6
His eyes closed. The memory played in his head, focusing on dark things. Monsters, demons, and haunted images of lost souls. The bright red eyes appeared with the dark shadow against the backdrop of a burning city. The dream was the same at first glance, but the shadowy figure now commanded the chaos.
The memory began to fade as he lay there in the darkness. He grabbed for the phone to check the time. He hadn’t been asleep for an hour before his subconscious shook him awake from the nightmare. Suppression meant returning to strong thoughts that could make him forget. Thoughts like the anger he felt toward happy people, toward Maria and her boyfriend. To any couple holding hands as they strolled across the quad, trapped inside their own fleeting relationships. To every girl that ever ignored him, or shot down his humble efforts in the past. The gears refused to stop turning. His mind rolled through thought after hostile thought, and a new monster was born inside of him, angry at the world for being so cruel, and strong enough to eclipse the new threat sewing its seed progressively deeper into his psyche. The harder he tried to fall asleep, the more frustration and restlessness poured in.
“Well,” he shouted as he tossed the blanket into the darkness. “I'm obviously not sleeping tonight.”
He bounced off the soft mattress, still wearing his shoes. Even if he did manage to fall asleep, he would only wake up screaming again. It was no use. The universe didn't like him that night, and he cursed it for its lack of empathy. His eyes caught the brown stain on the carpet, now black in the faint light. He shuffled through the cabinets for carpet cleaner and paper towels. He soaked the stain and stomped towels into the muck, leaving them to sop up the mess. Another block in his way. I can't even walk through my apartment without being hassled.
He snatched a biology textbook off the desk, and his jacket off the floor. It was time again to face a long night of self-induced insomnia. If he couldn't rest, he would get some reading in. The door closed behind him, and he heard scratching on the other side that instantly sent a chill down his spine. He had almost forgotten about the monster, yet it continued to torment him. The tingling skin opened a vent behind his cheeks that flooded his face with warmth. This was a stupid problem to have. He was accustomed to a lack of sleep, but if this continued, it would eventually break him. There was no telling what kind of psychosis might follow. If there was one thing he had learned from his insomnia experiments, it was that sooner or later, human beings had to sleep.
Inside the shop, he caught eyes with the laptop guy from across the room. He was talking with Maria and another man, but his stare focused on Scott, and his eyes sharpened.
“Tall cap,” he said.
“Another one?”
“Number eleven.”
“You ever going to sleep?”
“I'm trying.”
“Might be easier if you cut the caffeine drip.”
Scott shook his head. “Won't make any difference at this point.”
The cappuccino machine howled and stirred, and a large presence appeared beside him. He looked up at a man twice his size: Maria’s boyfriend.
“Scotty Stone.”
“Yes?”
Mike extended his hand. Scott did the same, feeling the crushing grip of a more powerful human being. “Maria was telling us about your scare. That's kind of crazy.”
His pulse beat to the rhythm of the background music on the café speakers, music that he normally ignored. The pain of betrayal bled from his heart into his stomach. “So now everyone knows that I'm nuts. Great.”
“I don't think you're nuts, but if I were you I'd try to get a little more sleep. I didn't really come over to talk about ghosts and demons. The two of you seem to be good friends, so I figured it was only right to say hi. I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked. We're all about to head to the bar, if you want to join us.”
“No thanks,” said Scott. His voice broke as a building full of drunks appeared in his mind's eye. Too many people. Too much risk. He waved his Biology book like a magic wand for introverts. “I have some studying to do.”
“Okay, man. We'll be over there all night, so if you change your mind, the invite is open. You any good at darts?”
“I’ve never really played.”
“You can be on Maria’s team then. If you finish your, um, studying.”
“Tall cap,” said the barista.
Scott took his coffee from the bar and nodded. “It was nice talking to you. Thanks for the invite. Maybe next time I’ll be in a better mood, but I’ve been having kind of a rough week.”
