Any evening I’ve traveled past the window, I’ve seen the same tableau. Trips that take place during the morning or afternoon yield an identical view, minus the eerie lighting. My vivid imagination has long since adorned the scenario with conjecture. After months of repetition, my thoughts about the figure in the window became combative.
Change position, dammit! Stand up!
Be absent for once!
For hell’s sake, look out the window!
However, nothing ever changed.
About three weeks ago, I decided that the figure was a mannequin, one set up to look like a person sitting in the window. Not an earth-shattering realization by any means, and one I had entertained early on. Still, dejected at this growing conviction, I lost interest.
Tonight’s outing at the Ace brought me to the area bordering the suburb where the building on Rosewood stood. The shots of bourbon at the tavern and the beer at Saul and Lucy’s sparked a rekindling of my dampened curiosity, along with an irrational need to force a more satisfying resolution to the mystery. The notion that the man in the window was a mannequin exasperated me. Was this a ludicrous reaction? Of course, but the booze-buzz had revitalized the cryptic attributes I’d once bestowed upon the scenario.
Was it man or mannequin? This dilemma required an answer. Tonight.
I pressed the button to lower my window. Cool, rain-washed air drifted in and brushed my face. The fresh scent was a welcome alternative to the stale smell of fast food—something fried—which hovered in the cab. Nobody wandered about, which was not surprising, and inside me the sense of embarking on a secret quest intensified.
Following my instruction, the driver curved left onto Rosewood and a resolute thrill sifted through me as I asked him to pull over at the corner of Rosewood and Easterly. I paid him and exited the cab into the hushed and brisk night. The taxi swerved into a U-turn then sped away.
The building I sought stood at the other end of a long, unnerving stretch of neighborhood. Rows of single-family dwellings, duplexes, and flats embroidered both sides of the street.
I regarded the scene before me. Ghostly shadows prevailed and did not comfort. Undefined silhouettes stretched out at odd angles, possibly offering camouflage for a lurker. The feeble gleam from the sparse array of streetlamps provided no reassurance either.
As a young woman, alone, proceeding through a bleak tract of suburb at a very late hour, the walk before me—I suddenly realized—would be nerve-wracking. Progress forward would also take me farther away from the sporadic traffic going down Easterly. My bourbon-infused bravado had abandoned me, and I felt like a willful idiot for placing myself in this dodgy situation. Hesitant to proceed, I opened my bag, intending to retrieve my phone. Wouldn’t it be wiser to order another cab to transport me up the long block to my destination? Or, even better, home?
Then I remembered the twenty-four hour convenience store. It sat on the corner across from the building I sought. Indeed, from my current spot on the street, I could perceive the staccato blink of its yellow neon sign.
I shut my purse and struggled to recall more about the area. Mainly residential, the all-night store stood near the grounds of a hospital facility. Adjacent to the hospital was a campus where medical and dental students attended classes and had housing. Not a great locale, but the facility, staffed twenty-four/seven, provided the neighborhood a little more activity at this hour than other sections of the city.
With an involuntary shudder at the piercing cold that had seeped into the pre-dawn hour, I hugged my arms and purse closer to my body, and took determined but nervous steps toward the blinking neon. Hyper-vigilant, I glanced around in case I saw something (or someone) to avoid—or worse, run away from.
The streets around me were empty and nothing echoed to break the stillness, not even the distant murmur from a vehicle driving along one of the side streets. I heard only the random, muffled plop of droplets from the earlier light rain. I kept my pace as quick and noiseless as possible. On guard, I pivoted my head left and right as I continued toward the beacon of flickering neon. Every so often, I turned to walk backwards a few steps to make certain no one crept up behind me.
Think of something else. Think about the mystery of the person in the window. You’re almost there.
Then I heard someone cough.
I ceased my stride and my heart thumped as a fresh wave of apprehension doused me.
Was that a cough?
