a slaughtered pig.
Their saliva had already dried against her skin, leaving a sullied sheen.
The Hutus walked away into the evening; machete blades moist with coital residue, dragging the remains of the baby she would have had.
The words leaped out at me and demanded I write this piece. The dark side of human nature fascinates me and this dark episode in human history still lingers. How unfortunate it is then that humanity can still act so atrociously. We never learn.
The Road to Kigali
Their semen glimmered like a garland of bloody pearls around her fleshy purse. Heart stilled by the fear they’d forced on her, she stared up at the sky, eyes locked, as though wresting the stars from the darkness.
Moments earlier, she’d sucked in her last breath.
Wide open wounds glistened as a dark shroud began to spread from a body that resembled a slaughtered pig.
Their saliva had already dried against her skin, leaving a sullied sheen.
The Hutus walked away into the evening; machete blades moist with coital residue, dragging the remains of the baby she would have had.
Sticks and Stones...
Here's a 200 word piece called Passing Judgement. The old saying, 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me' may be a testament to resolve, but we all know that words cut deep, and when they do, they always hurt. Words have a unique power beyond any sharp instrument.
The theme of prejudice is running throughout my creative fiction at the moment. I'm looking at how destructive it really is, how powerful it can be and the consequences it can cause. Besides, we as writers speak from experience when we write from the heart. I was recently asked if the main character in this piece is me. Well, that's for the reader to decide. What I will say is that it was written with great emotion.
This is the original flash fiction piece, however a longer version is being written for the short story market.
Passing Judgement
The cloud that hovered close seemed oppressive, tight like a rope around the larynx, pressing against the skin.
Sticks and stones might break bones, but their words were always sharper, and their ability to find their target was matched only by the invisible pain they inflicted, the discomfort braying against her like open sores soaking in salt.
She had taken the pain they inflicted and had woven it into a rope.
Words hurt; they sliced through the dermis and wriggled like maggots beneath the skin, then picked away at the mind, thinning out the rationality from within. Spite and malice and misplaced thought; they had not listened or understood her, and now she was maligned, like a thick fibrous ball of cancer, an unbearable stench.
The anger remained fresh in her veins, seemingly unsullied by their prejudices, but the rope she had forged turned out to be her saviour. Vilified and shown up like a stain, she had beaten them to it, beaten them to the sticks and stones.
Wrong accusations fell like snowflakes on ignorant faces and evaporated into the stillness.
She dangled in silence from the oak tree on the hill. Just as her innocence finally became clear.
The theme of prejudice is running throughout my creative fiction at the moment. I'm looking at how destructive it really is, how powerful it can be and the consequences it can cause. Besides, we as writers speak from experience when we write from the heart. I was recently asked if the main character in this piece is me. Well, that's for the reader to decide. What I will say is that it was written with great emotion.
This is the original flash fiction piece, however a longer version is being written for the short story market.
Passing Judgement
The cloud that hovered close seemed oppressive, tight like a rope around the larynx, pressing against the skin.
Sticks and stones might break bones, but their words were always sharper, and their ability to find their target was matched only by the invisible pain they inflicted, the discomfort braying against her like open sores soaking in salt.
She had taken the pain they inflicted and had woven it into a rope.
Words hurt; they sliced through the dermis and wriggled like maggots beneath the skin, then picked away at the mind, thinning out the rationality from within. Spite and malice and misplaced thought; they had not listened or understood her, and now she was maligned, like a thick fibrous ball of cancer, an unbearable stench.
The anger remained fresh in her veins, seemingly unsullied by their prejudices, but the rope she had forged turned out to be her saviour. Vilified and shown up like a stain, she had beaten them to it, beaten them to the sticks and stones.
Wrong accusations fell like snowflakes on ignorant faces and evaporated into the stillness.
She dangled in silence from the oak tree on the hill. Just as her innocence finally became clear.
Inspired Flash Fiction
This short little flash first appeared over at Lily's Feardom, an entry in the Friday Flash challenge that takes place every week, and was inspired by misplaced prejudice which happens to people all over the world, but more importantly, it's about the fear rather than hatred, that prompts it.
A Bad Colour is a symbolic title, not just a literal one. More importantly, metaphor and colour plays throughout the entire piece.
