by Shaun Allan
Makes perfect sense, no?
No.
How you explain something you can't? How do you word something that has no words?
The rain. It was supposed to wash all of this away. It was meant to cleanse me. To, in a way, baptise me and lift me above all of THIS. But it didn't. It made me wet. It soaked me. And then it kicked back, along with Simple, and laughed full in my face. The thunder rumbled an answering grumble and the lightning flashed a dance, leaping from the clouds above to the earth below in a single bound. Superman, THAT'S how it's done!
Well.
Hey, it's not 'so' is it?
The eyes that were not following me as I left the house were also not following me out here. There was no tickle at the back of my neck - not now the shiver had dissipated at least. I didn't sense, with that pseudo-psychic ability everyone believes they have (or would like to) I was being watched.
I didn't need to. Of course there were no eyes. Of course the eyes that weren't there were also not watching me. It didn't have eyes. It didn't have anything, really. It was shapeless and shifting and shadowy.
I'd tried not to think about what exactly it was. Thing is, when you try to NOT think about something, it’s exactly when you do. Right now, right this moment, don't picture a pink elephant in a tutu. If it has an umbrella held in its trunk, can I borrow it? Oh, that's right, you didn't think of it. Whatever this was, I doubted it was inclined to pirouette. Or dress in fluffy skirts.
It slid. Or slithered. No, not a slither... A sort of glide. None of these. It was like a magician's cloth being pulled away to reveal the hand beneath was no longer empty but, instead, held a dove. Except this dove would be hanging limp. Lifeless. Flesh peeling away. Feathers dropping to the floor, decaying before they touched ground.
The lightness I was feeling had been extinguished without me realising. The night folded about me. It should have been warm and welcoming, even in the storm. I enjoyed the brash exclamations of the weather when it was throwing this sort of party. I would often step outside to feel the throb of the air as the thunder and lightning battled for supremacy of the air in a modern-day dogfight. Not tonight, however. The night was claustrophobic.
Perhaps that was what this thing was. It was the night itself. Not a creature, or a shadow, or a demon of some sort. It was the night.
I saw what I shouldn't have seen. What shouldn't have been, in fact. A couple of days ago. A walk at twilight. A visit to a 24 hour shop for a loaf of bread. Pack-up for work the next day. It was warm. A little humid. Not coat and stagger weather such as this. I wasn't wearing a jacket. My keys were in my pocket and my phone was in my hand. I'd just taken a photo of the sunset - bright oranges and reds breathing fire across the darkening sky.
Along the route to the shop were little bungalows, each kitted out for the disabled or the elderly. Wheelchair ramps and the like. They were semi-detached, sitting in pairs like lovers on a swing. Between them were alleys which led to their back gardens and some fields that were mainly used by Sunday morning dog walkers and Saturday night drug addicts, the long grasses shielding them from prying eyes. The alleys were dark, but just alleys. Nothing threatening. Nothing waiting to pounce out at you.
I had heard a muffled sound as I was nearing one. It didn't register at first, not properly. A cat, perhaps. A fox. I heard the sound again and realised it wasn't an animal, but a person. Still, none of my business. An addict who couldn't wait until he'd reached the long grass. A couple of teenagers making use of a dark corner because their parents wouldn't let them alone together in their rooms.
Good for them, I thought.
But then a cry. Pain.
I was just about to press the onscreen button to cancel the camera, but stopped. In lieu of a torch, the camera flash would suit. I raised my phone and pressed the shutter.
My phone is pretty good. The camera on it too. It takes photographs almost instantly. The flash does just that, it flashes. But this time the flash didn't seem to want to go off. Or that couple of illuminated seconds dragged on in my head much longer than it did in reality, the scene before me scorched onto my eyes.
A girl, struggling. A... darkness over her, holding her down, somehow, moving up towards her face. Wanting to smother her? Though it had no features, I saw it lift up and turn to me. Then it was gone. The flash went out and my eyes were blind.
I blinked, twice, and ran to the girl, helping her up. She snatched her hands away and pushed me, sobbing, then she turned and ran.
Gratitude, huh?
If I was in a horror film, I swear I wouldn't go down into the cellar. I wouldn't. I may be dense, sometimes, but I'm not stupid. But I followed the thing, the blanket of black. Back towards the fields.
The open area was lighter than the alley, the stars and moon offering a pale luminance that was held at bay by the bungalows on either side of the alley. It meant I could see it, though I couldn't say what it was. It lay there. Waiting.
I guessed for me, so turned to follow the example of the girl, but then I saw it move. Black mercury, it expanded away from me, reaching into the grass which I could see shuddering at its touch. Then it faded. That was it. It faded. Like night becoming dawn. I expected it to slip away - or turn and attack me as it did the girl - but it didn't. It was, then it was not.
I stood for a long moment, waiting to see if I could see any more movement, but I couldn't. Shaking my head (to match the shaking the rest of my body was doing) I went back to the road and continued home.