It was, and there it went again, nearby. From how clearly I’d heard the noise, it had to be someone located on the property just ahead. I hesitated, frozen with uncertainty. The time must be close to four in the morning. I needed to be cautious because worry over my safety was a realistic concern.
Had he or she seen me?
My breathing became shallow and uneven. I hastily retreated, darting into the nearest front yard, which was a fancy duplex. I needed to assess the situation, but not on the sidewalk where I felt exposed. Not wishing to disturb the residents (unless it became necessary), I surveyed the yard, looking for a place to hide. Tall, decorative shrubbery separated the property I was on from the neighboring yard, and it would shield me from anyone on the other side. I could also look through it at the adjoining residence without immediate discovery.
Once positioned, I peered through the branches, squinting through the darkness. No porch lights shone, and the nearest streetlight was two buildings away. I managed to distinguish an individual sitting on the front stoop of the house. A dark jacket with a hood concealed the head. The face was in profile and mostly obscured. I could not guess at gender. The next instant, I caught sight of a tiny orange glow followed by the smell of cigarette smoke. The person exhaled a subdued cough after each drag.
The individual hadn’t spotted me, or so I assumed. When the smoke break finished and he or she went back inside, I’d proceed again. Still jumpy, I was less fretful than before.
This uneasy peace did not last.
My eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the area, and things became more visible. He or she stubbed out the cigarette, stood, and went up the steps to the door. I heard faint rattling sounds as the individual fiddled with the doorknob, then did the same to the windows. In an instant, I guessed this person was trying to break into the building.
Once again, dread enveloped me. The potential burglar disappeared around the far side of the building, no doubt to scout for vulnerabilities in the rear.
My wariness increased. I turned and looked behind me. I didn’t want to chance going back toward Easterly. Revealing myself might invite a crime of opportunity.
What should I do?
With a grimace, I wedged my body into the hedge, glad that my black clothing and hair would help me blend in with the shadows. The snap of twigs as I pushed into the bushes caused alarm, and I winced at the scratches my bare legs received. Once completely encircled by the hedge, I shut my eyes and tried to calm my rising panic. I attempted to normalize my state of mind with conscious breathing. Slow in. Slow out. I focused on the earthy fragrance of damp dirt and the tangy green scent of the leaves that blanketed me.
Was I in any danger?
I might be, but I refused to follow that line of thought because I was already scared enough. Unable to prevent myself, I wondered about the spiders and other insects that made their home in the boughs that poked my body and tangled my hair. Icy sweat prickled over my skin and queasiness rolled in my belly as a wave of fresh terror hit me.
For fuck’s sake, don’t think about the spiders.
How much time passed as I stood there with my jaw clenched, trembling and agitated?
I heard the coughing person approach and stiffened. With a noiseless gasp, I inhaled and held my breath. I closed my eyes, too afraid to look.
The burglar scuttled past me in an apparent rush, passing close to where I hid. The sound of footsteps pattered up the sidewalk, then faded.
I exhaled slowly and opened my eyes, which had filled with tears of fright. I blinked them awa
y and regulated my breathing, forcing hysteria away.
Should I stay here longer, to make sure it’s safe? What if that person is still casing houses in the area?
Indecisive, I remained immobile. I soon embraced my impression that the culprit had run off. Perhaps they’d taken what they wanted, or had been denied or almost discovered. I’d wait a minute or two more, for good measure, though.
An unsettling tickle skated across one hand then something dropped onto one of my legs. Before I could stop myself, I let out a hoarse yelp, lunged out of the hedges, and fell onto my hands and knees in the grass. I hoisted myself upright and whispered curses as with frantic movements I brushed and slapped at my hair, head, and body parts. I shook out my clothing and purse to dislodge any unwelcome visitors from the foliage that might still cling there. I even sat on the damp grass and did the same with my boots, then put them back on and stood.
What a ghastly night.