A Bad Colour
Amber slices projected through the trees, the haze of the fire began to swell. The hint of burnt sienna wafted close, scorched a path beneath their noses.
Rope fibres moaned as they became taut, to temper the weight.
Shadows appeared through the smoke, circled him. Milk coloured robes flapped in the breeze, bathed by the fire glow, their faces hidden by hoods.
Red over black; the colour of life slinked down his skin, snaked down the channels they had gouged through his flesh. Open viscera gleamed.
He swung from the tree as the cross burned; the price for being different.
A Bad Colour is a symbolic title, not just a literal one. More importantly, metaphor and colour plays throughout the entire piece.
A Bad Colour
Amber slices projected through the trees, the haze of the fire began to swell. The hint of burnt sienna wafted close, scorched a path beneath their noses.
Rope fibres moaned as they became taut, to temper the weight.
Shadows appeared through the smoke, circled him. Milk coloured robes flapped in the breeze, bathed by the fire glow, their faces hidden by hoods.
Red over black; the colour of life slinked down his skin, snaked down the channels they had gouged through his flesh. Open viscera gleamed.
He swung from the tree as the cross burned; the price for being different.
Winning Poetry
Another little winner, this time free verse poetry, in the shape of a piece called Roadkill. This recently won the One Word Challenge over at Writer's Talkback. It's a dark piece, and needs no explanation. And as always, it deals with a central theme, this time death and loss, and it makes no excuses.
Roadkill
Fresh from the oppressive grip
Of an oily back night, the heavy jab
Of a thankless job, the anguish;
Battling through the flashing lights
Parting the dusk and pulling back
The protective drapes of life
Scraping up the viscera
And hoisting the remnants for the kin
Sealing bags of personal things
Waiting for the adrenaline to kick in.
Cold frost through the veins
Watching everything unfurl
Slow, like time-lapse, frame by frame
Pressing against urgent cries
Mingling with the noise and fear
Clinging low to the road;
It sported a spiteful sheen
A child’s bloody spill
Fresh kill
Reflecting bright in the light.
And slinking from the awful sight
Quietly leaving behind
Mangled metal and dulled chrome
The sticky russet pools
That covered a broken toy, a tiny shoe
And bits of Mummy too
Packing away another night
Looking into the driver’s pallid face
The dulled eyes and passive stare
Of Daddy, the drunk; a disgrace.
Roadkill
Fresh from the oppressive grip
Of an oily back night, the heavy jab
Of a thankless job, the anguish;
Battling through the flashing lights
Parting the dusk and pulling back
The protective drapes of life
Scraping up the viscera
And hoisting the remnants for the kin
Sealing bags of personal things
Waiting for the adrenaline to kick in.
Cold frost through the veins
Watching everything unfurl
Slow, like time-lapse, frame by frame
Pressing against urgent cries
Mingling with the noise and fear
Clinging low to the road;
It sported a spiteful sheen
A child’s bloody spill
Fresh kill
Reflecting bright in the light.
And slinking from the awful sight
Quietly leaving behind
Mangled metal and dulled chrome
The sticky russet pools
That covered a broken toy, a tiny shoe
And bits of Mummy too
Packing away another night
Looking into the driver’s pallid face
The dulled eyes and passive stare
Of Daddy, the drunk; a disgrace.
Human Stories
Continuing with the theme of the February Femmes Fatales, and for those who have not read it, I wrote Push especially for this particular showcase. It's been described as gritty and harrowing and that is because it looks at the very terrible horror we inflict on ourselves and those around us.
Writing is about examining human nature; we strive to find answers to why we do the things we do. Human stories are the basis of good fiction. Push delves into the human reality of drugs and poverty, and the human cost that it brings. It is reality, even if we don't want to believe it. The title works two fold; it symbolises how human nature pushes itself to a darkened brink, and it's the action of the drugs being injected into the body.
Push
The walls gleamed with a strange kind of mucus; a sticky leftover stew gilded by the foul air. Dark, fetid handprints led a path down the hallway. The piss-tainted stench, caught by the breeze that rattled through broken windows, lifted from the cold floor and wafted through darkened, rat-infested passageways. Bits of paper and rubbish scuttled against the cool air, settled again.
Distorted reflections shimmered from corners.
