Horror Stories: 51 Sleepless Nights

by Wade, Tobias

  I was back with the panther-man now, body flooded with gentle warmth and satisfaction. His hands were so powerful yet gentle, and his low moans resonated with my own as though we were a single being harmonized with itself. The thought of leaving here and never knowing who he was – perhaps never even meeting him again – was more agonizing than I could have imagined. I felt an overpowering desire to look at the man pressed against me – just for a second – just long enough to recognize him if we met again. I slid my hands up his neck and tenderly slipped the mask further up his face…

  But it wouldn’t come off. I pulled harder, and felt the strain of living fur beneath my fingers. He grunted in pain – or was that a snarl? – and I pushed him off me. Suddenly every sound came to its height, and the mounting carnal cacophony enveloping me became tainted with other sounds.

  Were those moans? Or was someone starting to howl? And then a yelping joined in. I thought it was a joke at first, but one by one the people began to bray, bark, hiss, or whatever other sound was appropriate to the mask they wore. The panther-man knelt upon the ground and I saw his muscles coil as though preparing to spring. It was so dark that I could only see the parts of him covered in paint, and from a few steps away, he looked more like an abstract painting than a man.

  I ran toward the door, but tripped over a dark form along the way. A multitude of hands clung onto me in the shadows, and then a paw with razor sharp claws tore the skin on my outer thigh. I screamed and pushed onward, but the grips readily released me as though shocked I wasn’t appreciating their touch. I made it to the wall, but I couldn’t find the door. The panther-man crawled toward me on all fours. Some of the glowing paint was on his skin, but more of it was matted in patches of thick black hair on his body.

  I leaped along the wall looking for the door, ramming against another body and falling to the ground. The half-panther was almost on top of me now, but I couldn’t bear to look at him. I closed my eyes and screamed for all I was worth.

  “Are you okay? What are you doing?”

  I opened my eyes. The lights were on. Everyone was staring at me. The panther-man with his chiseled human body was standing over me. He pulled on his furry ear, and I almost screamed again before seeing the rubber mask slide easily off. He was a handsome man, about thirty, with strong cheek bones and deep concerned eyes.

  I ran out the door and dressed in the hallway. The panther-man started to follow me.

  “Stop her! She’s seen too much!” he shouted, his voice a harsh guttural snarl completely unlike the one he used a moment before.

  A woman in a sheep’s mask held him back. “Let her go. She’ll come back when she’s ready.” The voice sounded familiar. Was that Amy? I didn’t stay long enough to find out. As soon as my clothes were even halfway on, I ran.

  I’m not going back. I can’t go back. But maybe I’ll have to, because I still need answers. I missed my period the next month, but I tried not to think back to that night. I was on the pill, and they all had protection. Just to be safe, I got a pregnancy test, but it came up negative.

  I kept testing every month after that. Still nothing. But all the symptoms were beginning to show: I’m swelling up, I’m tired all the time, and nauseous in the mornings. I got an ultrasound, but the doctor said he didn’t see anything. It’s just like a great, empty pit is growing inside of me. I got a few other scans, but nothing came up and the doctor just thinks its a hysterical-pregnancy which will pass on its own.

  I didn’t know how to tell him I thought it was something else, just like I didn’t know how to explain the claw marks on my outer thigh.

  I want to forget it ever happened, but it’s hard when I keep feeling something scratching me from the inside.

  Breaking and Entering for Dummies

  I’m going to tell you a few things about me. When I was a kid, I lost in the finals of a state tennis championship because I told the truth about a line call when I didn’t have to. I once climbed a tree to get somebody’s cat down, then stayed up there the rest of the night just because it was so peaceful. My favorite food is strawberries and cream, only I don’t tell the other guys because they’d give me shit for it.

  I also joined the 18th Street Gang when I was in the sixth grade. It’s important what order I tell you these things, because the moment someone notices my blue and black bandanna, they think they already know everything about me.

  I’m a sophomore in high-school now, and last night was my first break-in. “Spike”, an old-school Mexican Mafia type, was there to show me the ropes. He taught me how to map out the regular patrol routes of officers, and how to hide in a concrete drain pipe to avoid being seen.

  I’d never stolen anything bigger than a candy bar before. I was scared as Hell, but I knew Spike was tight with everybody and would tell them how I did. This was my first real chance to let everyone decide what I was made of, and I wasn’t going to screw it up.

  “Let’s not do this one, it has an alarm system.” Middle-class suburban home with a white-picket fence – nothing that screamed a good target to me.

  “Doesn’t matter when they let you in,” Spike said. He grinned. Just because I’m in a gang doesn’t mean I understand gold teeth. They’re disgusting.

  “But someone’s here. There’s a light on up there!” I protested. “Let’s keep looking.” Maybe if we didn’t find a good target tonight, we could just go back and play pool and try again another night. I’d be ready another night.

  “How are they gonna open the door if they ain’t home? Fuck’s sake,” he said. Spike walked around the house and turned the garden hose on full blast. He found two more taps along the back of the house, and turned those on too.

