A Block of Broken Houses

Inherited (Part Two)

I was six years old on that night, and before then I had merely caught flashes of the dark thing wrapped in the shadows. Those flashes were so brief, in fact, that I cannot be certain I had seen anything at all; perhaps I had only felt it...or the hint of it. Or perhaps it was simply the unknown fears that consume all of us when we're young, when our imagination allows those non-existent monsters the freedom—the possibility—to be real. Those random hints of its presence prompted nightmares, and as much as those nightmares terrified me I knew that once I woke the sun would chase all the evil away. Upon reflection, until that night there was never any concrete threat in my bedroom, only my imagination of it; those fears, it seemed, were limited to my head, at night, where large shadows, heavy with substance, would flow over and around me, or something cold and bristly—eerily alive with movement—would brush past my face.

My fear would take hold of me in the long moments before my eyes could adjust to the black. I was convinced I was not alone in my bedroom, that there were things simply waiting for the door to shut, sealing off the safety beyond it. There were nights when I came to recognize the shadowy forms in the corners for what they truly were—my bookshelf, my desk, scattered toys, But there were also other nights, far more frequent, when my vision never seemed to clear entirely and those shapes would come to life, shift, and creep closer. On those occasions, my heart would quicken to a gallop, and I would clamp my eyes shut and beg for sleep to take me, which it always did...eventually, but never soon enough.

But that was all before.

On that night—and every night afterward—there was always something perched close by, waiting until my eyes grew too heavy to delay the inevitable. Only then, in that in-between world that was not quite sleep, would the shadows stretch their long arms from the darkness to take me.

My mother had tucked me in after my father, just as she always did. She would lie with me, rub my back and sometimes tell me stories. Mostly, though, we would talk about our day, and I still believe that those pre-sleep talks were as honest as we ever were with one another.

After our bedtime routine, which lasted on that night around fifteen minutes (my father always thought this was much too long), she said goodnight and kissed my forehead with warm, soft lips, the scent of her body lotion only minutes away from searing my memory. At my door she blew me a kiss, one I caught with a smile, and then pulled my bedroom door shut behind her. There was no nightlight because my father would not allow one (it only gave reason to fear the dark, he said), and the blinds and drapes were drawn tight.

The dark was suffocating.

In the quiet before the darkness claimed me, with faint wisps of vanilla still lingering, the shadows began to change. Slowly, like dark hands reaching out from all four walls, I was surrounded and began to feel claustrophobic. I knew immediately that this was more than my exaggerated imagination.

I first heard its incoherent whispers—like cold wind through the raw branches of dead trees—crawling from not one corner of my room but all four. My eyes instinctively went to the closet: no movement. The air in the room then shifted, turning thicker, stickier, and I began to sneeze uncontrollably. I unnecessarily pulled the covers—one thin sheet, one thick quilt—to my chin, and if I was sweating I was unaware of it. I shut my eyes, a foolish line of defence, I admit, but one that is hardwired, for good or ill, in all children.

An impossible breeze eased across my face. I went cold, and goose pimples attacked me. After a beat, something that felt like paintbrush bristles kissed my nose, and the moment of not wanting to look but needing to fell upon me, heavy. I fought it back and somehow managed to force my eyes a little tighter. We were not a religious family but I prayed. I thought that if it (whatever was in the room with me) thought I was sleeping and if I ignored it, maybe it would go away. Idiocy, now that I think of it, but then fear causes foolishness.