Supernatural: Night Terror

by John Passarella

  “Lot of tragedy in that family.”

  “That dead teenager is the only connection we have to any of these sightings.”

  “If it’s not a vengeful spirit,” Dean said. “Maybe we need to concentrate on the living.”

  * * *

  Daniel Barnes squirmed in his bed.

  Lost deep in REM sleep, his eyes darted back and forth beneath his eyelids, tracking the stuff of nightmares. Removed from the waking world, he was unaware of the shadow-hand and fingers pressed to his forehead. He was equally oblivious to the creature of darkness taking form over his bed. The creature’s head continued to solidify, with glowing red eyes pulsing in its sunken cheeks. Beneath a long, malformed nose, its mouth opened wide to reveal a row of black, fanglike teeth. As the young boy moaned in distress, the creature hissed in delight.

  Outside the boy’s bedroom window, a rush of wind pummeled the house. The white oak’s branches heaved up, and dropped, twisted and shook, flailed in the night, striking the house’s siding, scraping the windowsill and rapping against the windowpanes with a ragged drumbeat of persistence.

  When a branch struck the window with enough force to crack it, the shadowy creature emitted a gurgling hiss of satisfaction and withdrew its hand from the boy’s forehead.

  Daniel’s head whipped to the side and a startled cry escaped his lips. A moment later, he awoke and pushed himself up from the tangled bedcovers as if he were coming up for air. Staring across the dark room, without even the benefit of the nightlight’s meager glow, he called for his mother again.

  Behind him, the shadowy form lost its cohesion, thinning to irregular splotches of darkness that climbed up the wall and slid across the other shadows, once again invisible and unknowable.

  “Mom!”

  This time his father came down the hall and pushed the door open. Even in the best of times, Daniel’s father had less patience for his nighttime fears than his mother. Daniel hung his head, ready to apologize despite the feeling of dread that kept his heart racing.

  “Daniel, your mother asked me to come up here,” his father said, standing at the foot of the bed, arms across his chest. “You need to stop this nonsense.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s just a storm. You don’t—”

  “The tree broke the window.”

  “What?”

  “Look!”

  But Daniel’s father had already crossed to the window to assess the damage.

  “You’re right. It’s cracked. Hard to see.” Daniel’s father walked over to the doorway and flicked on the light switch. Nothing happened. He tried again. “Try your lamp.”

  The wind gusted and rattled the house. Outside the damaged window, the tree branches danced in the wind.

  Daniel leaned over and tried his bedside lamp to no effect.

  “Broken,” he said.

  “No. Looks like we’ve lost power.”

  His father returned to the window, ran his hand along the crack.

  “Okay,” he said and turned back to face Daniel. “I’ll put some tape on this. Tomorrow, I’ll trim the branches so they don’t—”

  Suddenly the wind howled with renewed ferocity and a thick branch thrust forward, shattering the window with a loud crash. Daniel jumped out of bed with a cry of alarm. Then he noticed his father hunched over, making choking noises as he tried to say something.

  “Gah—gah—guhgh!”

  For a moment, Daniel’s imagination tried to fill in the blanks. He thought his father had grown a third arm—that it had sprouted from the center of his chest and was dripping on the floor. But as he took a step toward his father in the dark room, the true nature of the shape became apparent. The branch had come through the window and speared his father, whose blood was now running down the length of the branch and dripping all over the floor.

  “Dad...”

  His father’s head rolled to the side, almost resting on his shoulder. Blood leaked from his mouth, forming little bubbles that spread like foam across his chin.

  “Dad!”

  The house shook, vibrating beneath Daniel’s feet.

  Outside the window, the white oak seemed to heave against the house, all its branches surging upward. Daniel’s father was lifted by the branch that had impaled him, up to his tiptoes, and held swaying there. His gleaming eyes seemed to stare at Daniel, even as his head flopped from side to side. Hands that had grasped the bloody tree branch now fell limp at his sides. The branch then pulled him to the right and back to the left, forcing his dragging legs to perform the plodding steps of a macabre dance.

  Daniel backed away until his own numb legs bumped against his bed. Then he dropped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees, head turned to the side as he screamed over and over again.

  “Mom!”

  Before she returned and without his notice, the splotchy darkness slipped out of the bedroom window and into the night.

  SEVEN

  Another sleepless night was what the gray-haired woman had come to expect. She hardly ever slept well in her bed. Maybe an hour here, a half-hour there, tossing and turning. Aches and pains too numerous to categorize contributed to her long nights. But not all the aches were physical. Memories had a way of keeping her awake into the wee hours. Invariably, she would surrender the idea of sleeping in her bed and, instead, settle into her musty recliner and watch television. If she was lucky, she’d catch a few hours of sleep spread over the long night.

  Lately, her level of exhaustion had become more pronounced. Throughout the day, she would bumble through her inconsequential routines and by evening, she had so little energy it was a wonder she didn’t collapse simply from climbing the stairs or completing a minimal amount of housework. Nothing seemed to matter much to her anymore. She wondered how long she could go on simply marking time. Living had become a reflex, a habit. She found no joy in it, and hadn’t for some time.

