CWRC Anthology

THE DIRE OF DARKNESS

© 2022 by Comfort One.

Brought to you by Christian Writers and Readers Club.

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Whilst IN THE DIRE OF DARKNESS, the most mundane piece of existence that our being has resonated with, can pulverize like the scattering of an ordinary reflector into a thousand and one splinters.

Therefore, under the influence of the striking of great thunder, the Earth is shaken to its very core, as the heavens brood its wrath on the poor planet, with each flash of fierce lightning tearing across the clouds of repugnance. 

This happens as soon as each echo of such reverberation is released, sending quavers of greater terror than I am already consumed by.

A beat after another, my heart soaks in the amount of aforementioned gloom, so much so that my fingers quiver as they trail in haste, to the fancy tie attached to the top of my work uniform.

My body still surrendering to the shaking after-effect of the thunderous event, I force a gulp down my throat, as my eyes bulge out in utter apprehension.

Stretching my feet to take just one step ahead, my lips release a little prayer, in sheer whimpers, "God, please help me."

I coo, further. "You just have to help me. You got me into this, remember?" Eyelids fighting to be released, my throat croaks, as the imagery of the little old woman laying in a river of her blood, swallows my senses in a wallow of horror.

Instantly, I struggle to wade off the regret already building up a castle in my heart. I have learned the hard way never to speak against whatever my spirit receives from the Holy Spirit; no matter how awry events turn out.

Too bad I learned the hard way — it took near death for the lesson to be absorbed.

This time, not again.

When I got the words this morning, I knew something greater than I'd understood would be on its way to me.

And just when my tired self strode across the roads that led to my house, the nudge the Holy Spirit gave me confirmed the eerie feeling that'd rested in my stomach.

Well, at least, I didn't realize any of that, until my own hands turned the knob of the door I almost interpreted as my destruction; if I hadn't considered the urge I'd gotten from the Spirit of truth.

My intention before this entire chaos was as simple as gushing down a piece of chocolate. Go straight home after a day of strenuous work, then pay to the very much irritating landlady that'd already disturbed me on every side, and wouldn't mind rendering me and my poor family homeless if I hadn't come home with the rent this time.

But... Instead of being there for my family, I had to let all of that go. All of the stress. The fear of rendering my poor family helpless — in waiting for my arrival to deliver them from near homelessness.

And now, here I am. In the middle of darkness. In the middle of what I'm trying not to see as my doom.

An ordinary look at the outside of this little shop would echo nothing but normalcy: the usual old rickety steel compartment, with rusts trailing across each angle, having nothing but oldness of building material to exude.

The same old store I strode past every evening I returned from work, and possibly spare a minute or two in, just to grab my favorite local drink they're so good at making.

And also flash my million-dollar smile, at little old Mrs. Johnson, as I'd tease her of how she didn't appear even a day over thirty-five; and she'd spank me with the glow of the youthfulness she exudes through the wide grins her little lips would always stretch into.

Unfortunately, this time, my entry didn't send those lips stretching into any slight form of pleasure.

Neither did my twenty-two-year-old female eyes meet the fifty-year-old lady that'd always lovingly scolded me for teasing her about the youthfulness of her appearance.

Instead, I gaze upon a body saturated in a pool of cold blood; abhorring rives across all angles of her skin, from which the dark red liquid oozed.

A first glance doesn't pull in any form of recognition. Perhaps, a second glance. Even a third one wouldn't do a single well.

Only the outpouring of frail words could have pulled my ears and eyes away from the door and closer to the counter where the body lay. Or rather, Mrs. Johnson's body lay. Having heard such echoes, I dared not refer to her as a body. At least, not anymore. And not yet.

Hopefully even, not ever.

Rushing to her side and helping her fingers trail with smears of blood, I can't stop myself from holding her hand as liquid fights through my eyelid and falls on the fingers laying directly below my face; with the drop of the single ounce of fluid disintegrating the angles of the smear it landed on.

Instantly, not knowing the greater apprehension awaiting me, I find myself thanking the Holy Spirit for making me sensitive to His words and obeying when He nudged me to enter Mrs. Johnson's (the sister to that pesky landlady of mine) seemingly normal shop.

The horrendous state of Mrs. Johnson's and the terrible state of the shop (tables, chairs, several pieces of equipment all in disarray), reminds me of the reversed idea I'd had and envisioned while pulling myself towards that nudge from the Holy Spirit. What am I even saying?

This is in complete opposition to the words I'd received in prayer today — the words, "Just for today, listen to me. Obey. Like never before. Hold my words — the words just spoken, to the very end, my dear. To the very end."

Unable to grasp a firm understanding of everything, I remind myself, "Rita, trust. Trust the Lord. He knows what he is doing and saying every time. Trust till the end."

"R-Rita," My eyes stretched to view her face, as the dim lights cast a reflection upon a side of it, my gaze is greeted by even deeper and wider rives; an upsurge of blood escaping through it as her lips inaudibly mumble (to the straining of my ears). "P-please help me, Rita. P-please..."

"W-what happened?" The words struggle to find their way out of my mouth. "How did this happen?" My eyes shoot out in compassion mixed with horror.

Her bloody hand's grip mine stronger — each shortened breath more quickened than the former, "A robber. An armed one. S-stormed in, and did all this."

"D-don't worry about me," She stammers. "I'll be alright." She coughs out splatters of blood onto my outstretched arms.

"All I need you to do is..." Her bulgy red eyes shine at my helpless own. "... to go into that storehouse..." She points at the closed door adjacent to where we both are.

"Go in there..." She forces another swallow. "And get the keys."

"The keys to the locker..." She struggles to speak. "That's where all of the money is." She swallows hard again, "He tried to take the truth from me. He used his knife all over me." More blood splatters through her mouth. "My struggle made him angrier and that's why he kept on hurting me.."

"So, I had no choice but to tell him a lie." She continues. "He'd threatened me to tell him where the key to the locker was..."

"But.." another cough forces its way through. "I lied..."

"You lied??" My brows crease, not understanding why she'd dare lie to a killer who had already done so much damage to her and would do worse.

In the midst of all of that chaos, a knock resounds.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

And before we both know it, the door creaks open and our eyes behold what our mouths would never be able to pronounce.

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TO BE CONTINUED!

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