by A C Utter
Unfortunately, this dream was not a one time occurrence. Instead of dreaming of the numbers each night, I dreamt of the thing. The thing in the dark with the yellow eyes. Sometimes it would laugh at me, sometimes it would simply recite the numbers over and over again, one, two, seven, two, zero, one, seven.
I was reluctant to share this new dream with my family. Enough people already thought I was crazy, so I didn’t feel the need to fuel that fire. Unfortunately, I was at my witts end, I had to talk to someone about it.
I sat my parents down at their kitchen table and told them about the dreams. I remember their faces, cold, empty of surprise and emotion. My father quietly rose from his chair and exited the room. He returned a minute or so later with a very old and well-worn leather-bound book.
He placed it in front of me and asked me to open it. I was beyond irritated at this point, as neither of them had even tried to say anything helpful or reassuring. However, I obliged, and I carefully lifted the front cover. My nostrils were immediately accosted by the smell of old books, mildew, cloves, and a mild undercurrent of rot.
I carefully thumbed through the pages. Most were family history, genealogy information and death records. There were a few secret family recipes, the rantings of a great, great-uncle who had buried his fortune in the woods, then promptly forgotten where it was, and photos of relatives long past.
It was a cool book, but now I was pissed. They hadn’t reacted at all. They hadn’t even tried to get me to go back to therapy, which is what I expected. I wouldn’t have gone, but at least I would know that they care.
It was my mother that broke the silence, “There’s a slit on the inside of the back cover, you will find answers there.”
I decided to humor her, quickly flipping to the back of the book. Sure enough, there was a slit on the inside back cover of the book. I slid an index finger in and I felt another piece of paper. Carefully, slowly, I pulled a folded paper from the slit. It looked very old, the paper stiff and yellowed by time. I carefully unfolded the paper and flattened it on the table in front of me.
It took my brain a moment to understand what I was seeing. The moment it clicked in my brain, I was overcome by fear and anger. The paper had been covered in black minus the two yellow, red-rimmed eyes in the dead center of the page. I let out a little yelp and instinctively pushed myself away from the table. My father reached across the table and turned the paper over so the eyes were no longer piercing me.
“What the hell?” I spat. My father took a slow deep breath before he replied.
“Every family has secrets, and ours is no different. We were hoping we would never have to tell you this, but now that you’ve seen him, we must.” I tried to interject, but he held his hand up to silence me. “It’s no secret that we have family money. We are told as children that its old railroad money. The old part is true, the railroad part, not so much.” He paused and took another deep breath, as though he was having trouble getting the words out. “Many generations ago our family was poor and starving. In an act of desperation your great, great, great, great, grandfather traveled a long distance to see a woman rumored to be a witch. The story is that the witch was able to open a line of communication between the man and the devil himself. The devil agreed to grant the man wealth for his family and every generation to come, if he only would sacrifice his oldest son.”
It sounded like bullshit to me, but I had to admit, deep down, something rang true. I motioned for him to continue.
“The devil would come for the oldest son at midnight of his thirtieth birthday. That may seem young, but at the time people were lucky to make it to that age. The man asked if there was a way to pass the price, as his son would be needed to get the family back on their feet for years to come. They negotiated the terms and came to a final agreement. The family would have wealth for all future generations. In return the devil would come for the first-born son at midnight of his thirtieth birthday unless the first born son had sired an heir. In other words, the only way the devil would pass over a first born, is if the first born son had his own male child.”
It was at this point that my mother began silently sobbing into her hands. I both could and could not believe what I was hearing. It sounded completely insane, maybe it is insane, maybe I am too.
“Since the deal was made, each first-born male has sired a male and passed the curse along to him. My father passed it to me, and I have passed it to you. As long as we keep passing it along, no one ever has to die.”
I couldn’t take it anymore, I exploded. “Is this why I’m dreaming of those eyes? The same eyes that are on that very old paper? Is it because I’m almost thirty? How could you do this to me? How could your father do this to you?” I was almost in tears myself.
“Yes, this is why you are dreaming of the eyes. This is why you’ve been dreaming of those numbers for so long. Those numbers, one, two, seven, two, zero, one, seven, they aren’t random. Those numbers are your thirtieth birthday, December 7, 2017. That is when he will come for you. But again, no one needs to die! You simply have to pass along the curse. You need to have a biological male child immediately.”
I was furious. “Why the therapy? Why did you make me feel like an outsider, like I was crazy? My entire life I thought there was something wrong with me!”
My mother finally broke her silence. Through the sobs she managed to choke out, “We thought if we could stop the obsession with the numbers that you could live a normal life until you were old enough for us to tell you the truth. When you stopped having the dreams we thought maybe the devil had decided to move on. We didn’t want to burden you with this unless it was absolutely necessary.”
“The dreams never stopped! I was so tired of hearing about therapy I just stopped telling you about them. So unless I have a son in less than two years, that’s it, I’m toast? And what does that mean, what happens?” My mother returned to sobbing softly into her hands, turning it back over to my father.