“So we’ve heard.”
His eyes again caught the stare from laptop guy, whose face burned with anger. Perhaps he was trying to hide it. Nobody else noticed, but his eyebrows told all. He was disgusted, and Scott had no idea why. Maybe he had a prejudice against crazy people. Maybe he thought Scott was trying to get attention, or use the insane story to win favor with Maria. Maybe he was a homicidal lunatic hiding behind a laptop, on the lookout for someone to hate.
Outside, the cold air stung his face. The temperature dropped rapidly after sunset, and it would continue to drop until morning. He glanced up at the window of his apartment, lit from inside by a laptop screen. In the apartment, he'd be alone with the monster. In the coffee shop, he'd be in the presence of the menacing customer with a scraggly beard. The only safe choice was to sit around one of the outside tables and freeze.
He unfolded his textbook and flipped through it. Maybe he should have picked another science elective. The constant memorization and regurgitation routine was already old, and midterms were still weeks away. Burying himself in the text calmed his nerves. Reading had a funny way of disconnecting him from the world, and from his problems. Even a boring Biology textbook could clear his head of other thoughts. Never in his life did he find himself so entranced by the composition of a cell. He contemplated each structure, from phosphate heads in the cell walls to mitochondria.
Time marched forward as his fingers froze to the point where he had trouble turning pages. The coffee grew cold, and he stared up at the apartment again.
“A sleeping pill will knock me out.”
He glanced the other direction, staring down the street toward neon lights that advertised various brands of beer. A long sigh escaped in a slow release of steam that drifted upward in front of his face, fogging his glasses. Part of him wanted to go. It couldn't be scarier to surround himself with people than it was trying to sleep in a room with a demon, and the drinks would definitely put him down, though they might also give him a stomach ulcer. Darts on Maria’s team enticed him, but he’d probably miss the board completely and end up sticking some drunk with a steel point. That was trouble he didn’t need.
The short journey of escape from the cold played hell on his mind, and each step toward the door enhanced the dread of going inside. The soft treading of his shoes against the hallway carpet echoed in his ears like a bass drum. He pressed his arm against the door, keeping the book secure while carefully twisting the knob with his coffee hand, enough to pull open the portal to Hell.
He dropped the books on the bed, and slung his jacket over the bed post. Philosophy homework was still displayed on the laptop. He leaned against the workstation to close programs and check his email. Nothing, as always. Nobody wanted to email him. Nobody wanted to talk to him. He was the modern equivalent of a hermit. Even spam avoided his inbox. Social media accounts were pointless, as were dating websites. Maria was his only real friend, and that wasn't saying much, as they usually only talked at the café as customer and clerk. He wondered if she thought of him the same way he thought of countless gas station customers he was forced to smile at as a job requirement. As the last program closed, the webcomic he kept on the computer's wallpaper gave him a chuckle, until he noticed something move. A reflection in the glass screen.
His right hand began to shake, putting the now iced coffee in a precarious position above a pile of paper towels where the last one spilled. He placed it
on the desk, spilling a few drops from the lid while spinning toward the bed, staring downward. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Breathe in, breathe out. His eyes shot open. A micro-shot of adrenaline kept him alert. His eyes darted about the room. If something was here, he wanted to catch it from the corner of his eye, and not in the center of focus.
“Who's here?”
Nothing stirred. He was tired, and likely making too much of an isolated event, or so he told himself.
“Screw this. I'm going to bed. You better not interrupt my sleep.” Threatening the thing might not be the wisest choice, Scotty.
He turned again and yanked his medicine drawer open. One of the empty bottles on the desk rolled into the drawer as he shuffled through the rest.
“There we go. Temazepam.” He popped one of the tiny capsules and washed it down with the gritty cold coffee, slamming his eyes closed again.
“Four steps to the light switch.”