A line of dangling light bulbs flickered in tandem. Bare concrete, cold like ice sheets, sucked the dim light from the narrow corridor as Danny parted the darkness and hunched forward, each footstep an empty echo that reverberated long after his presence had drifted into the shifting umbra. He turned a corner, focused on the thin shaft of light at the end of the hallway. The light wavered momentarily; a shadow moved.
He poked a sullen grey face around the broken doorframe. The muted glow from dozens of candles freckled his expression and highlighted every line, every blemish, every droop and every dark, shrunken vein.
A soiled, stale odour of unwashed skin and greasy hair found its way up his nose as he walked through the cans, bottles and cardboard boxes that littered the floor. His young prostitute, Tiffany, sat beneath the broken window while the dusk pressed against the jagged remnants. She swigged from a cider bottle, seemed at ease with his invasive presence, though he suspected that had more to do with her need for a fix.
He dropped onto the stained mattress opposite her, lit a cigarette. The candle flames invoked lithe shadows that flitted across her face, lightened the contours of her sunken cheekbones with irascible definition. Her eyes, just visible beneath the dishevelled fringe, looked like two ball bearings rolling around in an empty skull.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a small foil parcel and dropped it on the floor in front of her. ‘I want paying, so you better get out on the street tomorrow.’
She stared at the silver packet, mesmerised by the way it glimmered beneath the light, the way it seemed to draw her in beyond the gleam, beyond the superficial nature of it. It plunged her headlong into the darkness of want.
‘You had everything yesterday,’ she said, throaty, absent. ‘I’m sore...’
Movement in the corner caught his eye. ‘Tough. You better get me my money, Tiff, or I’ll sling the kid off the balcony.’
Tiff’s four-year-old daughter stood tiptoe in the shit-stained cot, blue eyes bright through a grime-riddled face. She cried out for her mother.
Tiff unfolded the silver parcel and emptied some onto a dessert spoon. She picked up a nearby hypodermic needle, drew up some water from a cup, released some over the powder.
Danny eyed the child, the result of the first time he’d forced Tiffany.
Tiff placed a lighter beneath the spoon, watched the mixture bubble. After a short while, she picked up the syringe and drew the liquid.
Danny looked at Tiff. ‘Suck it up, bitch. That’s good shit.’
The colour of night painted her skin as she turned from him; it withered against the quiet corridors in her mind as insipid eyes rolled back in her head.
He picked up the syringe, drew some of the discoloured liquid.
Tiff crawled forward, shuffled to the cot and picked up the girl. She returned and sat next to the window, scratched around the floor. She found a stale piece of pizza and handed it to the child.
Danny grabbed the needle, pushed it into his bruised flesh, leaving a small amount left in the syringe.
The child fingered the mouldy pizza, watched him.
He sat back, patiently waited for the illusions to creep in to spin their webs.
Time slithered around the room.
After a while, tall thin silhouettes oozed into Tiff’s imaginings, iced her dark eyes like a blackened glacier. She slumped back onto the mattress, but in her mind, she was dropping like an imaginary stone into an abyss.
The child looked up.
Sounds minced inside Danny’s head; how they swirled, spinning like a drunken, nauseous haze and setting him adrift from the darkness of reality. His head suddenly lolled and vomit spilled from his mouth in a thick watery stream. He gurgled and slumped onto the cold floor, embraced by the empty cans, newspapers and bile. His voice broke into a long laugh.
The little girl peered at the strange shapes across the walls. She pointed, spoke into the coiling darkness, her child speak lost to the motionless shapes on the floor. She slowly got to her feet. The tattered curtain above her billowed against the breeze from the window and cast a cold haze across her mother’s skeletal, fading features.
The child turned to Danny, watched his cold breath coiling from the bilious crust forming around his mouth.
She picked up the syringe.
An engorged silence pressed against her as though urging. The needle glinted in the light. The liquid inside moved about, mesmerised her.
She crouched beside Danny. Remembering how her mother and Danny had done it, she placed her thumbs against the plunger. Her mother referred to it as medicine, to make people feel better.
She pushed the needle into the soft skin between Danny’s knuckles, pressed down on the plunger and watched the liquid disappear from the tiny tube.
It would make him better, she thought. The medicine. After a nice sleep.
