|Dakness (standard:horror, 1738 words)|
|Author: Finn McKool||Added: Apr 18 2003||Views/Reads: 1805/1076||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A story about fear personified. But then, aren't they all? Needs revisions, I know. Be kind, gentle reader.|
-"Don't look, don't look, The shadow's breathe!" The Cure "Burn" -"...the darkness had borne that away, too." Stephen King Needful Things Shawn lay in the dark. He hated it. At night when he went to bed he left a little night-light on. In that timeless period that lay between the moment your head hit the pillow and the moment your mind switched over was agony for him. His imagination would grant him no peace in this space between conscious and unconscious. His mom said it was because he was a very creative and imaginative little boy. His dad just said,"...he's a little pansy's what he is. He's a damned sight to old to be scared of the friggin' bogeyman, he's eight years old, by Christ." So his mom took out the night-light. He wasn't surprised. His dad was quite persuasive. His back hand punctuated and accredited every argument. When they made their arguments you could say the pint always struck home. So when his mom tucked him in, her black eye swelling, Shawn gave no argument. So here he lay, in the dark. It seemed to him that every shadow was alive. The little light that came from the streetlamp outside his window wasn't really helping. It simply gave the dark stranger shapes. However he did prefer it to that absolute dark in the corner, where no light reached. He stared at that corner. It held his eye like a snake, ready to strike. He had to shake himself awake. He remembered what Mrs. Watts had told him. "Black is not a color. Dark is not a thing," he reminded himself," They are the absence of color and light. They are nothing. Nothing at all. Not a..." but they were something. He heard a rustling sound, like a dozen tongues hissing and clacking. And he heard the beat of a savage drum. Not the kind the rock stars used, like the one-armed guy in Def Lepard, but the kind you hit with your hand. They beat in time with his heart which began to quicken. And so did they. It not only quickened, it got louder. It crescendoed from a dozen tongues to a score. And from a score to a hundred, and from a hundred to a thousand. The inky blackness slithered toward him with oily speed. He tried to scream but couldn't. He was too scared. But as the darkness reached him, he screamed, but it was too late. It was cut off as the blackness surged over him. Mike lay in bed next to his wife. She had just cried herself to sleep. Dear God she was weak. It infuriated him how weak she was. Her damn cryin' had kept him up and he was tempted to just jump up and scream," Listen, if you want to cry I will give you something to, by-God, cry about!" and then beat her until she couldn't cry. But he hadn't done that yet. Yet. One day he'd finally toughen her up. When he gave her her medicine to take she would do it and she would be thankful for it. She was such a dishrag, always had been and always would be. She was going to actually let that little snot keep his frigid' night-light. He'd call her a whore and worse but he was a Christian. And his son? Dear God his son was a pansy. He was going to have to toughen him up as well. Then he heard the scream. No, correction. He'd heard part of a scream. If it had been a whole one he would have assumed Shawn was just being a crybaby and Mike would go in there and show him what happened when you woke up daddy. But it was just part of a scream. And that scared him, awakening some long-buried, paternal instinct. He jumped out of bed. He was sat up. "What's happening?" she asked, staring at him stupidly and frightened with her weary eyes. Man she was useless. He was out the door and in the hall and to the bedroom door before she was even out of bed. He threw the door open and as the hall light softly spilled in he thought he'd heard some hissing curse. He flipped the light on and the Click here to read the rest of this story (90 more lines)
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