That night I didn't sleep. How could I? When your mind can't explain something, it'll still do its very best to do so. A man levitates. It's hidden wires, of course. Or mirrors. It won't be plain old levitation. Someone narrowly escapes death. A guardian angel watches over them. Or God. Or gods. Or a little leprechaun on their left shoulder.
But this. I would assume that, if one saw a demon, one would feel the malevolence of such a creature. Its evil would ooze out of its pores like B.O. that even the Lynx effect couldn't combat. The hate would be a heat that would scorch your breath, if you dared breathe. With this there was nothing. The fear I felt was my own - spawned from an encounter with something that shouldn't have been.
The thing didn't seep sorrow. It didn't instil a feeling of horror in my heart, threatening to wrap a fist of terror around that most vital of organs and squeeze tight. It was just... wrong. It dared to defy my sense of logic, something I never often professed to possess. It attacked the girl, but I didn't feel panic or dread at that. It could, I suppose, have been a thug after her purse, or something more.
But not even that. Somehow I felt nothing - and that was what scared me. An absence of... sense. That terrified me. As if the thing numbed the 'me' inside. My soul, my Id, my dark half.
Thing. I keep referring to it as a thing. That's because of a lack of anything more descriptive. But, I know. I know what it is.
It's the night.
When the sun descends and the world goes to sleep, what does it count, instead of sheep?
It counts the lives taken. It counts the deaths, and the screams and the sorrow.
I'm walking in the rain. The raindrops hit my face in time to the rapid beat of my heart. They're almost dancing, a duet worthy of the Strictly judging panel.
Extend those arms. Straighten the back. Smile.
Without taking notice of my route, I find my feet have brought me back here. Back to the dark little alley between the bungalows. The path to the fields behind.
You need to watch your feet. You never know where you'll end up if you leave them to their own devices. But, I'm here now. I could turn and run, but I won't. I know I won't.
I have to look. I'm drawn in. Even when I see where my feet are going, I still let them take me.
And... I know what I'll see.
It's only a few steps. A dozen at most. Then I'm there. The edge of the field. It may as well be the edge of an abyss. The plummet to Purgatory.
The grass is standing straight in defiance to the onsla
ught of the rain. Just at the border, where the path becomes verge becomes field, I can see a trainer. White with a blue sole. A leg is attached or, rather, the shoe is attached to a foot at the end of a leg. The remainder of the body is amongst the long grass so I push forward.
You have to look, don't you. Morbid curiosity.
I reach the head. The torso is bent grotesquely, arms at angles never made during life, but legs strangely straight, a rigidity that seems unnatural considering the attitude of the rest of the body. The eyes are bulging. They are all white, as if the night has bled the colour from them. The hair is grey. It always was, at least at the temples, but now it is all a muted silver. Still, it practically shines in contrast to the pallor of the skin. The small mark on the cheek where the mole was removed is a dark line, wanting to be a mean scar but not quite managing it even in death.
I mentioned murder. Of course I mean my own. The night took me, though I wasn't a willing passenger. And there's no duty free in the Afterlife.
I think that, along with my feelings and my life, the night stole my sorrow. I look down at myself and I don't feel sad. I just don't feel. My corpse stares up at the night sky, the rain beating against the eye balls, trying to get in. I, in turn, stare at my corpse.
I turn and walk back towards my home. There's nothing for me here.
Maybe I will try Alice's world.
The Coming of the Storm
There is thunder in the distance.
Can you feel it?
Riding on
Rolling on
A thousand screams.
Can you hear it?
Blood dark, thick and rich.
Can you taste it?
Crushing on
Cascading on
A thousand dead.
A thousand dead.
Can you smell it?
Black and cold and close and tight.
Can you see it?
There is thunder in the distance.
A storm is coming.
There is no shelter to be found.
The Last Dance
The old couple sat on the park bench, huddled together.
Her hair, usually set just so, with a whole can of hairspray lending its hand to keep it in place, was wild. A bird's nest of wire that had been pulled this way and that by the wind that tugged and yanked in protest, it seemed, at the lack of hair her companion had on his head. If it couldn't have its fun with him, then it would double its efforts with her.
They were oblivious. He had a tear slipping down his cheek, sneaking along so as not to be noticed. She had a smile. Or the beginnings of one. Or her mouth was toying with the idea of producing one. Either way, it wasn't a frown and it was more than a simple line of non-emotion.
For a very long time, neither spoke. The one tear on the man's cheek was chased by another and when that finally dripped from his chin (to be stolen away by the over-enthusiastic breeze) a third joined in the trail, creating a continuous scar of moisture down his face.
The bench had seen better days. Once it had been a shining example of varnished perfection, and the plaque commemorating the loved, departed wife of a sad and lonely man had shone in celebration of the dawning day. Now the varnish had morphed into tarnish. The shine into grime. The smooth into groove as innumerable backsides and knives and spent chewing gums had visited the seat and left their mark.
To the old man, it still shone. It still held onto, somewhat desperately, its initial glory. He saw beyond the crude scratchings. He didn't notice the carved declarations of love by teenager couples that would split within days or hours of their proclamation. The faded, cracked, peeling paint was hidden from his gaze, partly by cataracts and partly by memory.