  She reached for the remote control and her hand, with veins and liver spots more prominent than they’d been a week ago, trembled with the effort. Such a simple act was almost beyond her current level of physical stamina. Maybe it wasn’t physical. Maybe it was a neurological issue. Health problems plagued the elderly, became the focus of their twilight years. Marking time in the interval between taking one pill and the next.

  She turned the television on and leaned back in the recliner, her eyelids already heavy with a sleep deficit she could never pay. It would do her good to see the doctor. Another routine to pass the time. Of course, he didn’t care if she got better. Wouldn’t know her name if she bumped into him on the street. But he tried to shock her with predictions of death and disease. Inevitable, but he made it entertaining. A jolt to remind her she was alive and not yet worm food.

  Yes, she’d pass some time with the doctor again because, oddly enough, he was a comfort to her. He was as familiar with death and violence and tragedy as she had become...

  Images flickered on the television set and she was only half conscious of them. As she slipped in and out of her troubled sleep, she was unaware of another image, an expanse of darkness that slipped under her door like a trick of the light, then flowed up her wall, slid across her ceiling and descended to the back of her chair, dyeing the ivory antimacassar on her headrest deepest black. And there it began to swell into a roiling mass of darkness with a head and glowing red eyes rising from the center and arms growing from the sides. Spindly, crouched legs formed beneath the torso. These were new but improving, strengthening. As were its abilities.

  The darkness became as comfortable as the old woman in her recliner. The house and the chair and the woman had already become familiar to the monster. It had mined a rich vein of darkness with this one. But soon their collaborations would come to an end. It sensed time was running out. Yet all was not lost. The town presented so many intriguing possibilities. And the night was young.

  As twin red eyes burned in its obsidian head, it reached out with fingers of solidified darkness and drap
ed them over her forehead. In moments, it began to feed.

  In keeping with his nightly routine, after grading the eighthgrade science homework and preparing a lesson plan for the next school day, Harvey Dufford jogged along Welker Street, turned left on Main, past the municipal building and the factory fire memorial and then turned left again onto Bell Street.

  He followed Bell past the commercial district and into the business district at the west end of Clayton Falls. Most of his jogging route kept him in view of the restaurants, nightclubs, and shops with evening hours. Though the crime rate in town was generally low, he thought it prudent to remain in high pedestrian traffic areas for his daily cardio workout. And so it was always with a little trepidation that he concluded his nighttime run by crossing through the cluster of professional buildings across from his townhome community. Most of these offices closed at five or six o’clock with the exception of the scattered general practitioner or dentist who offered evening hours once or twice a week.

  Streetlights shone down on the modest parking lots, revealing an eerie absence of cars and people. Sometimes Dufford experienced an otherworldly vibe from the professional buildings, as if he had slipped out of the normal time stream and had lost contact with the rest of humanity.

  On more than one occasion, he had considered planning a new route to avoid these “dead” spots, but ultimately he thought they provided motivation for him toward the end of his run. He was closing in on fifty-five years of age and his legs lacked the spring of youth, had for some time, and that leaden-leg feeling regularly overcame him toward the end of his route. Probably psychological, knowing he was almost finished making his body crave rest. So why not counter the physical exhaustion with a burst of adrenaline derived from his anxiety when jogging through this deserted section of town.

  As he approached the cluster of professional buildings, the bright lights of open stores became scattered, the sounds of pedestrian activity became hushed, the rush of cars separated into the passage of individual vehicles separated by increasing intervals, as if the heartbeat of the town weakened and slowed, nearing a flatline. That was when Dufford picked up his pace, placing one foot in front of the other faster and faster with each long stride, forcing himself into a last sprint to feel his heart rate quicken. His mouth opened and he sucked down air in great gulps to satisfy his demanding lungs.

  He leaned into a left turn and entered the parking lot of the first structure. To his right, the beige one- and two-story buildings presented dark lobbies behind Plexiglas doors with official office hours posted in the form of black stencils on the glass or on freestanding message boards. To his right, beyond the parking islands, grassy mounds rose to vinyl privacy fencing. For Dufford, taking the shortcut back to his townhome instilled the claustrophobic sensation of running through a long tunnel.

  A two-lane entranceway adjoined the next block of offices without providing any street exit. At regular intervals, signs were posted discouraging through traffic. Pedestrians were limited to narrow grass-covered gaps between clusters of connected buildings. The layout discouraged street and foot traffic for anyone without official business or a medical appointment. In the evening, hourly patrol car sweeps deterred loitering teenagers and would-be vandals.

  But a lot can happen in an hour.

  So focused was he on maintaining his brisk pace that several moments passed before Dufford noticed the thin layer of mist that puffed and swirled around his running shoes. Because he turned his attention to the unusual phenomenon, he failed to hear the padding sound coming up swiftly behind him until it was almost too late. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he had a premonition someone was about to jump him.

  Being mugged while jogging was something he often worried about, especially since he carried no wallet while exercising, relying on the emergency contact bracelet he wore in case of an accident. A mugger faced with a penniless victim was likely to react with extreme prejudice. Another reason he avoided deserted sections of town. But he couldn’t have been less prepared for his attacker, not in his wildest imaginings.

