In Creeps The Night

by Natalie Gibson

  Two more nights, and the shortcut became an obsession, but he was never there.

  Cold, wet nights played havoc with her hair, curls loosened and Tabitha’s locks darkened almost as black as the raven watching on a nearby tomb.

  The cemetery became familiar, her heels clicking on the paving slabs—a comfort, and the weeping man a memory. Winter’s bite carried on the wind and her large coat flapped in the breeze against her leaner figure. The raven’s wings whispered as it swooped and Tabitha tarried, imagining reveries of a mysterious, wretched lover.

  Two weeks later, moonbeams picked out diamond frost glistening through her black locks as she traced the name on the headstone. As the raven cawed, Tabitha stood, fingers lacing through her straight hair, and she spun directly into the path of the grieving man wandering down the cobbles toward her. She bumped into him, dropping her bag. He raised his downturned head, stepped aside and reached out to steady her. Words of apology mumbled softly beneath his breath. He paused as their eyes met and he stared through tearstained eyes. The raven fluttered upon the headstone and shivers twisted down Tabitha’s spine as his hand rested lightly upon her arm.

  His apology coffee in the badly lit café became a meal, and two weeks later she crossed his threshold. She shivered and glanced in the mirror by the door. She frowned; she’d lost weight and grown taller. She pulled her loose coat close, and ran her fingers, in wonder, down her unfamiliar narrow, pale face. She moved down the corridor and stepped into the lounge, trying to clear the tendrils of fog, which had followed her inside from the misty streets. Then she noticed the portrait above the fireplace. Ebony hair, pale skin and deep, piercing blue eyes, and she suddenly knew why he adored her.

  He watched as the silent, blue-eyed raven landed on Tabitha’s shoulder, shivered possessively and vanished…. Tabitha’s head pounded and she closed her eyes as battle commenced, but she stood no chance as the raven stifled her last grasp of reality. He took Tabitha’s hand as she faded into the dark foggy recess of her mind and pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Lucia, I missed you so….”

  I INCH CLOSER to her.

  Close enough to catch a whiff of the exquisite fragrance of her fear.

  She hugs the tiny, shiny sodium circle that the streetlight casts on the wet pavement. I study her. Her ignorance of my presence adds a certain je ne sais quoi.

  Hair rat-tailed by the rain, she shivers, her fashionably thin coat offers only an illusion of protection from the elements. How entirely apposite in view of her current predicament. Will she do? Time to find out.

  I reach out and lay a gloved finger on her shoulder; light as a lover’s kiss on a sleeping cheek.

  She squeals and twirls, teetering precariously on woefully unsuitable stilettos.

  I drink in these delicious details, before reaching out to steady her as she staggers back against the lamppost.

  My contact with her renders me visible for the first time and her eyes flare wide, darting, unprepared. Her breath whooshes from her.

  No surprise in this place, in a world where the power has long faded and folk tales are scorned and mocked.

  “Wha…? Who…?”

  “Peace, Child, I am he whom you arranged to meet.”

  “Oh, thank God…I thought…well, never mind. Can you really help me? Get him out of my head?”

  “It seems likely.” I held up an admonitory finger, checking her rush of questions.

  “There is just one condition. The memory that you wish me to remove must be one that contains sufficient…visceral elements to be of interest to me.”

  “Vis what?”

  “Real emotions, vivid and fresh. Oh, never mind. Just allow me to…examine the memory.”

  She brightened. “Oh, fine. But he’ll be gone, right?”

  “That is my part of the bargain. Do you agree?”

  “Really, truly gone?”

  “Absolutely. I guarantee that when I’ve finished you will never think of him, ever again.”

  “Great! Because it really, like, totally freaked me out, you know? After that night…”

  “No! Don’t sully the memory by endeavouring to verbalise it. Also, I’m not at all sure that your powers of description would do it justice in all its…immediacy. Do we have a bargain?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Listen, I’m freezing my tits off here, can we just get this done?”