She patted his arm, left the needle sticking out of his hand and went back over to her mother. She sat down and pressed a button on her toy and listened as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star played into the silence that crept through the corridors, the hallways, the open doors, the wretched abandoned rooms, the blackened staircases and the empty floors of the lonely, crumbling tenement block.
Echoes.
She watched as Danny’s skin slowly began to change colour - turning blue, then deathly grey - before eventually falling asleep in her mother’s stiff, cold arms.
Writing is about examining human nature; we strive to find answers to why we do the things we do. Human stories are the basis of good fiction. Push delves into the human reality of drugs and poverty, and the human cost that it brings. It is reality, even if we don't want to believe it. The title works two fold; it symbolises how human nature pushes itself to a darkened brink, and it's the action of the drugs being injected into the body.
Push
The walls gleamed with a strange kind of mucus; a sticky leftover stew gilded by the foul air. Dark, fetid handprints led a path down the hallway. The piss-tainted stench, caught by the breeze that rattled through broken windows, lifted from the cold floor and wafted through darkened, rat-infested passageways. Bits of paper and rubbish scuttled against the cool air, settled again.
Distorted reflections shimmered from corners.
A line of dangling light bulbs flickered in tandem. Bare concrete, cold like ice sheets, sucked the dim light from the narrow corridor as Danny parted the darkness and hunched forward, each footstep an empty echo that reverberated long after his presence had drifted into the shifting umbra. He turned a corner, focused on the thin shaft of light at the end of the hallway. The light wavered momentarily; a shadow moved.
He poked a sullen grey face around the broken doorframe. The muted glow from dozens of candles freckled his expression and highlighted every line, every blemish, every droop and every dark, shrunken vein.
A soiled, stale odour of unwashed skin and greasy hair found its way up his nose as he walked through the cans, bottles and cardboard boxes that littered the floor. His young prostitute, Tiffany, sat beneath the broken window while the dusk pressed against the jagged remnants. She swigged from a cider bottle, seemed at ease with his invasive presence, though he suspected that had more to do with her need for a fix.
He dropped onto the stained mattress opposite her, lit a cigarette. The candle flames invoked lithe shadows that flitted across her face, lightened the contours of her sunken cheekbones with irascible definition. Her eyes, just visible beneath the dishevelled fringe, looked like two ball bearings rolling around in an empty skull.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a small foil parcel and dropped it on the floor in front of her. ‘I want paying, so you better get out on the street tomorrow.’
She stared at the silver packet, mesmerised by the way it glimmered beneath the light, the way it seemed to draw her in beyond the gleam, beyond the superficial nature of it. It plunged her headlong into the darkness of want.
‘You had everything yesterday,’ she said, throaty, absent. ‘I’m sore...’
Movement in the corner caught his eye. ‘Tough. You better get me my money, Tiff, or I’ll sling the kid off the balcony.’
Tiff’s four-year-old daughter stood tiptoe in the shit-stained cot, blue eyes bright through a grime-riddled face. She cried out for her mother.
Tiff unfolded the silver parcel and emptied some onto a dessert spoon. She picked up a nearby hypodermic needle, drew up some water from a cup, released some over the powder.
Danny eyed the child, the result of the first time he’d forced Tiffany.
Tiff placed a lighter beneath the spoon, watched the mixture bubble. After a short while, she picked up the syringe and drew the liquid.
Danny looked at Tiff. ‘Suck it up, bitch. That’s good shit.’
The colour of night painted her skin as she turned from him; it withered against the quiet corridors in her mind as insipid eyes rolled back in her head.
He picked up the syringe, drew some of the discoloured liquid.
Tiff crawled forward, shuffled to the cot and picked up the girl. She returned and sat next to the window, scratched around the floor. She found a stale piece of pizza and handed it to the child.
Danny grabbed the needle, pushed it into his bruised flesh, leaving a small amount left in the syringe.
The child fingered the mouldy pizza, watched him.
He sat back, patiently waited for the illusions to creep in to spin their webs.
Time slithered around the room.
After a while, tall thin silhouettes oozed into Tiff’s imaginings, iced her dark eyes like a blackened glacier. She slumped back onto the mattress, but in her mind, she was dropping like an imaginary stone into an abyss.