“All we know is that he comes for you. I would assume that means he takes your soul, that your body dies. But there’s still time, you need to have a son, as long as we continue to pass the curse, no one needs to die.”
I sat, staring blankly at the wall behind my parents. Several seconds went by before I finally broke my silence. “If one person dies, is it over?”
My mother lifted her head, my parents exchanged worried glances. “Son, that’s our understanding, but there’s no reason for anyone to die. We’ve been passing this along for generations. I understand that it may take the joy out of having children for you, but after a while you learn to live with it.”
“I can understand why he made the deal. Desperate people do desperate things. I do not understand why the price wasn’t paid. Instead there have been generations of men that live their entire lives with horrible nightmares and the threat of death and suffering hanging over them at every moment. It seems like that is the true price of the deal.”
My father scrunched up his face in a mixture of irritation and guilt. “I haven’t had a nightmare since the day you were born. You will see, have a son, the nightmares will go away.”
“I don’t want to bring a child into the world just to suffer and possibly die in a few decades. That’s a sad existence for them and for me. I love you both, but I don’t think I can do this.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying, but it was true. I’ve done some morally questionable things in my life, but this is a line I just couldn’t cross.
They tried to argue with me, but their selfish words angered me, and I finally got up and stormed out. How could I bring a life into the world knowing it would be destroyed in one way or another? It’s not right. The price needs to be paid.
~
I’ve spent every day since that night, living life to the fullest. I’ve traveled throughout Europe, had many girlfriends, and a few boyfriends. I’ve made friends, tried new foods, explored the wild, gone skydiving, among dozens of other once in a lifetime experiences. If I have to die you
ng, I want it to leave this world with no regrets.
That brings me to tonight. Here I sit, a fire roaring in the fireplace, a lit joint in my hand. The doors and windows are securely locked, although logically I know that won’t stop him. It’s nearly midnight, and each minute that ticks by, I grow more anxious. I just hope it’s fast, although I know it will probably be slow, as slow as my family has been in paying this great price.
Finally, I hear it. It’s not a window that breaks or a door that is kicked in, but a sharp tapping in the chimney. Here comes Santa Claus, I think to myself, the chuckle of a madman walking the Green Mile leaving my lips.
The sound is getting closer, tip tap, tip tap, I can hear him making his way down the chimney. As he descends I can now hear his breathing, rough and raspy, it makes me want to scream. I clap my hands over my mouth to keep the sound inside. I don’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing my fear, of seeing my tears, of hearing my screams.
I thought my parents would come sit with me tonight. They never stopped trying to talk me out of this. However, their fear has won out, they are nowhere in sight. I can’t really blame them. If it wasn’t for the joint in my hand, and the handful of Xanax I took earlier, I would’ve been out the door and on the run long ago. The truth is, he would’ve found me anyway. I might as well drug myself up and sit back and enjoy the ride. I’m trying to focus on what I’m doing, on what it means for the rest of my family, for my little brother’s kids, for the children I’ll never have.
I can hear him clearly now, inside the chimney but out of sight. The fire reduces itself to glowing embers. Now he comes. The first thing I see are long grey claws attached to spindly black fingers. They peek out of the top of the fireplace and latch onto the brick. He slowly pulls himself into sight.
He’s more terrible than I thought possible. The first thing I see are those familiar yellow, red-rimmed eyes. Only this time they are attached to a smoky black face. He doesn’t seem quite solid, like black smoke that moves as one. It somehow makes him all the more terrifying.
He must know what I’m thinking because a giant grin spreads across his face. It’s really just a gap in the smoke, but in that gap are contains dozens of yellow teeth, each sharpened to a point. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, it is long, grey, and slightly pointed at the end. This is the face of a devil, but not the devil. I believe that whatever he is, he’s very old, and maybe not of this earth.
He drops out of the fireplace and onto the tile. He walks on all fours with jerking movements that should give me the chance to run, but instead reaffirm the fear that keeps me seated.
He saunters over to me on legs with broken movements. I can hear him laughing, although I don’t think it’s coming from his mouth, I think I’m hearing it in my mind.
I finally find my voice and manage to croak out, “It ends with me?” His grin seems to stretch beyond his tiny black ears (really just holes in his head), to the back of his head. He looks like an evil bobblehead, but there’s nothing cute or fun about the way his head moves eerily from side to side on his neck.
I take that as a yes and steel myself for my fate. He’s almost touching me at this point. He slowly closes the few inches between us and places his smoky black fingers on my thighs, boosting himself up so we are face to face. He’s so close that I can see the smoke that is him swirling all around me. His breath smells like sulfur, earth, and rotted flesh.
“Please, make it quick” I manage to squeak out. And with that he begins to open his mouth, smoke and jaw expanding past what is natural. As his mouth becomes larger and larger I see that there are hundreds of rows of teeth, going as far as I can see. I repeat to myself that I’m doing the right thing, that I’m making a sacrifice for my family.