  “As you wish. Look deep into my eyes and think of the specific memory.”

  My now ungloved hand reached for her pale, chilled flesh, clamping her chin, pulling her face close.

  “Hey!”

  “Silence!”

  Her protest is too late, I could see now all of her mind. She quieted and I dived deep into her, locating that night….

  Stairs giving a wooden groan as weight fell on them.

  A mind rushing awake, surfacing like a sailor from a sinking submarine. Apprehension rising, held breath, straining to hear over a pounding heart.

  Another footfall.

  Someone in the house.

  The steps on the landing.

  A door creaking open down the hall.

  The next door room.

  Terror mounting, threading through last night’s discarded clothes, easing toward the en-suite bathroom.

  The sanctuary of the closing door, the relief of a bolt being silently shot.

  Shaking fingers gingerly feeling along the washstand. Inching along, moving past the toothbrush, holding it to prevent rattle from the glass it stands in.

  The bedroom door flying open, banging against the bedside table. The lamp smashing, shards skittering across the wooden floor.

  Fumbling, frantic now. Hand brushing the bone handle of a straight razor.

  Grabbing greedily at it. The blade whispering from the guard. Holding it out front with quivering hands.

  The bathroom door handle turning, a sibilant hiss from outside, as the lock holds.

  Silence.

  Backing away, stooping, stopping short; the cold of porcelain on bare skin.

  Knees trembling and collapsing, shuffling back, folding, foetal, frightened.

  Bang! The door surrendering to an angry blow.

  Blinding light.

  And the glint from a gun.

  This is not what I want at all.

  Not her real memories—just her imaginings—derivative, shallow, second-hand emotions. She will not cheat me!

  I dive deeper into her, strip-mining her memories for the jagged, the raw, the real.

  There!

  She looks down at the cowering man, her torch highlighting him.

  Her rage burns hot and she levels her revolver, hand cramped around the weapon.

  “You bastard! Choose her over me would you? Well I said you’d regret it!”

  A furious twitch of her finger and the fiery roar deafens her in the enclosed space, the muzzle flash outshining even the powerful torch. His body jerks and his blood spatters the tiles.

  She pulls the trigger again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Her rage, white hot in its intensity, staggers me, I luxuriate in it even as it begins to ebb, flowing out, flooding from her, in time with his blood both simultaneously cooling and congealing.

  Red to orange to yellow.

  A glimmer of lost love fades and dies.

  Then, a tiny spark of fear deep within her flickers and, fanned by doubt and thoughts of punishment, takes hold and begins to consume her, rushing to fill the void of her vanished anger.

  Cold replacing heat.

  Blue.

  Indigo.

  Violet.

  Still shaking, she flees.

  But the spectral figure of her terror is not to be outrun. It infests her now, skeletal claws digging deep into her psyche, hanging on and rending with cold efficiency, ruthlessly shredding her justifications and excuses, reve
aling to her the pit of despair, forcing her waking mind, then her dreaming mind, to gaze into it.

  This is what I wanted, what I was promised, what I had bargained for.

  I disengage from the memory, savouring it briefly.

  Then, summoning my power, I rend it, screaming, from the darkest recesses of her mind, marking it for later utilisation.

  Of course, there is significant associated damage to other parts of her consciousness, caused by such a traumatic excision of such a major part of her ego, but that is to be expected.

  In view of this, it seems a waste not to avail myself of a few other tasty morsels that I find lying about in her head.

  The joyous, mad abandon of first love.

  The heart stopping childhood realisation of the existence of death.

  I release her chin and watch the livid finger marks slowly fade.

  Her eyes struggle to focus.

  “Wha…?” she slurred.

  “You don’t remember him, do you, my dear?”

  “Who…?” She pauses, looks around. No…”

  “Excellent! Then I believe that our business here is concluded. Thank you for…oh well, never mind. Goodbye.”

