Time For Teletubbies: A Lovecraftian Horror

Chapter I

     Jacob felt the world whirling around him. He gasped for breath and shot out of bed. It was still pitch-black outside. That was alright. He wasn't going to let himself be sucked back into the pit of sleep. It was a new day, and he was going to welcome it while it lasted. Thus, as blackness still enveloped his bedroom, he walked over toward where he assumed his light switch to be. A coat hanger met him instead.

     He could not help but be entangled in the web of coats and hoodies. If he had been able to see anything at all, he surely would've seen himself in the sorriest of messes. Still, his mission stayed the same. And, as he struggled to get up, his frightfulness steadily grew. The idol of the light was the only thing his mind could focus on. He kicked and flung all the scattered clothing he had to out of the way. Finally, he flicked the switch. Warm light washed over him. He let out a sigh of relief.

     First, he cursed his coat hanger. Then, he picked it back up and began his day. The sun rose, the hours passed, the work kept coming, and the boredom kept creeping. He did barely anything but clean up his messied apartment and send overdue payments to a myriad of places, and still, it took up the entirety of the day. What a wonderful thing it was to spend a day off cleaning and paying bills. What an enthralling life he led.

     Despite the meaninglessness of it all, however, he didn't mind it that much. In a way, really, it was cathartic. Especially after the night. To live the simple life was no curse. If anything, it was a relief. At least the simple life never threatened to overwhelm him. Tear at his skin. Feast on his innards. Swallow him whole if it so chose.

     A feeling of anxiety – a pounding of pure dread in the back of his head, like the beating of an evil war drum – ambushed him in the afternoon. And, as the afternoon turned to evening, it only grew worse. The sun seemed to taunt him as it dipped below the horizon. It attacked his eyes with every chance, blinding him and then darting away like a child irritating their older sibling. Perhaps sleep would not, after all, be such a terrible fate. At the very least, it'd relieve him of the irritating actors of the waking world.

     He crawled into bed early that night. He'd had enough of the monotonous madness of the day. And still, despite all of his exhaustion, his dread never left him. It persisted. It gnawed. It nibbled at every thought and infected it with sinister flashes of what had been and what could be. There was no resisting. There was no turning back the tide of terror. His blankets were so wonderfully warm. His body was so unrelentingly tired. He could only close his eyes and lower himself into the clutches of the night. And, even then, a voice buried somewhere deep within him screamed and pleaded with all its might. He didn't listen. He had his excuses, of course, but none of them were sincere. He just didn't want to acknowledge the truth in anything his voice of reason had to tell him.