Afraid of the Dark

Chapter Two

Something unexpected suddenly pulled the American from his slumber, but he didn't exactly know what it was. He was in a strange half-conscious state in which you couldn't actually tell if you were asleep or if you were awake, causing his mind and senses to be somewhat foggy. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. He was laying down on his side, with his head pointed at a wall, so clumsily he rolled over to get a better look at his surroundings. The outlines of the objects were not ones which he didn't find very familiar, so he knew that he wasn't in his room at home. He could see a desk, a bedside table, a reflective object in the corner, and some sort of large coat holder in another corner. The door was slightly ajar, with a thin beam of light peeking into the room from where the dimmed hallway lights had remained on. Thinking as hard as a half-awake man possibly could, he vaguely recalled the fact that this indeed was not his room, but it was one which he was borrowing for a while. He blinked sleepily a few times, before he eventually closed his eyes once again and tried to go back to sleep.

But something was stopping him. A subconscious reaction telling him that he couldn't go back to sleep, like his body was forcing him to be alert. He tried to ignore it, but the sensation of uneasiness was growing. He opened his eyes for the second time that night, trying to blink the blurriness away as he glanced around his room once again. Nothing had changed. The same outline of a desk, the same outline of the mirror in the corner, the same bedside table, the same coat holder... coat holder? Since when was there a coat holder in this room? Mark thought to himself. He stared at the coat holder, trying to remember if it had been there when he had first arrived in the room. Even if it had been, he never remembered putting a coat on to it – he didn't even have one with him. Not feeling like he had the energy to do anything more, he simply stared at it for a while. But it didn't move. Why would it? It was an inanimate object... right? He flopped his arm to the bedside table next to him, fumbling around until he managed to grab a hold of his phone. HE picked it up slightly and looked at what time it was. It was 03:37.

Eventually he allowed his heavy feeling eyelids to droop closed. But his mind was still stopping him from sleeping. The American huffed out an angry sigh before he tried to shuffle into a more comfortable position, yet he couldn't sleep. The feeling of uneasiness was getting worse. It was impossible to explain why it was being caused and it was difficult to explain what that feeling felt like. It was a mix of apprehension and tension, the feeling you would get if you felt like you were being watched or if you heard a noise in an abandoned place. The feeling when the only evidence you have that something is wrong is nothing more than a gut feeling. With a sense of annoyance, he opened his eyes once more.

There was a figure standing over him.

It was a human. Most likely a man, but Mark couldn't be sure. It was nothing more than a shadowy silhouette, but the angle of its head indicated that it was looking directly at Mark. The sudden intruder sent waves of shock through his system, causing the tiredness and urge to sleep to vanish in an instant. He opened his mouth to yell at whoever it was to get out, but words never got to leave.

A tight vice-like grip clamped around his neck and squeezed tightly, cold fingers with sharp, jagged nails digging into his skin. A chocked gasp escaped the American's lips as the air was pushed from out of his throat.

Moving without thinking, he grabbed onto the wrists of his assailant and tried to pull the hands from off of his neck, but it wasn't working. The man's grip was like iron and had no intention of letting go. In fact, the grip somehow tightened, causing a raspy groan from Mark as his eyes watered at the pain.

"Get off of me!" he said hoarsely, thrashing around under the man's grip. "Get the f*** off of me!" He would have tried to kick his assailant, but his legs were tangled under the bedcovers. The movements were doing no more than wasting what little oxygen he had in his system. Nevertheless, he persisted. What started off as demands quickly turned into desperate begging. "Please, stop!"