  She stands in the rain, pretty as she ever was, but rather more…quiescent from this point on. That is not my concern.

  A bargain is a bargain.

  IT WAS THE noise that had startled Robert awake. Through sleep crusted eyes he stole a quick glance at his alarm clock. It was barely past three in the morning and he swore to himself he was going to rethink his stand against giving sleep aids to children. His five-year-old son had been waking up at all hours of the night for the past month and Robert was finally reaching a tipping point.

  It was the junk food his mother allowed him to eat before bed, Rob was sure of it. Though Landon was a healthy young boy he had shown from an early age to be sensitive to certain types of food. In particular, food his ex-wife made.

  Made? Let’s be honest, the only thing she makes is a trip to the liquor store.

  Rob was about to pat himself on the back for such a clever thought so early in the morning when he heard it again. The noise. Was it…scratching? No, too organic. It had a dry, crackling tone to it, that was certain, but it seemed to squeal a bit at the end. A raspy tee-hee-hee sound. Was Landon laughing in his sleep? The half laugh so common when someone dreams?

  A moment passed and again, the noise came. Like branches on a windowpane. No, it wasn’t a laugh. It was scratching, Robert was sure. Landon could be thrashing around if he was having a bad dream. Maybe that was it.

  So get out of bed and check on him!

  Rob knew it was going to be an effort of pure willpower to get up, he was so tired. He had gone to bed knowing that there was something he was supposed to do, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was. It was a niggling thought in the back of his brain. An itch that he couldn’t quite scratch. A mind as structured as his wouldn’t let go of something like that, and it had kept him awake for hours. But that was past and all he could think about right now was getting this over with so he could go back to sleep.

  As Rob rolled upright he recalled the conversation he and his son had every night before bed.

  “There’s someone in my room at night, Dad. I can hear her in the closet. She asks me to let her out,” Landon would plead.

  With a disbelieving frown he would reply, “There is no one in your room. I check it every night for you, like you ask me to. I even check your closet twice.”

  Landon’s eyes widened. “Did you close the door?”

  Rob sat down on the edge of the bed and began pulling the blankets up over his son. He was going to have to speak to Landon’s mother about allowing him to watch horror movies. “I always shut the door.”

  “And you put the chair in front of it? Like they do in the movies?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you promise to close it even when I’m at Mom’s?”

  “Yes, Landon, I promise—now go to sleep.”

  “She doesn’t come until the lights are out.”

  “How do you know it’s a ‘she’ anyway?” Rob had asked one night.

  “She doesn’t cut her fingernails. They’re real, real long.”

  Rob paused, remembering that detail. Fingernails.

  It’s not scratching, it’s Landon laughing in his sleep.

  He stood and allowed himself a moment to stretch, feeling the tightness in his shoulders and back. His first step forward was rough on his feet. Hardwood floors were not very pleasant at three-thirty in the morning. He had managed to shuffle his way into the hallway before he heard it again.

  It’s coming from Landon’s room, I’m sure of it.

  He opened the door to his son’s room. The night-light from the hallway didn’t provide much illumination but he wasn’t about to turn on the light and wake the poor kid up if he didn’t have to. One of them should get a good night’s sleep at least. The night-light had, however, completely ruined his night vision and as he stared into his son’s room he saw nothing but blackness. Rob made his way across the carpeted floor, noting how much better his feet felt at that moment. His son’s bed was on the other side of the room though, and he managed to send a few toys skidding across the floor.

  Finally he reached the bed and knelt over it. His night vision hadn’t adjusted at all but he knew he’d be able to make out Landon’s pale little arms if they were clawing at the walls. When he looked down, however, all he saw were blankets. It took him a moment to realize that his son was not in his bed.

  Panic set in. He wasn’t in bed! How did he leave the room? Rob would’ve heard the door open for sure. He took a few steps back, trying to look into the dark recesses of the room. He was starting to see a little better but not well enough. Stupid night-light!