"It's been so long," he said. His voice was a touch above a whisper. Any louder and it would have cracked open, spilling the years of buried loss at his feet.
The woman moved in closer. There was barely a gap between them, the air and light squeezed out to enable her to hold him as close as he needed her to.
"I know." Her tone was a mix of sadness and fate. What was, was. The years had made their mark on him as much as they had on the bench. He bore the same scars and his gloss was faded and peeling. Neither of them could change that. "But it's time."
"Past time," he said. He was right. Why had he survived? Why had he lingered on, when he was little more than a shade? He'd stopped living so many years ago and everything since had been... well, it had been a waste. The breaths he'd taken could have been someone else's. The food he'd eaten, what little there had been, could have fed other mouths. The beats of his heart were redundant, as his heart had been a hollow stone since... that day.
His hand reached back and touched the plaque. Tender. Loving.
He shook his head. Why did he hurt so much? Why couldn't he just let go?
He spoke the question aloud.
"You have," said the woman. She sat up and took his hand, pulling him to his feet. "Why do you think I'm here?"
The old man shook his head again. "I didn't think of that."
"Come on," she said, "Let's go."
They walked along the path towards the old bandstand where they used to dance on a Sunday afternoon, so many years before. Back when people did dance. Back when they felt the music. Back when she was alive.
"When we were both alive," she smiled.
Shouts and a siren made Albert turn back to the bench. A group of people huddled around it, a couple on their mobile phones. An ambulance was parked at an odd angle, its front wheels on the grass. A paramedic was bent over the body of an old man. He was shaking his head to his partner.
The woman pulled at his hand as the sound of a band filled the air.
"Are you dancing?" he asked, finally turning away from the sight of his body.
"Are you asking?" she smiled.
The Beast Within
I stare into the fire.
I watch its fitful, flickering feast.
And I wonder, solemnly,
If I will ever be at peace.
The night about me closes in,
It's darkness a soothing shroud.
And I sense the beasts
I feel the beasts
As beyond the flames they prowl.
But it's the beasts within I fear.
Not the beasts without, drawing near.
The dread monsters that gnaw
Far in the depths of me,
That cause me to shake,
That cause me to flee.
That wrench and tear
And cut and...
And the anger and sorrow
Boundless and cold
Seep and slide
And tighten their hold.
The beasts without draw closer.
They can sense,
They can feel,
They know that soon,
Soon...
I stare into the fire.
I give myself to the flame.
And I wonder
Shall I ever know peace again?
Outside
I'm going Outside.
I'm leaving the warmth of my room, the sensuous ease of my chair. I'm going Outside. It's cold out there. Cold and damp and grey. The dust and muck of without, airborne assailants stabbing at my eyes, raking at my nose, infiltrating my mouth to clog my innards - to take me as their own - steal about in desperate anticipation. If I turn my face to the window, I can feel the winter air reaching out to me through the glass, clawing at my cheek.
I reach over to the mighty one - the Radiator. I turn it up full. Within seconds the battle is over, the Radiator, as I knew it would be, victorious - the cold banished to its netherworld of... Outside.
But I'm going out there.
I can almost hear, carried on the unseen, fury-driven ghost of the wind, its cries; its Siren inspired lamentations luring me to my demise. And though I wish it were not so, though I yearn for another path, my doom is laid forth. I cover my ears to the call of the wind, but to no avail - it
penetrates my defences, a haunting echo stripping me of the last shades of my sanity.
No.
It will not end thus.
My resolve hardens. No thoughts should I have for the safety of my physical being, for my soul is absolute. I will prevail.
I don my armour, in the futile knowledge of its inadequacies - my jacket offers little protection against the fearsome ruin I must face, my gauntlets less still. But I am unheeding.
I gather my wits, such as they are, and stand at the threshold of beyond. I do not look back as I cast myself over the brink of Chaos.
Hell of a time to run out of tea bags.
Darkness
The fangs drew close
The fangs pulled near
My neck, my throat
The collar clear
A pinch, a kind
Of sweetest pain
My blood to flow
Like scarlet rain
My pulse a beat
Of the vampire's drum
And then the silence
The Darkness come
And as the Reaper
Reaches in
My soul is torn
And turned to sin
I now unlive
A life immortal
Forever denied
Heaven's portal
And as the Darkness
Calls to me
I hence run wild
And let the blood run free
The Feast
Evening fell. No fanfare heralded the waning of the day. Light passed almost unnoticed into darkness, blurring through the no-time of dusk.
A newspaper, whirlpooled by a brief gust of wind, a chance encounter that created a dance of poetic uncertainty, lifted from the street to settle, spent, in a puddle by the gutter.
The air was heavy with the threat of rain. The clouds bore down, an imposing cloak that kept the stars and the moon from illuminating the world. Said world seemed… abandoned. It was lost to the grace of life and love and hope.
The street echoed with the quick footsteps of passersby who hurried, for no reason they could think of, on their forlorn way. A couple walked apart from the rest. They were arm in arm, huddled together, lost in each other, oblivious of the world’s despair.
