by Lex Sinclair
‘SHUT UP!’ Joe screamed, hurting his larynx at the same time. ‘Just shut the hell up!’ He buried his face in his hands, shaking his head back and forth, doing his utmost to get rid of the explicit images surging through his mind’s eye, seeing his wife riding Fred Johnson on the verge of the greatest orgasm of her life, like an ardent cowgirl, ecstasy written all over her features, eyes closed, mouth in the shape of an O.
Something in Joe’s mind snapped - an old branch no longer able to support the weight of stress. He ripped the TV set out of its socket, lifted it overhead and slammed it down, blinking momentarily as the tube exploded and a puff of electrical smoke evaporated around him. Blue sparks spat from the loose wiring. A perfectly good television set of the highest quality was now beyond repair on the living room floor in front of a distraught man, who initially thought he was dealing with his recent divorce fairly well... until tonight.
Of course, he had believed his wife to have cheated on him. Nevertheless, to hear such intimate details and see such explicit images was something he - nor any other man or woman - could bear.
‘Fuckin’ two-timing bitch!’ he spat, praying that his body stopped shuddering so violently. Then, even though he hated himself for his emotions, Joe could no longer contain what rushed to the surface, breaking down his defensive barriers, and wept uncontrollably, in the darkness... the silence deafening.
***
Last night, I heard screaming, was Martha’s first thought upon wakening.
Did she have another one of those vivid nightmares, which she couldn’t remember? Or was it her mind playing cruel tricks again, ever since Homer’s gruesome death?
One thing she was certain of, if nothing else, was that she no longer felt safe and secure like she used to be. Now the world seemed a big, cruel place where only those who were willing to walk over their family and friends with no repentance or consideration for anyone else, besides themselves, were truly happy.
Oh, well, it was no use lying here under the covers feeling sorry for herself. The only way she was going to cope with her life was by facing it head on, taking it one day at a time, gradually building confidence and self-esteem a bit at a time... although a large part of her had died that morning when she’d seen the remains of her adorable little dog and the ominous message written in his drying blood. In many ways, Martha would never fully recover. But she had to at least transcend her worries and heartache for the greater good, she did believe was inside herself. Nevertheless, in spite of continually telling herself to be positive, a foreboding sense had once again crept into her conscious, warning the elderly clairvoyant that evil still lurked close by, and that the unseen force had not yet finished their malevolent activities...
It had only just begun.
***
On his way home last night, Michael rolled down the window to let some air into the stuffy interior. The squall of wind that had been chilly in the car park would dry the beads of perspiration off his brow. In the rear-view mirror he noticed his eyes had dark circles beneath them, giving him the impression that he was slowly becoming a racoon with silver beads above his eyebrows. Instead as he approached Willet Close, the air outside felt heavy, like it does prior to a thunderstorm... and yet, to his recollection there had been no foretelling of thunder and lighting on the weather all week (not that he paid it much attention). He poked his head out of the driver’s side window and glanced back and forth from the road in front and the sky overhead, scanning for any dark, foreboding clouds leaden with rain. And although it was night, he could not see any clouds, save a few thin sporadic ones in the distance over the mountain tops.
It was no big deal or anything. In fact, Michael was glad there was no threatening storm in the vicinity. If there had been, no doubt by the time he got the car onto the drive the heavens would open and he’d get caught in the inexorable shower before fishing his keys out and getting indoors. Nevertheless, what did make him frown with perplexity was the fact that he could detect the after smell of electricity, growing stronger the closer he came to his street.
By the time he steered the vehicle onto the driveway, the acrid aroma was wafting up his nose, invisible to him.
Had he left the TV on, and it had blown a fuse? Or the oven? Or anything else that might have caused this undeniable smell?
No.
Michael was a lot of things. But when it came to turning things off, and making certain that everything was as it should be before heading off to work, he was competent. It was something he’d learned over the years, living on his own, doing chores that most guys left their spouses do. After preparing meals for himself, washing and ironing his own clothes and basically tidying up after himself, Michael knew unequivocally that unless someone had broken into his home - which was doubtful, because Joe had set up twenty-four hour surveillance, and the intruders would be seen - and destroyed an electrical appliance, then there was nothing to worry about.
Or was there?
After all, ever since some malicious, homicidal bastard had broken into Martha’s house, anything seemed possible now. If the intruder or intruders - depending on what you believed - could break into one house unseen, without leaving a footprint or any other evidence for the police to aid them in their ongoing investigation, then how could he be so sure.
He couldn’t.
As big and muscular as he was, Michael was growing anxious. He’d feel much better when he went inside, flicked the lights on and saw that he’d being worrying over nothing.
Just a little bit of paranoia, that’s all, he told himself.
He unlocked his front door, pushed it open and flicked the hallway switch.
Click... Click.
Darkness insisted.
This was clearly more just him worrying over nothing. His intuition had been right to warn him that something strange and unnerving was awaiting him when he arrived home. And in spite of convincing himself he was overreacting, letting his imagination get away with itself, all of a sudden his home didn’t feel so comfortable and safe.