The child looked up.
Sounds minced inside Danny’s head; how they swirled, spinning like a drunken, nauseous haze and setting him adrift from the darkness of reality. His head suddenly lolled and vomit spilled from his mouth in a thick watery stream. He gurgled and slumped onto the cold floor, embraced by the empty cans, newspapers and bile. His voice broke into a long laugh.
The little girl peered at the strange shapes across the walls. She pointed, spoke into the coiling darkness, her child speak lost to the motionless shapes on the floor. She slowly got to her feet. The tattered curtain above her billowed against the breeze from the window and cast a cold haze across her mother’s skeletal, fading features.
The child turned to Danny, watched his cold breath coiling from the bilious crust forming around his mouth.
She picked up the syringe.
An engorged silence pressed against her as though urging. The needle glinted in the light. The liquid inside moved about, mesmerised her.
She crouched beside Danny. Remembering how her mother and Danny had done it, she placed her thumbs against the plunger. Her mother referred to it as medicine, to make people feel better.
She pushed the needle into the soft skin between Danny’s knuckles, pressed down on the plunger and watched the liquid disappear from the tiny tube.
It would make him better, she thought. The medicine. After a nice sleep.
She patted his arm, left the needle sticking out of his hand and went back over to her mother. She sat down and pressed a button on her toy and listened as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star played into the silence that crept through the corridors, the hallways, the open doors, the wretched abandoned rooms, the blackened staircases and the empty floors of the lonely, crumbling tenement block.
Echoes.
She watched as Danny’s skin slowly began to change colour - turning blue, then deathly grey - before eventually falling asleep in her mother’s stiff, cold arms.
Dream States and the Dark...
For those already familiar with Lily Childs' February Femmes Fatales, you might recognise this short story called Nocturne. It started life as a short story entry for a competition a while back, and although it didn't get anywhere, I rehashed it to make it much darker and creepier.
Those who have experienced hypnagogic states will probably understand the terror lurking in this story. I have only ever experienced it once (thankfully) about 24 years ago while in my teens, and even to this day I still recall the terror and the feeling it caused. Of course, it wasn't helped by my irrational fear of the dark...
Nocturne
Kate had always suffered bad dreams, for as long as she could remember. The kind that crept into her consciousness each night, fingering and ripping at her nerves like a dirty, eager demonic whore.
She often dreaded sleep. It brought with it the creature that feasted on her fears and sneered at her like a repellent child.
Hypnagogia, the doctors said. The transitional stage between wakefulness and sleep, and the cause of her strange visions. But despite the medication, she still dreamed about the night demon which breached her mind, mocking and pawing and frightening her.
This night was no different, as the drum of her heartbeat echoed around the room, pulling her deep into sleep. So soft and malleable. Vulnerable. Outside, silhouetted shadows of naked, gnarled branches danced as the wind taunted.
Kate drifted towards an empty blackness.
Movement.
Her bedroom door slowly opened to the shadows in the hallway; they sucked out the warmth and left a slicing chill, but Kate remained in slumber, despite the room growing colder. A teasing stream of vapour coiled into the air as she breathed.
The door wavered as though a soft breeze had swept past. The shadow in the corridor lurched, grew black.
Quiet vibrations undulated beneath the floorboards, crept across the room like a rolling bank of fog. The metal bed frame rattled slightly and then fell silent.
Kate’s eyes fluttered open, the blurred line between consciousness and sleep somewhat jaded. She half-listened for a moment; her mind tuning into the peripheral. Sounds in the conscience.
A creak spilled into the chilly air.
She lifted her head, gazed at the darkened doorway and shuddered at the cold pressing against her skin with steel fingertips. She could have sworn she’d closed the door. She got up and closed the door against the blackness, then returned to bed. She drew the sheet up over her shoulders and settled back into the pillows. Perhaps tonight would be her first nightmare free sleep.
Perhaps.
She drifted.
A stilted, oppressive silence descended like a clammy cloud of vapour, clung to the cold air. The darkness brooded; grew thick with each minute and filled the stairs and hallway as though shrouding something from view.
The bedroom door silently swung wide. Like an invitation.
The dark mass in the hallway slithered forward into the chilled room and oozed towards the bed as though seeking out her warmth.