  He waited a few minutes for a lake to start forming in the yard before ringing the door bell. I wanted to stop him, but I was frozen. My heart beat faster with each light that turned on as the resident approached his front door.

  “Who is it?” someone yelled from inside.

  “Excuse me sir,” Spike shouted. “I noticed one of your pipes burst. Just thought you should know.”

  The door opened. An old man – at least 80 – stood there in his bathrobe. I never want to get that old where my eyes shrink down to little pin-pricks and my skin hangs in loose folds like that. Spike gave me a grotesque wink.

  “It did? Oh God,” the old man said.

  “Yeah, look at all that water,” Spike said. “I was just walking on the sidewalk with my kid,” he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and I fought the urge to pull away from his sticky-sweet odor of dried sweat.

  “Yo,” I said.

  “We found which one it was, here come take a look,” Spike didn’t even wait for a reply. I wonder how many times he’s done this before. The old man pulled his bathrobe tighter and followed Spike around the side of the house.

  I wanted to warn him. To tell him to run – to hide and lock the door. I couldn’t turn my back on my own though. If this was going to happen anyway, I might as well be the one to return with some glory. The moment the old man passed me by, I picked up a rock from his yard and SMASHED it straight into his temple. He crumpled to the ground like a bag of dirt.

  Gold teeth flashed. “Nice one kid. Now let’s drag him inside so we can take our time with the place.”

  I propped him up against the wall in the living room. He was still breathing, but there was a lot of blood coming from his head. I thought about bandaging him up, but I didn’t know if that would seem like a sign of weakness. I just wanted to get in and get out as fast as I could.

  Snarl. Woof woof woof woof.

  “Shit, there’s a dog,” Spike grunted.

  The sound was coming from behind a closed door down a few concrete steps – probably leading to the basement.

  “It can’t get at us,” I said. “Let’s ignore it.”

  “Nah, too much noise. Quick, go deal with it,” he said.

  “Deal with it?” I didn’t want to hear him explain. He didn’t say a word, but that flash of gol
d and the knife he handed me – that was even worse.

  “Make it quick. You’re gonna be a man after tonight.”

  I gripped the knife in my hand so hard my knuckles turned white. I turned away from Spike so he wouldn’t see me shaking.

  “I’m gonna go check upstairs for a safe or somethin,” Spike said. “Or cash under the mattress – these old shits think that’s safer than a bank sometimes. That thing better be quiet by the time I get up there.”

  I wasn’t worried about it being a big dog. An old guy like this probably had a poodle or something, but hurting any animal has always been off-limits for me. Being loyal to my colors over my own instinct – there wasn’t any going back from this. I hated myself for opening the door.

  I was tense and ready for it to spring at me. I even slashed the air with the knife a couple of times until I found the light switch. I didn’t see anything but a set of stairs though, so I walked down to find the miserable creature.

  Snarl. Woof woof woof woof.

  “Why is it still barking?” I heard from upstairs.

  “I don’t know,” I shouted back.

  I was staring face to face with a grown man, probably around fifty years old, stripped down to his underwear, and shackled to the wall with iron clasps around his wrists and ankles. His facial hair was thick and greasy, and it was matted in with the long unkempt black hair spilling from his head.

  Snarl. Woof woof.

  The man barked at me like an animal. He pulled against the metal restraints as he tried to dive at me, snapping his jaw and frothing into his beard. Then there was a flash of recognition in his eye, and he pressed himself back against the wall. His mouth contorted awkwardly, almost as though he was trying to say something.

  “Don’t make me come down there and do it for you,” Spike said. His voice was closer now, like he was coming back downstairs.

  I dropped the knife and ran. I don’t know what the Hell was going on, I didn’t care what was going to happen to me, but I could not be in that room. Spike was waiting for me outside the basement.

  “What’s going on? Did you do it?”

  I just kept running. Straight out the door. I ran the whole 3 miles back to my house without even stopping. Spike followed me out – I don’t think he ever saw the thing. He must have told the other guys though, because I got a 18 second beating for what happened. I took it like a man. I didn’t even make a sound.

  I didn’t tell anyone what I saw, or what I heard the thing say as I was leaving.

  “Kill… me…”

  Spike was waiting for me when I got off the school-bus today. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me away from the other kids. I flinched when he touched me.

  “Last night…” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I messed up. It’s my fault,” I replied. I’d already taken the beating. What more could happen?

  “I get it, first time is scary. But facing that fear, that’s what makes a man out of you,” he said. “I checked up on the house, and there wasn’t any police report or anything. The old guy was dead, but nobody’s found him yet.”

  “Did you look in the basement?” I asked.

  “Nah, I didn’t stay, but the two of us are going back tonight. We’re gonna finish the job.”

  How could I tell him? It would just sound like a lame-ass excuse. He’d just think I was scared, and I’d get beaten again. I just nodded. There wasn’t any way out of this for me. I’ve already killed a man, so what’s so much worse about killing an animal?

