Eventually, the warm air in the blanket tube worried him. He pulled the covers down far enough to access the cool air in the room, and stared at the jacket hanging from the door. Patterns, lines, and the delusions of a tired mind. His body refused to adapt to a normal sleeping pattern. The flowers above his head rained their perfumy scent upon him.
“Lavender? Lavender. Yeah, that’s what she called it.” How a smell was supposed to help him sleep, he had no idea, but he tried to relax. He followed the breathing exercise that she had put him through, gently pushing the images in his head to the side while concentrating on the kaleidoscope of color dancing on his closed eyelids, visualizing a cleansing light inside his chest.
He rested with the breathing technique for what must have been half an hour, without falling asleep. If the meditation thing wouldn’t work, then a sleeping pill would. He fought the blankets free, and padded to the desk. After working off a stubborn bottle cap, he dosed himself with one of the pills. “Should take care of that.” He climbed back under the blankets before they had a chance to cool.
Another ten minutes, then another. This was not going to be easy. The wind outside rustled through the trees and whistled against the window. Howling sounds echoed through the street, followed by the light pitter-patter of raindrops. “Good. Rain always helps me sleep.”
Almost there. His heartbeat fell into a steady rhythm. His eyelids transmuted to lead, and his limbs tingled. He was used to the sensation. It's what happened when his body started to fall asleep before the brain, and his mind had to catch up.
The scratching started.
15
Scratching noises came from the window. This time, he was sure of it. The rain pelted gently at the ceiling above, creating a repetitive percussion cadence. Something else made the scratching. Some beast, trying to get through his window. Maybe the shadow was only a scout, and something much worse was clawing its way in from outside. Or maybe I should just learn to turn off my brain.
Against his better judgment, he rolled over in bed and opened his eyes. It stopped. Nothing there. And nothing outside could have caused it. None of the trees planted in gaps of the sidewalk reached anywhere near his window. No bird clawed at the sill for a dry place to roost. Nothing. When he closed his eyes, the scratching recommenced.
His eyes flashed open again, this time glaring at the empty window. It collected droplets of color that accumulated before rushing down the glass haphazardly. His cowardly senses caressed an urge to get up and run.
Another part of him, buried deep in his gut where it had been growing over the last few days, told him to fight. He couldn’t hide forever. The creature would eventually find him, slamming his eyes closed would cease to work, but he didn’t have to go out like a wuss. He didn’t have to buckle. He could fight back.
He vowed, at that moment, to put a stop to it. No matter how much it frightened him, this torment was going to end, either with him being scared into cardiac arrest, or these things leaving him alone forever. A tiny flame burned behind each pupil. His fears didn’t disappear, but he stuffed them in a box at the back of his mind.
His fears swelled, trying to escape their mental prison, but the walls held. “I just want to sleep. Quit with the scratching.”
His eyes fixed on the window, waiting, just a bit longer. A single scrape, but nothing visible. Then, something stirred in the darkness on the other side. It didn’t have a definite shape, but wriggled like a pile of kittens under black felt. His heart raced. It was outside and trying to get in. He was sure the reports he read told him that shadow people could penetrate walls, but perhaps not windows. Either they were only there to annoy him, or they were waiting for something. He was tired of the stupid game. Something had to be done. It didn’t matter what it was, even if all he could do was shout. But he had to do something, instead of laying there like a suffering Scott Stone.
He reached above his head, and scraped with his fingers until they found the little purple bag. He sat up fast, took aim, and chucked it at the window. The darkness outside disappeared as the sack bounced to the ground. No monster. No red eyes. Maybe it was that simple. Maybe he could rid himself of the darkness by standing up to it, the way a child stands up to closet monsters by opening the door or turning on the light. He slammed his eyes shut again, and tried to force a state of relaxation that would lull him into a peaceful slumber. His newfound power provided a positive thought to hold in his mind until he drifted off.
