Be Afraid of the Dark

I've been sitting on this one for a while. Halloween seems like an appropriate time to let it loose.

Harry had not been scared of the dark since he was a little kid, but being alone and watching a marathon of scary movies goes a long way in whipping the imagination into a ferocious maelstrom of horror. The walk from the TV room to his bedroom was long and lightless because Harry was trying to convince himself that he was unafraid.

He did fine until he kicked Deckard’s water bowl. Convinced he had heard a poltergeist laugh at his misstep, he completed the journey to his bedroom at warp speed. A flip of the light switch as soon as it was in reach and he whirled around to make sure nothing with fangs was behind him. Next he peered into his room to make sure no zombies were quietly waiting to rend the flesh from his bones.

Satisfied that his room was secure, Harry proceeded to use it as his home base, much as he had done as a child. Everywhere in the room was established as safe, and the bed was the safest place of all. Harry could remember some nights when he was young, skipping the teeth brushing ritual so that he wouldn’t have to go back down the dark hallway to the bathroom. He considered it; he was old enough now, he could certainly retain his composure long enough to get to the bathroom light without having to run.

As he walked, on eggshells it seemed, Harry came up with a vexatious thought: although each empty doorway he passed in the hallway presented a multitude of terrors for his imagination to torture him with, the dark doorway leading into the bathroom was somehow safe? He paused. Immediately, his mind placed a vampire in the shower and the prospect of turning on the bathroom light became an overwhelming task.

Harry took a deep breath, reminded himself that he was thirty years old, much too old to jump at shadows in his own home, and resumed his walk. He came to the doorway and without entering the room turned the light on.

Poking only his nose and eyeballs over the threshold, Harry saw that there was no vampire in the shower. Goblins were not climbing out of the toilet bowl. Harry brushed his teeth quickly, however, anxious to get to the absolute safety of his bed. He eyed the drain in the sink, half-worried that something might come poking out and reach for him.

After a rinse and a spit, Harry killed the light and abandoned his maturity. Six large bounds put him back in the safety zone. After a quick look back over his shoulder, he calmly turned on his bedside light before turning off the overhead one.

He decided to read a bit of his book to take his mind off the possibility of an axe-wielding demon clown coming through his door. Or a window. He picked up his book: Stephen King. Nevermind.

Harry sat up in bed with the light on, unable to relax. In the silence, Harry thought he could hear the house breathing. He got up and turned on some music, 1812 Overture. Not exactly relaxing bedtime music, but it did the job of dispelling the total silence that had been creeping Harry out.

In fact, listening to the familiar masterpiece was soothing enough to allow Harry to recline fully and actually breath normally. He even managed to doze off.

A groan of the floorboards yanked Harry right back into consciousness. His heart was racing before he was even aware of the reason. Another creak brought his brain up to speed with his other organs. His entire body felt tense.

What Harry heard next confirmed his worst fears. A smacking sound, like a mouth savoring a flavor about to come, dripping saliva to the floor in anticipation, reached Harry’s bedroom, just loud enough to cut through the music. The mouth sounded as though it were three feet wide. The image in Harry’s mind was replete with dagger-like teeth jutting out of the orifice.

Suddenly, another part of Harry’s brain made a connection. He had heard that sound before, often—everyday even. His imagination was so worked up that it had turned the common sound of Deckard lapping at his water bowl into the sounds of a ravenous creature from Hell.

A shiver of relief crawled down Harry’s spine. Only then did he realize that he had begun to sweat. The rational side of his mind reminded him that dogs were good for comfort. Man’s best friend and all that. He got out of bed.

Several sleep-staggered steps carried Harry down the corridor to the doorway facing the kitchen, where the dog was still sating his thirst. Harry turned on the hall light that he had ignored during his teeth-brushing mission and opened his mouth to call out to Deckard. As he looked at his dog, however, Harry found his voice had taken the liberty of making an early escape.

The lamp from the hallway indirectly lit part of the kitchen. The sickly yellow light revealed not Deckard, faithful, loving pooch, but a man. On all fours, naked, it was drinking from the dog’s water bowl.

Harry froze, not because he knew the smallest sound would condemn him to a horrific death, but because fear had robbed him of the ability to move. The man was pale, the color of ash, devoid of hair, and streaked with blood.

In the shadows beyond the nightmare, Harry saw Deckard. The macabre sight almost forced Harry’s dinner out of his body via the same route it had entered. Chunks of the dog were missing; two legs were several feet away from the rest of the body. The remains were marooned in a small sea of crimson blood.

Harry realized the lapping had stopped. In that instant, his voice returned, but served only to betray him. A faint croak leaked from his throat. Harry’s eyes felt like stones in their sockets as he looked at the lurid figure.

No part of the ghoulish creature moved except for its head, which turned as though miniature people were turning a crank to power it. The jerky movement terminated in a slight jerk and Harry got his only look at the face that killed him.

The eyes were as dark as obsidian, yet seemed to be burning. The only other feature that set the face apart from any that one might see in a morgue was the mouth. The teeth were not hidden behind pale lips because there were no lips. The bloody maw looked as raw as the wounds in Deckard’s torso. Clearly the lips had gotten in the way and become part of a vicious feast. Blood and water dripped down the chin before meeting the floor.

Blood splayed through the air as Harry’s face, right arm, and a slab of his inner left thigh joined Deckard on the floor. The rest of his body never touched the ground. Hanging from the jaws of the ghastly fiend, it was destined to become a snack for its brethren as they continued their journey across the land.