He may have big muscles and could beat the living daylights out of the average bloke; yet what concerned the big guy was - what if the intruder is - and probably was
- armed... with a gun. It didn’t matter if he could break a man’s neck without using too much physical exertion, if he got shot in the head, it was game over. And unlike a computer game he couldn’t hit the RESTART button, either.
So, what did he want to do about this situation? He couldn’t very well go and knock on one of his neighbours’ doors at this ungodly hour, wake them up and tell them that his lights weren’t working. For one thing he’d look like a wimp. A big bodybuilder type like him wasn’t supposed to be afraid of the dark or even a burglar... on the contrary. His neighbours’ most likely would come running straight to either his or Joe’s house because they knew that both he and Joe could handle themselves physically. What would they think, if he came running to them? They’d think he was a wimp, for sure. And yet he couldn’t help the deliberating dread rising in him.
Sod it, let’s go in and take a look. What fuckin’ choice do I have in the matter, anyway? It’s my house, my predicament.
Tentatively, Michael stepped over the threshold and was swallowed up by the darkness. He halted in his tracks, waiting while his eyes adjusted to the gloom, then crept forwards, listening for sounds of footfalls or hushed voices.
Studiously, he checked every room, every nook and cranny in his house, and found no trespassers. Satisfied that he was all alone, Michael tried the other switches - none of them worked. He laughed in relief and at how anxious he’d been, realising now that the only thing wrong in his house was there had been a power outage.
Shaking his head, chuckling at his silly behaviour, the big guy opened the closet, and in the dim felt blindly for the torch he kept for emergencies just like these that occurred all
around the world from time to time. The torch light wasn’t very strong, but at least now Michael could make his way through his house without bumping into any furniture, or tripping on the stairs, hurting himself in the process.
He made his way through to the kitchen, opened the utensils drawer and fished out a couple of candlesticks, lit them with an old lighter his grandmother used for her Cuban cigars when she was alive, stuck BLU-TAC at the bottom two candle holders and carefully placed the two sticks on top so that they didn’t topple over, giving some more light for him to see what he was doing. Then he opened the refrigerator and was about to pull a defrosted microwave pizza out, when he realised that if there was no power then the microwave pizza was as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
‘Oh, Christ on a bike!’
All that he had in the fridge that he could eat which didn’t require a household appliance were some slices of ham and a half-eaten protein bar.
‘Bloody marvellous!’ His stomach grumbled like thunder in agreement. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, patting it gently. ‘I didn’t know this was gonna happen, though, did I?’
He slammed the refrigerator door, gritting his teeth... annoyed. He’d been looking forward to his microwave pizza, especially when he saw that there was only an hour left before his shift ended. Now, he had nothing more than scraps to fill his complaining stomach.
He pivoted, and his heart jolted at the sight of a definite shadow quickly going past the window facing the back yard. Michael didn’t even have to question himself as to if it was his shadow or someone else’s. He knew that what he saw was tangible... and that he hadn’t imagined it. Without a second thought, he dashed across the kitchen to the back door, unlocked it and stepped outside, eyes wide, peering into the darkness for any signs of movement nearby.
There was no sign of anyone. Furthermore, no one could have disappeared without trace so suddenly.
If it hadn’t been for late hour, he would have yelled out for the trespasser to show himself; otherwise he’d go and phone the police. Merely mentioning the word “police” scared every criminal out of their wits. Usually they would surrender right there and then, holding their hands up in an I-give-up-gesture, pleading with the owner not to do that, and that they were very sorry for coming onto their property uninvited.
Yet, Michael thought (like all the other residents on Willet Close) about the events that unfolded in Martha’s house. Why he constantly kept bringing that to the forefront of his mind he did not know. But it was bugging him. If there was a recycling bin in his brain he would have put what had happened to that cute Jack Russell terrier in there straight away.
What about that supernatural bullshit, as well?
Michael stood unmoving, resisting the urge to pound his own head with his fists, getting more irate for thinking like this way more and more ever since they had all gathered for their pointless discussion at Hugh’s house. It was because of their (fictional) stories that he was now becoming more and more paranoid. He didn’t like horror stories or the people who were avid horror fans, who went to conventions.
Neither did he like the authors of such tales. It was because of his asinine neighbours’, horror writers and fans of paranoia and fears that fuelled it into other people.
He knew he was being brusque about this. After all, he never disliked someone for having a hobby that he found peculiar and unhealthy. Everyone had their own tastes; however, it didn’t stop him for thinking twice about things that were impossible.
Either he saw his own shadow reflected in the windowpane or he’d imagined it.
There were no other plausible possibilities.
***
None of the residents of Willet Close would sleep well - or at all in Joe and Michael’s case - and even though getting up would be rather difficult in their weary state, it would also be a mild relief, too. At least they didn’t have to lie there tossing and turning, becoming more irate by the second that their minds resisted a dreamless slumber.