The trees outside stopped moving. Shadows became still.
The bedcovers moved. The sheet slowly slipped down her body.
The bed creaked. An indentation appeared beside her torso, as though something rested against the mattress.
Kate groaned. Through the fog of sleep, she felt pressure on her back and her eyes immediately opened to the greyness.
A rancid smell instantly drifted up her nostrils and slithered down her throat like a hungry serpent. She retched, opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came; her voice stifled by the entity pressing down on her, pushing her into the bedclothes, forceful, angry.
The pressure on her body increased, sharp nails etched into her back.
Muscles stuttered, but she couldn’t move; nothing would work.
Christ! Help!
The sound of her heartbeat became loud and fast in her ears, and her stomach churned, full with a fearful, bilious torrent; the sickly swell instantly filling her veins and numbing her body further into submission.
The wardrobe doors rattled.
God, how she wanted to scream, but raw terror clawed at shredded nerves; no sound could get past her swollen larynx. Fear fizzled at the back of her mind, inching through broken synapses to fill her conscience with the sickly torrent.
Sounds crept in; low and brooding. She knew the demon from her nightmares had perched on her back with a glib, Faustian grin. Sometimes she could almost hear it laughing. Sometimes she could hear it breath; the rough rattle of its lungs. She would often smell the fetid scent of death drape over her, smothering her, but she knew it would be over soon; the nightmarish episodes never lasted long...the horror would subside and she would slip into a deep sleep once again.
Something gurgled. The weight shifted on her back.
Lungs depleted and instantly filled with air. The stench receded.
A noise finally seeped into the darkness; her voice broke. She lifted her head, eyes wide as she peered over her shoulder, fearful she might catch a glimpse of a demonic creature, but only a shifting darkness stared back at her.
The pressure gradually eased from her and feeling returned to her limbs. She shot out her arm to grab the lamp on the side table, almost knocked it over. And then, at last, light filled the room, sending the shadows into retreat.
She sat up, eyes adjusting to the glow. She gazed at the door. It lay wide open against the baleful blackness that seemed to be squatting near the stairs. Fear crawled beneath her skin like a parasite.
Had she shut the door? Or had she dreamed she had?
She glanced at the wardrobe. The rattling noises had seemed so real. The sense of the demonic imp crushing her into the bed had seemed real, but she knew they were all in her mind, the soupy residue of near sleep, just gossamer strings of her imaginings and fears.
But curiosity drew her from the bed to the wardrobe. She reached out, heartbeat pulsating in her fingertips as she gripped the handle, momentarily resisting the urge to...
...face her fears...
She opened the doors, sighed at the cluttered space in the wardrobe, cursed. You dreamed it, idiot.
She shut the wardrobe, went to the bathroom to get a glass of water, still muttering.
* * *
Bereft of her warmth, the air in the bedroom quickly cooled again, laced with an arctic hush. The light dimmed.
The wardrobe door slowly swung open.
The stench of rotten flesh oozed into the ether.
A hunched, spidery shadow smothered the wall, entered her bed.
The daemon patiently awaited her return.
Those who have experienced hypnagogic states will probably understand the terror lurking in this story. I have only ever experienced it once (thankfully) about 24 years ago while in my teens, and even to this day I still recall the terror and the feeling it caused. Of course, it wasn't helped by my irrational fear of the dark...
Nocturne
Kate had always suffered bad dreams, for as long as she could remember. The kind that crept into her consciousness each night, fingering and ripping at her nerves like a dirty, eager demonic whore.
She often dreaded sleep. It brought with it the creature that feasted on her fears and sneered at her like a repellent child.
Hypnagogia, the doctors said. The transitional stage between wakefulness and sleep, and the cause of her strange visions. But despite the medication, she still dreamed about the night demon which breached her mind, mocking and pawing and frightening her.
This night was no different, as the drum of her heartbeat echoed around the room, pulling her deep into sleep. So soft and malleable. Vulnerable. Outside, silhouetted shadows of naked, gnarled branches danced as the wind taunted.
Kate drifted towards an empty blackness.
Movement.
Her bedroom door slowly opened to the shadows in the hallway; they sucked out the warmth and left a slicing chill, but Kate remained in slumber, despite the room growing colder. A teasing stream of vapour coiled into the air as she breathed.