He looks a bit like a snake that has unhinged its jaw to devour an animal whole. Now I understand my fate, at least my earthly fate. Who knows what horrors await me in the beyond.
And with that, everything goes dark, sounds are muffled as he wraps his mouth around my head, moving down my body, intending to swallow me whole. I begin to scream as those sharp teeth cut first into the top of my head, soon covering every inch of my body. All I can hope for now is a quick death.
I hear him laugh that low guttural laugh once again, and although I understand that he will not grant me the wish of a fast death, it is the last thing I hear over the sound of my tearing flesh and crunching bones.
Trapped
Journal
April 2nd
It’s been so long since I lived alone. It’s so quiet. Sometimes I turn the tv on just to get some background noise. Otherwise, all I have to listen to is this house, and I’ve already heard all of its stories.
April 10th
There are lights on in the house that I swear I turned off. I’m getting so forgetful. My car keys keep disappearing only to reappear at the exact moment I stop looking. I guess they really are always in the last place you look.
April 26th
The picture frames in the hallway are askew. I must have brushed them with my shoulder on the way by.
May 4th
Getting out of the shower, I see a handprint in the steam on the bathroom mirror that I don’t remember leaving. I must have missed a spot when I was cleaning.
May 15th
There are scratching sounds coming from the attic, the crawl space under the house, and the walls. It must be mice again.
May 17th
I keep hearing footsteps throughout the house, although I’m the only person here. Maybe I was wrong about the mice, maybe it’s rats this time.
Doors and cabinets seem to open and shut on their own. I might need to check the hinges.
June 4th
The back corner of my bedroom is absolutely freezing. The heater is on, but maybe I should turn on a fan to circulate the air.
June 10th
The sound of a man’s deep laughter wakes me up at night. Must be my night terrors returning.
The radio in the kitchen keeps going off at 3 am each morning. I can’t figure out how to turn off the alarm, so I’ve unplugged it.
Sometimes when I lay down to sleep, it feels like the bed is vibrating. It must be my inner-ear issue.
July 10th
I woke up with scratches on my chest and arms. It’s unlike my cat, but maybe I need to have her checked out by the vet.
July 12th
I saw a dark figure in the hallway. When I turned on the lights it was gone. I really need to see a doctor about these night terrors, or maybe I need new glasses.
July 28th
The radio doesn’t go off at 3 am anymore, but I still wake up. I have really screwed up my sleep cycle. Sometimes when I wake up at 3 am I cannot move. It feels like something is sitting on my chest. It’s just your run-of-the-mill sleep paralysis. Maybe I need to start taking a sleeping pill.
August 2nd
A few friends refuse to come into the house. They say it gives them the creeps. If I can get past the bad memories I have here, so can they. I just need to give it time.
September 5th
The house smells bad. It smells really bad. It’s as if something is rotting, but I’ve searched high and low and I can’t find the source. I hope a mouse didn’t die in the walls.
September 10th
I thought I heard his voice today. I could swear he whispered “cunt” in my ear, it was his favorite insult when he was drunk. I thought I felt his breath. I could smell him, a mixture of beer, dirt, and BO. I keep trying to remind myself that he’s dead. I should know, I killed him. I’m sure it’s just lack of sleep getting to me.
September 25th
My family wants me to move. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone. Yes, there are bad memories here. This is the house in which he beat me, mercilessly, for two decades. However, this is also the house where I fought back, and I sure as hell won that fight. I won’t let the memory of him drive me out of my house from the beyond the grave.
October 3rd
&n
bsp; I thought I saw him today. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him cross the kitchen. When I turned to look, no one was there. I cannot let my fear win out. I know there’s nothing there but bad memories.
October 10th
The rats in the house keep getting louder. I’ve put traps everywhere but I can’t catch any of them. I might have to call an exterminator.
October 20th
Instead of hearing footsteps last night, I heard loud banging sounds. It was as if someone was hitting the side of the house with a baseball bat. It seemed to come from every direction. I was thinking it was the wind, but the air was still last night.
November 8th
The exterminator came. She didn’t find any evidence of rodents.
November 10th
My sister offered to let me stay with her and her family. She’s sweet, but I learned self-defense, and how to use both a gun and a baseball bat to defend myself. That’s how I fought back the day he broke my arm, three ribs, and caved in my nose. He didn’t know I was taking classes. I caught him off-guard. While he hesitated, I grabbed the gun from my waistband. His jaw dropped open in surprise, just as my hollow-point hit its mark. I can defend myself, so I told her thanks, but no thanks.
November 30th
There’s another cold spot. This one is in the living room. I turned the heat up, but it doesn’t seem to help.
December 10th
Lying wide awake in my bed, I curse myself for ignoring the warning signs. He looms over me now, just as terrifying and deadly in death as he was in life. He floats above me, a large black shadow with sharp teeth and claws.
In a gravelly voice that both is and isn’t his, he whispers, “I told you I would always find you, no matter how far you ran.”