He paced forward behind closed eyes, feeling around with his hands until he found the wall. His fingers slid left to the door frame, then down and over the switch. He clicked it off, turned ninety degrees, and pictured the bedroom in his mind.
“Okay. Three normal steps, plus a little to the bed.” He paced carefully, and then inched forward until his fingers found the soft mattress. Once on top, navigation was easy. He kicked off his shoes. The blankets and sheets wrapped around him, and he buried himself like burrito meat in a tortilla of soft linens.
“Done. Now sleep.”
Scratching. Scraping. It came from the window. Maybe someone outside was playing tricks. Maybe Maria’s friends. Maybe that scruffy laptop toting psychopath. Torment the crazy kid. That’s what they’re doing. The noises stopped every time he glanced over, and began again seconds after closing his eyes.
Maybe the wind was stirring up leaves outside, but it hadn’t done much to keep his breath from condensing on his glasses earlier. The scratching continued. He unwrapped himself from the blanket burrito, aimed his eyes at the ceiling, and then back toward the window.
Headlights from passing cars tossed a dozen moving shadows through his room at regular intervals. He wriggled every time the light was bright enough to shine through his closed eyelids. He should have been knocked out. The pill should have tranquilized him, but he remained awake, and somewhere between terrified and furious. He rolled toward the door, and stared at his jacket to verify its position and shape, just to be sure that he wouldn’t mistake it for a monster later. Somehow, he managed to place it in such a way that wrinkles didn't give his mind anything to distort. All of the leather folds hung in straight lines that even his fatigued brain couldn’t toy with.
As he laid there, his whole body went numb. He wasn't even tracking hours at this point. His sleeping rhythm should have left him crashed out until morning. He was back on the waking part of the cycle. No wonder he was agitated. It didn’t matter that he didn’t get enough sleep, another three-day period had started. He should have been wide awake and studying. He was now too tired to do anything useful, but too awake to sleep.
If he couldn't see the creature, then maybe it wouldn't see him. The mechanics of how shadow people operated wasn't covered in the web search. They were supposed to run if you spotted them, but this one wanted to be seen. He knew it.
“Ughh,” he moaned. “Why did I do this to myself?”
Scott's insomnia was self-induced. Well, not completely, but he gave up fighting insomnia with medication. He knew what he was doing by staying up for three days at a time and then crashing an extra day on the weekend. Natural circadian rhythms are only set for a twenty-four hour cycle because people live on Earth. If humans lived on Mars, they would adapt to a twenty-five hour day. On Titan, the rhythm could stretch to a twenty-three day cycle. Human beings are naturally adaptable creatures, especially in their sleep patterns. Such adaptability allowed some to function nocturnally while others slept. It also allowed him to stretch his days well past the limit defined by his planet.
His first experiment was a thirty-six hour day, and it would have been great if work and school were not factors. The forty-eight hour day was a fascinating attempt. That one should have worked perfectly, but for some reason, his wake cycle constantly overshot to the following sunrise, and he would knock out as if sleep were bestowed by Apollo's arrows. He discovered that it took less downtime to sustain longer wake cycles. The longer he stayed up, the more efficient he became as a human being.
The only problem with the seventy-two hour day was that reverting to normal time was impossible. Screwing with your circadian rhythm was like sailing off into the unknown. The return trip wasn’t guaranteed. It took time to adjust. The self-reflection took his mind off any danger that might be lurking at the end of the bed, and he finally drifted off.
But there were other dangers that lurked on uncharted waters. The causes of ships failing to return to port. Such unknown horrors existed in every phase of life. Every decision. Behind every door, every window, and every sleep period.
Ancient people might wake up to a hungry beast attacking them while helpless. The monster he might see upon waking was much worse. A danger that walls and doors, even in modern times, failed to guard against.
7
A trigger in the human brain shuts down the nervous system while sleeping, so the body won't toss in bed. Sleepwalking happens when the switch doesn't flip, and paralysis results when the brain wakes up before the body can reboot. It’s the perfect time for an attack from the astral realm, and the scent cast by the pheromones of fear attracts dark entities like blood for sharks.
