A Block of Broken Houses

Inherited (Part Three)

Another sneeze from my son's bedroom, so deep it must have pained him.

The nightlight just outside of his bedroom and the one within it made Spencer look smaller, frailer, than he was. He stood bare-chested in the middle of his room, his Star Wars pyjama top tossed on the floor along with his matching bed sheet and pillow. His eyes were large and white in the hushed light. He was sobbing, his delicate chest leaping rhythmically, and I could see tears spilling from his cheeks to the floor. He was shivering—shaking—his teeth chattering, and that frightened me most.

When I called his name he didn't answer. I went to him and, kneeling, took hold of his shoulders. His arms shook wildly in my hands and I had to work to keep them still. I pulled him close and immediately felt his warmth, the moisture. His shorts were saturated, and although some of it was sweat I knew most was urine; the stale stink of it hung heavy in the air. I must have smelled it when first entering his bedroom (it was too intense not to) but it had only just registered. I took him in my arms and stood, and then began shushing softly against his ear, rocking him side to side.

"Spence?" He nodded...or perhaps not; the movement was slight and he was still shaking. "Daddy's here and you're all right," although I knew no such thing. I suspected—knew on some level—that the extreme opposite was true, but those words were an attempt to calm him, as well as myself. I set him down gently and looked at him. His gaze was distant, absent. I peeled his wet hair from his forehead and curled it behind his ears. He took a few deep breaths, his chest hitching like a car threatening to stall. "You're all right," I repeated, and only because I was unsure of what else to say. I smiled in an attempt to comfort him, but he was looking through me.

"What was it?" I asked, when I already knew. "A nightmare?"

His mouth fell open, the sound of his parting lips reminding me of the shadow's grin so long ago, and when no words emerged he pointed over my shoulder: the light switch. In my rush to get to him I had forgotten about it. I went to it and flicked it on.

The light allowed me to see just how frightened he was and I was shaken at the sight. I'm sure it was dangerously close to what my father had seen on that night twenty-six years ago—the scattered bed sheets, the heavy smell of fear and sweat and urine. I felt faint and settled onto his bed, pulled him close and shushed him a little less enthusiastically, my mind wandering in the past. The dampness upon his mattress quickly overtook my track pants but I stayed put, unconcerned; a parent gets used to such things.

My encounter with the thing in the shadows—forever lurking just below the waterline—did concern me, however, because after a blessed hiatus it had returned, hungry not for me but my son.

I am convinced that my father had been visited by those same shadows. When I was born and then old enough to fear it, the shadow-thing left my father's side and turned to me for nourishment. And now guilt joins my fear—escalates it—because my son has inherited from me cold, terrified sweats and sleepless nights where closing his eyes will only brighten the shadow's uneven face and burning, blazing gaze.

I held Spencer close, trying to calm and comfort him and knowing I would never again be able to, not completely.

END