At 12:54 a.m., Hugh got up to take a leak. He wasn’t desperate to empty his bladder, although anything was better than listening to birdsong outside, waiting for the first ray of daylight to break through the blinds and into his bedroom. He punched his head in frustration. All he needed was a few uninterrupted hours to give his body sufficient rest. From yesterday afternoon he’d felt tired and ready for bed, by the time he’d taken his lovely hot bubble bath, soothing his aches and pains, got into his clean pyjamas and had lain down, he thought it wouldn’t be long before he drifted off. Instead he continued to stare at the ceiling, counting. Then when the counting got too monotonous, he began thinking about everything that had been going on in their area since the disappearances of the residents of Thorburn Close, expecting to finally drift off.
He padded into the bathroom, flicked the light switch, expecting it to come on automatically, like it always did, but nothing happened. He cussed under his breath, continuing to flick the switch up and down, to no avail. Hugh shook his head. Everything was apparently going against his wishes. He couldn’t sleep. His hip was still hurting him every time he tried to get comfortable, and sleep eluded him.
Oh, I could do without this.
Sighing, Hugh ambled back into his bedroom, got back under the warm covers, lowered his head to pillows and closed his eyes. Yet as he did this, he didn’t feel right about something he couldn’t explain, even to himself. Something was drastically wrong. And whatever the something was, it was refusing to allow him to fall to sleep. Perhaps it would be unwise if he went to sleep - even if he could - because his intuition insisted that doing so could cost him dearly.
Hugh kept his eyes shut for the moment, though, nonetheless, listening carefully to any sounds. He heard nothing. Not the tiniest sound. However, goosebumps crawled all over him. His nipples went rock hard; he could probably cut glass with them. Why was he feeling like this? It didn’t make any sense, at all. Was he coming down with a virus? Was this the beginning of some nasty incurable illness, like Alzheimer’s?
Opening his eyes, Hugh turned onto his right side, wincing at the jolt of pain in his hip as he performed this manoeuvre, and stared at the digital alarm clock, which read 12:57 a.m.
Please go to sleep, he begged his brain.
Then as though his brain answered for itself, he heard a voice in his head saying, There’s someone in here with you. At hearing that, Hugh jerked up, crying out in pain, clutching his hip, squeezing his eyes shut, then snapping them open again as the hairs all over his body prickled.
What the hell is going on?
Then he saw their shadows at the foot of his bed, towering above him. The hooded figures came towards him with silent steps, no faces beneath the hood, simply a vast abyss of darkness. The one at the front gripped him by the collar of his pyjamas and lifted him up as if he was a grown man holding a football over his head. The fierce grip tightened around Hugh’s scrawny neck, cutting off his air supply, abruptly; blood rushing to the top of his head where veins surfaced on the wrinkly skin and pulsed maddeningly, causing his eyes to protrude out of his sockets like two white cue balls.
He was slammed against the wall at the head of the bed, breaking the plaster into a line of sprouting branches. He choked and gagged, flailing his arms and legs like an epileptic having a grand mal seizure. Spittle flew from his mouth as his face turned a shade of maroon. In a last attempt to break the vice-like chokehold, Hugh reached down with his hands to the bedside table and tried to pick up either his empty glass or the alarm clock to bash this monster on the head, but he was too high up and nowhere near within reach of the bedside table or any of its objects.
He could actually hear the sloshing of his blood behind his eyes, flooding his brain, cutting off his terrified thoughts completely. All there was left now was to lose consciousness for the last time.
The retired postman decided to close his bloodshot
eyes, not wanting the thing with red, piercing eyes to be the last thing he saw before checking out. He’d rather not look at anything at all.
But then the unbreakable grip around his neck came away form his throat so quickly, Hugh was yanked down the cracked wall by the force of gravity, smacking the back of his cranium on the headboard, cracking both the timber and the bone on impact.
In front of his wavering eyesight, he saw the far wall. The bedroom was empty.
The creatures of the night had vanished.
The time was 1:00a.m.
***
Sherri Douglas sat in her armchair staring absently at the floor, ashen-faced, perfectly motionless. The pause button had been hit for a couple of hours now and the only thing that would start the film rolling in her life again would be the first ray of light bursting through her window, snapping her out of this dull state.
The malevolent voice reverberated inside her head, killing her own voice, telling and reminding her of things she’d buried in the long ago past and stored in the deepest, furthest corner of her conscious so that no one could get to it no matter how well they got to know her.
Like all human beings, Sherri had made mistakes - both big and small. She was not proud of the things she’d done wrong; however, it was due to the fact that she’d made humongous mistakes that she’d learned how to be a better person.
A long time ago, Sherri had been driving home from college for the Christmas holidays. The country route she’d decided to take had been a bad choice because of the recent snowfall they’d had. Her yellow Mini seemed to be coping with the meandering roads quite well, and Sherri thought the mountains and contiguous woods were like something she’d seen in a big budget movie filmed in Canada or the Brecon Beacons. It was so picturesque that you couldn’t peel your eyes away from the view for a second. And that’s all it took for Sherri to make the biggest mistake of her life. Something she had kept secret from everyone, even herself, when her mind allowed her to stop thinking about it.