  The noise came again. A slow, grating sound that rose up until it sputtered out with a breathy tee-hee-hee.

  This was madness, he decided, and turned toward the light switch on the other side of the room. It was that moment when he remembered the thing that had been gnawing at the back of his mind. The thing that made the hair on the back of his neck stand. It was the weekend, and Landon always stayed with his mom on the weekend. Rob was alone in the house.

  When the fear came it hit him like a truck. He felt nauseous. His knees were going to give out if he didn’t get out of there right that second. Someone was in there with him. The noise came again and he stifled a yelp before it could leave his throat. It was clear what the sound was now.

  Amidst the litter of quieted toys, he could hear it clearly. A hushed, chattering cackle. A scratching of sorts, and he knew without a doubt that it was coming from the closet. Something was giggling in the dark.

  It took him a minute to focus, but inevitably his eyes could make out the heavy wooden door of the closet. As the noise got louder a horrifying realization set in.

  Tonight he had failed to keep his promise. Tonight, he had forgotten to shut the closet door.

  THE FULL MOON hung shrouded in cloying mists, casting a dim spell onto the group gathered around a belching caldron. Foul fumes and glopping pustules formed and burst, hovering on the surface of the potion.

  A crackled wheezing voice rang above the chanting of the others. “Blood and bone, pitch and stone, take this curse, dredged and honed, fly to heights of Neverknown and naught the raven’s moan.” The crone choked out the spell, evil spewing from her lips with every syllable.

  The others began to sway in their dark robes. Dirty cracked feet shuffled over the sacred mound as the circle undulated in rhythmic syncopation. Faster and faster they chanted as the smoke from the cauldron billowed to obscure the moon. One by one, lashed into a frenzy, they ripped tokens from their pouches and cast them into the cauldron. It steamed and hissed, burping and boiling.

  The chanting rose in volume and tempo, piercing the dark meadow with its evil seduction. The group gyrated and seized, then as one flung their robes to the ground and danced nak
ed through the mist and smoke, sealing the curse.

  It was done!

  The curse flashed like lightning, striking the potion and then shot through each participant binding them together in an unholy alliance to silence the enemy. A dark shape bubbled from the caldron, taking a smoky and partial form. It stepped out of the caldron, then shot into the night to carry out the heinous mission.

  Something woke me.

  I blinked, but darkness, heavy and oppressive, blinded me. My hearing stretched into the room, sweeping for the elusive alarm. No sounds but wind whispers and moaning pipes. Not enough to startle me from my dream.

  A foreign scent tickled my nose, musty, dank and fetid. I gagged at the strange odor and scraped my brain for a logical explanation.

  Was that a rustle in the corner? Faint and low, perhaps the ceiling fan stirred a receipt or sack. My jaw dropped as I craned my neck to turn my ear to the corner. Again the slight sound of movement, followed by another whiff of soured air.

  The light from my clock spread as my vision sharpened and an unfamiliar shadow loomed in the corner. I stared into the blackness, willing it to turn into a towel draped over a door or a coat on a hanger.

  It shifted with a swish and the putrid odor crawled into the bed with me, its fingers invading my nose and mind. Heart pounding in my ears, my breath stilled; my body froze and my eyes bore a hole into the corner.

  The shadow loomed nearer and the floorboards creaked.

  “Who is it?” my voice, the barest of whispers, inquired of the dark.

  A deep bass sliced the stillness of the night. “Your voice, it must be silenced.”

  I pulled the quilt up to my chin and quaked. “Go away.” Still I could muster nothing more than a whisper, the crackling of dry leaves.

  The shadow shifted again, nearer and a stifling presence descended. Heavy and oppressive it weighted the end of the mattress as though a large animal had leaped onto it. The blackness moved over me and my legs were crushed into the foam padding, but there was nothing there, only darkness.

  The weighted black crawled up my body and pressed into my lungs. I tried to gather breath and courage to scream, but could not. Suffocating pressure crushed me.