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.