After all this, one might think I’d call it a night, order a cab, and go home. One would be wrong.
Frayed nerves, exhaustion, and muscle aches from the constant tension begged me to give up, but as my fright continued to subside, an incoherent rage bloomed in its place.
Why should I stop now, after all I’ve gone through to get this far? The market is just up ahead. It’s a minute walk—maybe less.
I cast a hesitant glance around me, then sprinted toward the store. I reached the market, paused to catch my breath, and muttered a jumbled stream of profanity. After several moments, I aimed my gaze up at the window.
There he sat, angled in the same position as every other time. Since I was able to loiter and examine the subject of my obsession, additional details stood out. The glow infusing the room had a pulsating quality. Shadows, shaped like the fronds of a large plant or something similar, coiled and twisted on the ceiling, as though stirred into movement by an intermittent breeze or the air from a rotating fan.
The door of the market was open so I stepped in, at once comforted by the warmth and gaudy brightness that greeted me. A noisy group of young adults purchased snacks, sodas, and bottles of wine. Three of them wore scrubs. Hospital staff—finished with their shifts—were getting ready to indulge in friendly, after work decompression. Their lively, late night camaraderie generated a sense of well-being. Because I’d made it through the harrowing experience of a moment ago without harm, acute relief began to rose-tint my hindsight.
Just another wild night in the big city. My friends will laugh and tease me when they hear this story.
The others exited, and their joking chatter dwindled as they headed out of earshot.
With my confidence shaky but restored, I bought a new flavor cartridge—cinnamon—for my e-cig. The stocky, bearded fellow who manned the counter handed me my change then returned his attention to the TV on the shelf in front of him.
Once outside, I leaned against the wall of the store for a strategic smoke, making sure the window appeared in my direct line of sight.
Inhale, exhale, and stare.
The sweet, incense-like fragrance from the e-cig swirled in the night air round me.
Inhale, exhale, and stare.
How long I performed this routine, I don’t know. Five or six minutes? The only movements I noted in the window scene were the pulsing lights and those weird plant shadows. I willed the figure to shift position, my thoughts fraught with effort.
Please move. Please look out the window at me. I want you to see me.
Resigned at last, I took a final drag, savoring the taste of the spice that lingered on my tongue. I put the device in my purse, glum over the underscored conclusion that the figure must indeed be a mannequin. How very dull.
I rested against the wall for one last study of the form in the window. Moments drifted by, uncounted, and my eyes began to water from the intensity of my stare.
Then it happened.
He moved.
I blinked to make sure.
With a slow turn, he looked out the window and tilted his head to look down.
Hundreds of tiny pinpricks spread over my skin as I felt him notice me. Without warning, an invisible force of some sort shoved me against the wall and pinned me there. I grunted a strangled exclamation of pain as a sharp ache undulated over the muscles of my neck and back. Unable to move, I felt weighted down.
What the hell is happening? How?
Next, I watched in horror as the figure straightened, adjusted his stance, and with a disturbing serpentine grace, elongated his neck. As he slid the window open, I caught a glimpse of his hands. Three curved, claw-like fingers depended from each. I was too shocked to shake my head in disbelief.
He leaned out the window and observed me, his long neck snaking back and forth like a human-sized cobra. His eyes stretched, opening on his face until they were large and oval-shaped, like a pair of decorated eggs. This serpent creature continued to impale me with his glossy stare as a taut compression squeezed my head, as though someone gripped my head in their hands and with their fingers, pressed and massaged it. Soon, a sort of tapping traveled over my body along with a weird combination of tingling and poking sensations.
An abrupt vise of nausea, reminiscent of an attack of food poisoning, gripped me and caused me to shudder in sporadic bursts. I wanted to vomit, but couldn’t, and felt close to blacking out from the intensity of what I experienced.
More figures appeared in the window. They were identical to the one leaning out, minus the bizarre extended neck. They too locked their stares on me for several moments, then swiftly withdrew from sight.