  Like Father Like Son

  I have a two year old son named Alexander. No that's not the horror story, although any new parents out there might beg to differ. He is the most perfect thing I could ever or will ever create, and I love him with all my heart.

  When I look at Alex, I see myself. An entire lifetime of academic achievements, romantic pursuits, dreams and ambitions, and of course the glorious pride of shooting the game winning goal... the infinite potential of his un-lived life is a miraculous blessing that I am privileged to be a part of.

  My wife Stacey thinks I'm going to run myself into the ground trying to be the world's best dad. She thinks I'm overcompensating because my own dad left when I was two. And so what if I am? Dad leaving destroyed my mother. It was because of him that I grew up practically impoverished, withdrawn, and angry at the world. What's so wrong with wanting something better for my own son?

  I'll admit that I did tend to obsess over the idea though. Everything was a competition - I wanted a better job than my father, to drive a better car; I even started interrogating my mother about all dad's bad habits so I could avoid them, although she replied with something which shocked me.

  "Why don't you ask him yourself? I know where he lives."

  I couldn't even remember the man. Learning he lived just on the other side of town made me furious. I had to know what his excuse was for never being there, and even more than that, I wanted to tell him straight to his face that I wouldn't be the same terrible father he was.

  I was expecting some kind of burnt out crack-den or whore-house, not the luxury high rise apartments that matched the address. Sure my mother lived comfortably now, but somehow I didn't think he deserved the same kind of lifestyle now. My fist landed on his door with a quick burst of powerful thumps.

  "Who are -" the man in the loose bathrobe asked, but he didn't even have to finish the sentence. The resemblance was uncanny. The long nose, the angular cheeks, the wisps at the end of his eyebrows - he looked exactly like an older version of myself.

  "Yeah," I said. All my carefully prepared arguments from the drive over here evaded my mind. All I could think about was how unsettling it felt to look at that face which could have almost been a mirror.

  "Well alright, come on in." He turned around and sat down on his sofa. "Your mother send you?"

  "Do you and her still talk?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Sometimes. She told me about your kid. Congratulations on -"

  "Why'd you leave?" It wasn't supposed to go like this. I was supposed to be gloating over a successful life he played no part in. He was supposed to be pleading my forgiveness. So why did my voice crack like I was the one begging?

  "The same reason you'll ditch your kid," he said. "They're better off without us."

  I left shortly after that, feeling less satisfied than ever. How dare he presume I would make the same terrible decisions he did? Maybe he was right that I was better off without him, but my son needed me and I needed him.

  I gripped my steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. How could I possibly be bad for my son? I was so focused that I didn't even notice the car cutting me off.

  "Hey asshole! Get off the road!" I shouted. I never do that sort of thing, but I was so pissed at my dad that everybody better stay out of my way.

  Maybe that's what dad was talking about? If I brought home this kind of anger, then my son would start to internalize it as he grew up. Maybe it was best for me to just stop at the bar before heading home and take some time to cool off...

  I couldn't sleep that night. Stacey was mad at me for coming home late. She smelled the alcohol on me, but I didn't want to tell her about my dad because I just wanted to forget about him. They're better off without us. Hah! Better off without you.

  But what if there was something more to it? Maybe my father really knew something I didn't - some inherited health problem, or predisposition to an addiction, or Hell I don't know. He didn't seem accusing or angry or anything when he said it. Maybe he was actually trying to warn me. If that was the case, then wasn't I being selfish in putting my own comfort over the security of my family?

  It was 2 in the morning when I knocked on his door again. He opened it wearing the same disgusting bathrobe.

  "Why are they better off without us?" I blurted out. I wanted to cut straight to the point and not give small-talk a chance to sap my anger.

  "Come on in, have a seat."

  "I don't want to come in. I want a
n answer," I said.

  "You smell like booze," he said. "So did I when I went home. Your mother couldn't stand it."

  That was it? He was an alcoholic? Well I wasn't. Sure I drank from time to time, but I wouldn't let it ruin my relationship with Stacey like it did with him and my mother. I couldn't stand the sight of him, so I just took off right after he gave me that explanation.

  But Stacey had been upset when she smelled it, so maybe I could still learn from him. I decided to spend the rest of the night at a friend's house so she wouldn't have to see me like this.

  I sent her a text to let her know what I was doing and went over to my buddy Tom. He and I stayed up chatting for awhile, I had a couple more drinks to help me sleep, and then I crashed on his couch. Between the alcohol and knowing I resolved the issue, I slept like a baby through the rest of the night.

  I wish I hadn't though, because she was was absolutely livid. She wouldn't even let me explain myself. I tried to tell her about my father, but she just thought it was awfully convenient considering I hadn't mentioned him yesterday.

  The alcohol - the night out - she was utterly convinced I was cheating. I even tried getting her to talk to Tom, but she wouldn't stop yelling long enough for me to get him on the phone.