  As he whirled around, raising a forearm for protection from a blow he was certain was imminent, he stared in horror at the monstrous shape bearing down on him. Its body was the size of a minivan, each of its eight red-banded legs as thick as a fire hose.

  One part of his science-teacher brain identified the giant spider as a Mexican red-kneed tarantula while another part rationalized that it couldn’t survive at that extreme size—it would be crushed under its own weight. But somehow it did exist and it was chasing him. The most primitive part of his brain triggered his flight response.

  Unfortunately, he had effectively run himself to near exhaustion before the threat had materialized. His heart raced wildly, he had a stitch in his side, and his legs felt like blocks of wood fastened awkwardly to his hips. He’d never felt closer to sixty years of age before.

  He spun on his heel and veered to the right, narrowly avoiding a swipe by one of the creature’s hairy front legs. But one of the retractable claws at the tip of the leg tore through his soaked sweatshirt and caused him to stumble. Catching his balance on the round cement base of a parking lot lamppost, he placed the vertical obstacle between himself and the enormous spider—and immediately realized his mistake.

  The tarantula wouldn’t have to move. Its legs were long enough to reach around the pole.

  * * *

  Lucy Quinn sat on one of the matching pair of Adirondack chairs, with her feet up on the porch railing, mirroring the relaxed posture of Tony Lacosta. The weight of the long night kept prodding her to get up and walk home. Inertia kept her seated. Tony’s parents had come home from work hours ago, whipping together a mix-and-match dinner of several nights’ leftovers to which they had invited her. Afterward, they had retired to the family room to watch TV, while Tony and Lucy returned to their porch chairs, each with a can of Coke. From the look Tony gave her when he took them out of the fridge, she could tell he wished they were beers.

  Lucy didn’t think his parents minded her hanging out here with their son, even if they would never think of her as a good influence. But they probably figured he had fewer opportunities for trouble or mischief if he stayed close to home. And after what had happened to Steve, they were a bit traumatized by the occasional randomness of fatal accidents. Of course, Tony and Lucy, along with Steve, had been complicit in the accident that had cost Teddy his life. They had somebody to blame for that. And it made sense, when you factored in the carelessness of teenagers and driving under the influence. But Steve... run down by a stranger, out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning that could strike down anyone. How could a parent rationalize that? Or come to terms with it?

  Lucy took a sip of her Coke. Shook the can. Not much left.

  “So, have you talked to Steve’s parents?” she asked.

  “Earlier,” Tony said. “They’re messed up about it, naturally. Weird thing is, I felt like I should apologize.”

  She turned to look at him, his face almost amber in the wan streetlight, and he had a faraway look in his eyes.

  “You feel guilty,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah. Don’t you?”

  She nodded. “They call it survivor’s guilt.”

  “It was him or us, right?”

  “Right.”

  Tony tilted his Coke back, finished it off.

  “Maybe we should have stayed together.”

  After a long moment, she said, “Maybe.”

  Reluctantly, she dropped her feet to the wooden porch floor and pushed herself out of the low chair.

  “So... I should go.”

  “Want a lift?”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “A walk will clear my head. You going in?”

  “In a few minutes.”

  “See ya,” she said, taking the three stairs slowly, as if she had been drinking alcohol instead of a soft drink for the last few hours.

  Tony waved when she glanced back
from the bottom of his driveway.

  “Later, Luce!”

  After a few blocks, the weight of sadness she carried whenever she was around Tony eased. It wasn’t his fault. She’d felt the same sadness with Steve, though it hadn’t seemed as bad when all three of them were together. Now Steve’s absence reminded her of Teddy’s absence, not that she ever needed a reminder of that. Though they put her in a melancholy frame of mind, she craved those connections. They helped her keep Teddy in her thoughts.

  A fine white mist drifted across the street, undulating across the asphalt, spreading across the sidewalk like a living veil.

  She hugged herself against the chill night air, rubbing her arms to generate some warmth and missing Teddy’s arm across her shoulders. It came as a surprise to her that she was trying to live in the past, trying to recapture those days of a year gone by, before the accident. And that past was forever lost to her. Her town, her neighbors, had that in common with her. They built a memorial to help them remember the past, but their past was fresher, only six months gone.

  Every day, they placed flowers and stuffed animals at the memorial and lingered in their lost past as she lingered in hers. But few placed flowers at the site of the factory fire. The scorched brick of the crumbled building surrounded by the teetering wrought-iron fencing was too harsh a reminder of what had been lost and how horribly it had been wrenched from them. She would have to decide how long she’d cling to her memories of living while Teddy was still a part of her life. Would a day come when she looked forward to the future more than she longed for the past?

  Ahead of her, a car engine raced with a throaty roar. A moment later, high beams flared, blinding her. She raised her forearm to shield her eyes. The car, a dark boxy shape cloaked behind its headlights, sat in the middle of the street, unmoving. She wondered how long the driver had been sitting there. Lucky somebody hadn’t crashed into him already. The street wasn’t busy but cars passed at regular intervals.