Maybe a new attitude of attacking, rather than cowering, could eliminate the bad dreams as well. Then again, it might give him just enough stimulation to prevent sleep. His body went numb from the power of the pill, and he felt a bit of drool pooling at the edge of his lips. It was working. He might finally get some good rest this week.
He rolled over, facing away from the window. There were no more scratching noises, only the gentle drumming of raindrops, muffled by the thick overhead roof. He wriggled under the blankets, pulling the pillow down to his shoulder. Lying on his side sometimes caused his arm to fall asleep in the night, but he’d take the risk. If he could only fall asleep, then he didn’t care what pains he might wake up with.
Giving up again momentarily, or perhaps only frustrated from the restlessness, his eyes blinked open, and in the darkness, he caught a glimpse of something by the door. He refused to ignore it, or hide behind closed eyes. The fear of more worried nights eclipsed any apprehension about being attacked.
His jacket. Only his jacket, hanging from the knob. The folds in the leather shimmered with accents of reflected light from outside. The darkness of the black leather stood in contrast against the shaded white walls. Its shape morphed in his tired vision. One shape to the next, and it appeared to move, ever so slightly, but comparing it against the now visible cracks in the door revealed that the movement was an illusion of his own creation. His brain must have fallen asleep, and he wished that it would take the rest of him with it.
The jacket took on several forms: unfamiliar faces, animals with strange deformities, an old man, an old woman, a wolf’s head, a zombie. His mind cooked it a hundred different ways. Each of them unique, but somehow the same. Each of them sought to free his fear from its new prison.
Something flickered by the desk, and his eyes followed it. Two tiny green lights on the closed laptop, lights that should have been on solid.
Keep looking. Just a bit longer.
The air darkened between the bed and the desk. His eyes focused on the green glints until they were all he could see. He sensed the creature in his room. His heart quickened, driving his lungs to work harder. He tried to arrest his heartbeat by deliberately slowing his breathing, and focused on the tiny green lamps burning in the distance, like tiny lights on a high-flying jet plane at night.
He whispered, “Why can't you leave me alone?”
Blood rushed through his veins with the fury of the Mississippi. He couldn’t keep up the slow breathing any longer. His head swam. Heavy breaths bounced off the blanket and warmed his face. His teeth clenched. Darkness swam in a whirlpool, causing the laptop lights to flicker.
He concentrated on his eyelids, to ensure he wasn’t flinching. They were wide open, unmoving, and no lashes in the way. The lights disappeared, and he mustered any fury he could to let out a vicious plea. “Get the hell out of my apartment.”
As much as he wanted to confront the creature, to be brave, he couldn’t. Fear rippled through him like a tsunami, silent in the open ocean of his skin. Pushing it to the side ceased to work. Fear seeped out, bringing forth a tidal wave of terror that clenched his eyes, his teeth, and every other muscle in his body. Scary Scott Stone. Not this time. He stretched out his arm, taking his glasses from the nightstand and planting them on his face. The creature couldn’t hurt him if he couldn’t see it, but maybe he could still hurt the creature.
“Just a bit longer,” came the voice. It was no longer only in his head. It was audible. He could hear it just as well as the scrapes and scratches
.
He rolled toward the window and kicked his legs free from the bonds of the blanket, sitting up in bed. The window was somewhere before him, and under it, his weapon. His toes felt around for shoes, and slipped inside them at the first touch. He leaned forward to pull them over his heels. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and stood up, still in the total darkness behind closed eyes.
He tiptoed toward the window, hands waving through the air before him like whiskers, until they touched the hard wood of his dresser, and immediately traced to a patch of denim. He removed his shoes, dropping his phone on the carpet beside them, and after pulling his trousers up, he knelt again to lace up. Then he felt around for a shirt.
Keep looking.
“Shut up.”