It didn't take long before he woke up. In his mind he never fell asleep. No nightmares, thank God. The drugs usually enhanced them. He lay there, unable to move anything but his eyelids. Sleep paralysis. This wasn’t his first experience with it, but somehow, in light of recent events, it was more terrifying than the first time he felt it, when he had no idea what was happening. Now he knew exactly what it was, and how long he would be locked in place, defenseless against anything that chose to invade his apartment.
Some of those ghost websites had mentioned sleep paralysis alongside shadow sightings. Tingling sensations ran across his body. That was the first symptom of recovery. Muscle tissue was coming back online.
Scott's head lay propped against the pillow, twisted in a position that was certain to leave a kink in his neck. His jacket was directly at the center of view. He blinked repeatedly, trying to wake his body up. He’d learned a couple of tricks since the first time it happened. Sometimes he focused on wriggling his fingers. The trick was to use any working muscles until others become available. Unfortunately, they weren’t activating fast enough, and his mind distracted itself from the focus needed. His brain was on high alert, fearing that the neon red eyes would appear any second. He was stuck, and the dark shadow of his jacket hanging from the door started to grow.
It’s just a brain trick, Scott. Relax.
But it wasn't. Leather normally shined like obsidian, reflecting any tiny glint of available light. The silhouette of the jacket darkened to pure black, and grew larger with each passing second. Before long, it was half the size of the room behind it, eclipsing his desk. Then the eyes appeared.
Keep looking. Just a bit longer.
He slammed his eyes shut, but the presence of the creature surrounded him. He struggled inside his own skin, trying desperately to rouse his muscles into action.
Something scraped at the window behind him, like a wolverine trying to claw its way inside. His skin numbed, and tingling sensations raced up and down his legs, then up his spine. He couldn’t move, but felt the prickle of raised hairs over his entire body. His blood flowed like ice water. It was hard to say if this was really sleep paralysis, or if he was paralyzed by fear.
Just a bit longer.
That’s not my voice. I’m not imagining this. Something cold and wet scrolled from the back of his neck forward along the line of his chin, and the skin tingl
es changed, radiating out from his face. His fingers shook, and suddenly he could wiggle them. He pulsed his fist open and closed, trying to force the motor control to spread.
His teeth clenched. It was working. Just a bit longer. His jaw was sore, but again under his control. His tongue licked at the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth. The scraping intensified, now coming from every direction. The window, the door, and even his desk.
Hissing. Scratching. An electric field wrapped him, the same sensation as holding a pencil point just between his eyes, but in lines around his body. The feeling spread and widened, covering him. Pressure followed. Something held him in place, but he was terrified to look. The sensations continued around his neck, as though it were being sniffed or licked by a dog. Tears filled his closed eyes, and he found himself praying that it would stop.
Please, God. If you’re really out there. Make it stop.
This was it, the end. Claws wrapped his heart, and his lungs emptied in surrender. His gut sucked in to the point of cringing pain. A tickle in the back of the throat forced a cough, which shot pins and needles across his body. His limbs were heavy, and whatever forcefield constricted his body tightened. He had no choice but to fight back. He ripped against it, and struggled to free himself until he tossed right off the edge of the bed.
The squeezing force loosened its grip as he smashed into the ground. He wriggled free of the demon’s clutches, and clawed at the top of his bed, dragging himself toward his glasses. Eyes still shut, he planted them on his face. He kicked at whatever still had him by the legs, and again fell from the mattress, this time onto soft fabric.
“I’m a freaking idiot!” he shouted as his eyes shot open. He’d been struggling against his own sheets, and it wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself doing so after a nightmare. His heart continued drumming away at full speed. His breathing labored into hyperventilation. He forced himself up, embarrassed, and shook his head again.
Stone's Shadow Page 5