The door wavered as though a soft breeze had swept past. The shadow in the corridor lurched, grew black.
Quiet vibrations undulated beneath the floorboards, crept across the room like a rolling bank of fog. The metal bed frame rattled slightly and then fell silent.
Kate’s eyes fluttered open, the blurred line between consciousness and sleep somewhat jaded. She half-listened for a moment; her mind tuning into the peripheral. Sounds in the conscience.
A creak spilled into the chilly air.
She lifted her head, gazed at the darkened doorway and shuddered at the cold pressing against her skin with steel fingertips. She could have sworn she’d closed the door. She got up and closed the door against the blackness, then returned to bed. She drew the sheet up over her shoulders and settled back into the pillows. Perhaps tonight would be her first nightmare free sleep.
Perhaps.
She drifted.
A stilted, oppressive silence descended like a clammy cloud of vapour, clung to the cold air. The darkness brooded; grew thick with each minute and filled the stairs and hallway as though shrouding something from view.
The bedroom door silently swung wide. Like an invitation.
The dark mass in the hallway slithered forward into the chilled room and oozed towards the bed as though seeking out her warmth.
The trees outside stopped moving. Shadows became still.
The bedcovers moved. The sheet slowly slipped down her body.
The bed creaked. An indentation appeared beside her torso, as though something rested against the mattress.
Kate groaned. Through the fog of sleep, she felt pressure on her back and her eyes immediately opened to the greyness.
A rancid smell instantly drifted up her nostrils and slithered down her throat like a hungry serpent. She retched, opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came; her voice stifled by the entity pressing down on her, pushing her into the bedclothes, forceful, angry.
The pressure on her body increased, sharp nails etched into her back.
Muscles stuttered, but she couldn’t move; nothing would work.
Christ! Help!
The sound of her heartbeat became loud and fast in her ears, and her stomach churned, full with a fearful, bilious torrent; the sickly swell instantly filling her veins and numbing her body further into submission.
The wardrobe doors rattled.
God, how she wanted to scream, but raw terror clawed at shredded nerves; no sound could get past her swollen larynx. Fear fizzled at the back of her mind, inching through broken synapses to fill her conscience with the sickly torrent.
Sounds crept in; low and brooding. She knew the demon from her nightmares had perched on her back with a glib, Faustian grin. Sometimes she could almost hear it laughing. Sometimes she could hear it breath; the rough rattle of its lungs. She would often smell the fetid scent of death drape over her, smothering her, but she knew it would be over soon; the nightmarish episodes never lasted long...the horror would subside and she would slip into a deep sleep once again.
Something gurgled. The weight shifted on her back.
Lungs depleted and instantly filled with air. The stench receded.
A noise finally seeped into the darkness; her voice broke. She lifted her head, eyes wide as she peered over her shoulder, fearful she might catch a glimpse of a demonic creature, but only a shifting darkness stared back at her.
The pressure gradually eased from her and feeling returned to her limbs. She shot out her arm to grab the lamp on the side table, almost knocked it over. And then, at last, light filled the room, sending the shadows into retreat.
She sat up, eyes adjusting to the glow. She gazed at the door. It lay wide open against the baleful blackness that seemed to be squatting near the stairs. Fear crawled beneath her skin like a parasite.
Had she shut the door? Or had she dreamed she had?
She glanced at the wardrobe. The rattling noises had seemed so real. The sense of the demonic imp crushing her into the bed had seemed real, but she knew they were all in her mind, the soupy residue of near sleep, just gossamer strings of her imaginings and fears.
But curiosity drew her from the bed to the wardrobe. She reached out, heartbeat pulsating in her fingertips as she gripped the handle, momentarily resisting the urge to...
...face her fears...
She opened the doors, sighed at the cluttered space in the wardrobe, cursed. You dreamed it, idiot.
She shut the wardrobe, went to the bathroom to get a glass of water, still muttering.
* * *
Bereft of her warmth, the air in the bedroom quickly cooled again, laced with an arctic hush. The light dimmed.
The wardrobe door slowly swung open.
The stench of rotten flesh oozed into the ether.
A hunched, spidery shadow smothered the wall, entered her bed.
The daemon patiently awaited her return.
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