He pulled the shirt on quickly, and backwards judging by the tight fit around his neck. His arms retreated into the sleeves to turn it around. He felt the creatures breath on his nape. He knelt to the floor, his body covered in goosebumps, to find his phone and stuff it in a pocket. Finally, his fingers found the fabric sack with the magic herb inside.
Just a bit longer.
He spun and stood fast, slashing with the sachet at the air before him. The only response was amused bellowing.
Scott jolted forward. He slammed into what was left of his broken bed post, which cut across the side of his shin. He navigated slowly, stumbling toward the door he knew was directly before him while waving the sack. His fingers touched drywall, then the door frame, then the jacket. He wrapped himself in it, grabbed the knob, and forced himself into the into the hallway, hoping that he wouldn’t run directly into one of his neighbors.
He yanked the door shut, and let out a sigh of relief as he leaned against the frame. He could sense the light of the hall without opening his eyes. He had done it. The monster wasn’t gone, but he managed past it without bashing in his skull. Every breath from this point forward was a victory. He could tell Serena what happened, and she could banish the beast. He couldn't sleep anyway, and now, in the freedom of the hallway, he could escape unscathed.
“Keep looking,” said the voice. But how? He’d escaped the monster. Hadn’t he?
“One foot in front of the other, Scott,” he said. Something wet tasted his nape. He moved forward with deliberate steps, his outstretched hands gliding across the walls to guide him through closed eyes toward the stairs.
“You can't resist forever.”
Not knowing who would hear, he spoke just louder than a whisper. “What do you want from me?”
And just like that, the presence disappeared. He felt alone, and blinked his eyes open, testing the light. Nothing. He slowly cracked one eyelid, staring down the steps into the lobby.
“Thank god.”
He didn’t know why, and didn’t care. He let out a long sigh, then realized that it was time to get moving. He took a step and stopped suddenly, wondering.
His thoughts escaped into the air around him. “What if it’s a trap? What if it’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs?”
He froze in the moment, afraid to continue forward, and terrified to turn back. He wondered what could have happened to the beast that was so obsessed with him only seconds ago.
After a deep breath of affirmation, he scurried down the steps, and into the frozen night air. Icy rain pelted him, and his arms wrapped tightly around the leather jacket, holding it closed with white knuckles while shuffling into the coffee shop.
Richard stared up from behind his laptop. The expression on his face wasn’t one of anger. One eye winced, and his mouth smiled in pain. He knows something.
The only explanation for acting like such a jerk was having some knowledge of what Maria described to him. This bartender must have seen it or heard about it before. Maybe he knew someone who died from the monster. Maybe he had seen it. There was only forty feet of empty coffee tables between them, and Scott decided that it was time for him to do the glaring.
Scott knew now what Serena meant. The subconscious mind acted like a huge antenna of human thought and emotion. He didn’t need tarot cards or dice, or a mystical ball to look into. He didn’t need tea leaves or a bag of jumbled letters. His lack of sleep granted him the power to know that Richard held the key to his salvation. It was a feeling, just like Serena said, but it was real. He was certain.
There were moments in his life when his whole mind rearranged itself. Thoughts shifted in the wake of a new idea, and everything he believed needed to be reevaluated. It happened when he learned something new that shook the foundation of his logic. It happened when his voice changed. And though he wasn’t sure why, it was happening in that moment. A new strength uncaged itself. A new courage. It forced itself to the surface, propelled by fear, frustration, and agony. He was now in a fight for his life, and that scruffy typist had the answers he needed. Compared to the monster, Richard was about as intimidating as a newborn baby.
Scott embraced the change, and approached without stopping to order his tall cap.
16
“What do you know about that damn thing?”
Richard looked up with scorn. “Leave me alone.”
“No, I want to know what you know.” It may have been lack of sleep, or lack of coffee, or the frustration from Serena’s complete and utter failure to rid his apartment of the creature. It may have been that the thing growing inside of him was a monster all its own. Or maybe he was simply desperate to be back to his normal boring life. Every day that passed since the shadow appeared, he became a bit more fearless.
