“I had a weird dream last night.”
That’s the first thing I texted my friend after I was choked awake into an icy, sweaty reality. It may seem like a stereotypical thing, but ever since that dream, it’s been like my brain has been imagining things, like it wants to fill the gaps in and make it seem like there really is someone, or something following from not too far behind. At least- that’ll make things a little easier.
I was at home real early in the morning, and my mother was in my room with me. My mother has always been a very flaky individual. She’s never ached to be with me, and she’s never set aside plans to go out of her way to support me for whatever stupid tree I was cast to be in the next school play. But this? This was entirely different. Usually, she wakes me up in the morning by casually inviting herself into my bedroom to “borrow” whatever clothing she needs so that she can take my brother to class before the sun rises. By that time, if she hadn’t woken me, she would be out of here and I would still be dreaming. But this time, I woke up with all of my bedroom lights on, and with my bed pushed into the opposite corner from my bedroom door, where it usually wasn’t.
I asked my mom what the heck she was up to so early in the morning after I had rubbed my eyes clean from my gristly laziness, but she didn’t even look at me until she finished dusting my mirror. Again, something she has never before done for me. I mumbled for her again, sitting up with confusion. She turned to me with a stone cold look on my face, like she had seen God himself. She uttered not a word to me, instead pressing a finger over her lips as if to shush me.
It was then that I noticed the dark purple and orange skies, swirled like a bowl of fruity sorbet that had sat too long. The sky was too orange, and much too purple. It was almost as if a storm from hell was coming. I had never seen it before, and I remember taking what felt like hours in my dream to sit by the window, feeling the cold of the glass. But how strange? We were in the boiling days towards the end of May on the east coast, and we had just gotten a hot breeze of air from the southern hemisphere. Why does my handprint leave an impression on the glass? I remember my mother prying my hand away as I wrote through the crusty beads of frost. She then smacked me again, ushering me out of the way as she pulled a curtain in front of the glass as if to conceal the outside. I was confused, but she refused to answer me as she dusted my closet door frame. I turned to the door, twisted the greasy knob and opened the door. It almost flew open, and I felt hands grab me from my waist.
The hall was icy cold, and the draft was insane. I was shoved down the hall by the draft and my feet nearly slipped because I had gone so fast. I finally arrived at the living room which was cold and empty. I looked out the front window besides my brother, who oddly enough, decided not to mouth off. We are typically confrontational towards each other, but in this moment, we felt no bitterness. Only calm, basic understanding because neither of us knew what the absolute fuck was going on in the sky. The clouds swirled unendingly, in no particular pattern. It was then that I noticed the neighbors closing their drapes across the street from us. Then, the lights followed, all going out. And so the next house followed suit. Then the next. Like a row of dominoes, I witnessed the entire street sew their drapes shut like zippers, and shut their lights. Why weren’t we doing that? I had turned to my brother, confused. Before I could ask him what was happening, where my father had gone, or why mother was in the midst of a cleaning frenzy, I saw his face.
He was white. The color had been sucked through a straw from his face, and his pupils were uneven like an addict. He was caked with sweat and messy hair, like he was the most fear filled person to exist. He saw it before I did, but it was too fast. He had already run to his room. I then turned to the window, which I had realized, oh shit. It was open. Fuck, was it supposed to be open? Oh my god. I knew I was dreaming, because I had tried so hard to get my arms to do what I wanted. They refused. My fingers were useless noodles, unable to keep a grip on the sill. And then, after three attempts, my arms flew in all directions like pool noodles. I was stiff and jittery with fear as I tried to pry it shut, but the wind was too great. My hair was everywhere. I couldn’t get the fucking thing to budge no matter how hard I tried. And only then, my heart turned to stone as I heard something not two feet outside the window, but not only outside- beneath me. It was an arm’s length away to the ground. I had never heard something so animal; so inhuman.
I heard wet, ragged panting. Panting like a rabid animal. I heard scurrying on bare and broken fingers and toes. I heard some type of thing crawling, and running, and dragging itself, all at the same time. I went stiff, freezing in place as I had heard it directly beneath the window. I turned, drew the curtains, and ran back to my room. At least my legs worked. God, I’d never run down the hallway so fast in my life. I slid into the frame, and slammed the door shut with a swift turn. My mother immediately got in front of the door, pushing it harder until the knob clicked into place (my door had been broken once, and ever since it was replaced, it had warped so now it requires extra force to shut). My mother glared at me and grabbed my arm. She asked me what on earth I was doing outside; and then I heard my brother’s door unhinging. We froze as we heard him.
My brother’s voice at first was a yelp of confusion, and then we heard the crawling. The sounds of that thing were immediately followed by my brother’s screams. I felt my legs give out as I trembled, sitting on the floor. I heard something thud and bang, and then more screaming. I heard him grab the doorframe and beg for my mother, and I grabbed my belt off the floor and headed towards the door. My mother stopped me, tears in her eyes. We listened to something stretching. I heard liquid. The rip of something rough. The snap of wood. Fingers. The crunch of something. Then, he stopped screaming. We listened to the thing moan and whine, only for my brother to whine in response. The thing moaned, then my brother grunted. A groan. My brother sighed. A huff. Then his grunt again. Eventually, I heard rustling as I pressed my ear against the gap in the doorframe to listen better as the sounds were dampened.
Then, slowly, the voices came in sync. The realization dawned on me as if a pale had been dumped over my head. My brother’s voice gradually fused with the grunts and groans. The voices were becoming one, but not quite one. It was almost perfect, but the tones were off. Then, I heard the rustling approach the edge of the hall. My mother pressed herself against the doorframe as we heard it slip itself down the hall. Only this time, I heard legs. Too many legs.
A person walking would have two syllables to their step. Right, left. But this? I heard a step. Then another step. But then, I heard a third which was too light. But, I heard it on the… wall? Then, two other hands on the wall. Then three footsteps. The rhythm made no fucking sense. It was unpredictable.
All of a sudden, I heard it pick up the pace. Too many legs. Too many hands. I heard too much, too fast. I moved away from the door farther with fear, shaking as I watched the door from a distance as my teary eyed mother stared at me, leaning against the door to keep it out. I locked eyes with my mother as we listened to my brother’s voice through the door.