The remaining figure decreased the length of his neck, dipped back inside, and closed the window. He then returned to his usual seated position. The same angle. The same eerie light radiating around him. The plant shadows again bouncing on the ceiling.
The constraint that immobilized me vanished and I collapsed to the ground.
Dizzy, stunned, and confused, I crawled toward the wall of the market and propped my body against it to regroup. As soon as I felt stable enough to stand, I would get the hell out of there.
“Don’t look up.”
I barely whispered those words, then repeated them, a desperate mantra as I steadied my nerves as best as possible. My insistent, puerile curiosity about the figure in the window was not only satisfied, but beaten down. I vowed never to return to this area, or attempt to interfere with—whatever went on in the room behind that window.
I forced myself upright then opened my purse and retrieved my phone. I touched the app to order a taxi and almost burst into tears when the diagram indicated a car was three minutes from my location.
I turned my back to the window and staggered to wait under the jaundiced light of the neon sign for my ride. In the distance, I saw the initial crease of dawn beginning to fold over the night.
I tried to organize my chaotic thoughts through shock and growing fatigue. The whole night had been a living nightmare. It didn’t make sense—what had happened with the snakelike beings in the window. But then again, in some incomprehensible, unearthly way, yes it did. And I can’t even begin to explain it.
The taxi pulled up to the curb. I got in and gave him my address. He swerved down Rosewood away from the building. Nausea continued to ripple over me. My body throbbed and hurt, as though I was coming down with the flu. Short of breath and anxious, I felt close to a meltdown.
I rested my head against the seat cushion and shut my eyes.
In the thriving, cosmopolitan city where I lived, the horror stories were mainly crime based. Man’s inhumanity to man. Yet this same thriving, cosmopolitan city was also the prime place for something inhuman and clever to hide in plain sight. To wait until the moment was ripe for—
I didn’t know how to finish that thought, and I didn’t want to either.
Insanity
Jackie Woodard
He doesn’t see them, he can’t. They like lingering around him; inches from his face, breathing in deeply, smiling among themselves�
�satisfied with their invisibility.
“Vanessa,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I shook my head slightly and for the first time since the session started, he slipped into the foreground. I hated how his pants hovered over his pale white socks and black loafers when he sat. His white lab coat poorly covered the coffee stain on his shirt, and I wondered if he realized his name tag was upside down today. “Are you with me, Vanessa?”
“Yes,” I mumbled.
Casually he looked to his left, where a moment before I had been staring, before scribbling something down in his notepad. It was two of them today, both temporarily unaware of my presence. They stood next to him, loudly gnashing their teeth on either side of his face. I hated the sound, how it carried like bootheels on stone, echoing off the walls. I dug my nails deep into the fabric of the chair to prevent myself from covering my ears.
“How are you, Vanessa?” He asked, glancing down at my hands.
“The same as last week,” I said as the doctor began to write. The creature next to him took a seat on the couch, kicked up its leg so that its ankle was resting on its thigh—mimicking the doctor’s posture. The doctor always sat across from me, though his business is getting inside my head, he goes to great lengths to keep me separated from him.
“Last week was promising. It was a good week.” He glanced at my hands again as I tried to casually pull them out of the chair. “Do you want to start by talking about the rayis?” He asked, not looking up from whatever he was writing.
“No.” I rubbed my palms together slowly and hard. “I told you, I haven’t seen them in a long time.”
He nodded his head once and continued to write. “One of the nurses tells me otherwise.”
“That really isn’t her business to tell, Doctor.”
“Your business is hers, and hers is mine.” He smiled to himself as if he made a joke. “Let’s talk about what you were looking at earlier.”
“When can I leave?”
“We have an hour together,” he answered still not looking at me. “But these sessions are a choice and you can go back to your room whenever, Vanessa, you know that.”
Onyx Neon Shorts Presents: Horror Collection - 2015 Page 7