“I'm sorry I grabbed you.” Richard’s words were apologetic, but his tone wasn’t. Even Scott, who rarely picked up on such things, could sense the teeth grinding behind those lips as he continued. “Please leave me alone.”
Richard folded his laptop, placed it neatly in a bag, and stood up. Scott followed him out of the front entrance.
“You know something, and you’re gonna tell me!”
Richard stopped cold, spinning around and stomping his foot toward Scott. “What kind of drugs are you on?” he asked.
Bewildered by the question, Scott took note of the sprinkle of icy droplets falling from the darkened heavens. Maria must have told him about the medications, too.
Richard didn’t wait for an answer. A throat noise later, he spun and kept walking. Before him, the parking lights of a black BMW flashed.
Scott snapped out of the trance. “I’m not on drugs.” He jogged to catch up. Going back to his apartment just to die was unacceptable. He had no option but to move forward, no matter what he might discover. He was driven like never before. Nearly every part of his being told him that persistence would lead to pain, but the monster inside raged on. One compelling voice drowned out the others in his head, saying, you do this now, or you’ll suffer for the rest of your life.
As Richard reached for the handle, Scott caught up and threw himself against the door.
“I’m going to give you three seconds to remove yourself from my vehicle. And then I’m going to rip your arm off and beat you to death with it. One.”
“Do what you gotta do. I’m not leaving until I have answers.”
“You don’t answer my questions, I can’t answer yours. Two.”
“Like you said, I’m going to die anyway. So go ahead and try something.”
“Three.” Richard twitched toward him, raising his arm.
Scott’s fists instinctively darted up and alongside his cheeks. It was an ancient instinct, buried in the primal part of his brain where it had remained locked up for years until that moment. His heart pounded like a bass drum, and he scowled at the bearded, laptop-wielding drug addict. He never flinched. He never let his eyes shy away from the aggressor. His muscles were loaded springs, waiting for release.
Richard’s eyes searched his face, moving left to right, scanning for any sign of weakness. But Scott refused to back down.
“You aren’t going to leave me alone, are you?”
Scott replied as sternly as he could. “Nope.” He
felt his voice break, and the tension in his biceps doubled. The cocked hammer of his irrational instinct to fight rested on a hair trigger. In his mind, he could see his right arm hook forward into the side of Richard’s face, but the sear never broke.
“I should have let you die and not said anything.” Richard’s shoulders relaxed. The laptop bag inched along his collar in an attempt to slide free.
The tension in Scott’s shoulders relaxed. “I want to know what that thing is.”
“And I want to know how long you've been addicted to meth.”
Scott bounced back a step, vexed by the simple question. “I'm not on meth.”
“You're obviously on something.”
A memory of scattered pill bottles flashed across his mind. The door opened, and Richard tossed his bag through the gap between the front seats and climbed in.
“I'm not on anything.” He stepped forward between the open door and the driver’s seat.
Richard stared up at him, but didn’t say a word.
“Just tell me what you know, and I'll never bother you again.”
Richard let out a sigh. “It's more entertaining than sitcoms,” he mumbled. “You promise? If I tell you what happened to me?”
“Promise.”
“Even if it doesn’t help, which it won’t. You’ll leave me alone?”
“Yes.”
“All right, hop in.”
Scott nodded and raced around the vehicle. The short ride carried a long silence. He stared at Richard expectantly, watching him fiddle with the radio, tuning and tweaking the buttons without his eyes leaving the road.
When the car stopped, he said, “Grab my bag.”
Scott obliged, and reached into the back for the soft laptop case. He climbed out, and followed his mark up the sidewalk toward a white townhouse. The neighborhood looked familiar. It wasn’t far from the coffee shop, a common dwelling zone for students and instructors, even though it was technically off campus. The building looked the same as every other on the block. Richard left the door open as he passed through the threshold, and Scott followed him into the kitchen.
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