Ding Dong! The Amazon delivery driver leaves a package on the porch and departs without waiting for any human interaction. I don’t blame him because I am the same way. Inside, my family of three juggles who will answer the door as I, the father, am cooking lunch while my pregnant wife tends to our one-year-old pride and joy. We did not intend on having children so close in age, but we are overjoyed, all the same, stressed but joyed.
We, the Thompsons, are your cliche excited and nervous first-time homeowners with a growing family. We moved here only a few months ago into the quaint Midwest blue-collar community of Riverview Village. The population is roughly 2,000 residents, which isn’t exactly the city life we were accustomed to. My wife, Morgan, is an engineer, and she is the reason we moved due to a promotion to a new site. My name is Stephen, and I am an author who works from home and takes care of our one-year-old, little Kevin.
Despite the fact that it has only been a few months since we moved in, it already has that warm, fuzzy feeling of home. The most significant contributing factor to that feeling is the delightful neighbors across the street, whose front doors face ours. The Waltons were born and raised in Riverview Village; the father actually grew up in the house. It was a home his father had grown up in. The house had been handed down through multiple generations.
The Waltons consist of the father, his wife, and two children, a boy and a girl, both in their preteen years. Our two families got along right from the start. The Waltons have invited our family to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners and the occasional night of dinner and cards. Tonight is precisely one of those nights.
Night fell as the adults played cards around the dining room table and the two children entertained our one-year-old with stuffed animals in the next room. I am on a surprising winning streak, but I can feel the eyes of Morgan telling me it is getting late. What the wife wants, she gets, and when I get those eyes, I know I’d better get to it and move my butt. I grab the diaper bag while my wife picks up Kevin, and we make our way to the door. We say our goodbyes as the unmistakable sound of rain outside makes me wish we had ultimately left a little earlier.
The rain really snuck up on us, and I am frustrated by it. I was certain it was calm and dry fifteen minutes earlier, but now it was a sopping wet downpour. Luckily, home is only a short distance, an arm’s throw, honestly, but neither of us wants Kevin to get too wet, so it was going to be a mad dash for our front door. The futile effort was immediately recognized as we had not even reached the end of the Waltons’ driveway and were already soaked through to our bones.
Splashing through the rapidly forming puddles, our front door seems impossibly far away. Shoes and socks feel identical to the mud beneath our feet as each step is met with a sloppy squish. I try to dash ahead and fumble with the keys to try to have the door open for my family. Rain hinders vision and motor function. I grab the wrong key and try it without success.
Quickly grasping for the correct key, they slip and fall through my fingers to the ground with a clanking splash. Morgan yells at me, “Open the door!” She is desperately trying to shield Kevin with all she’s got. I snap up the keys and, in a single motion, get the key to the hole and turn. The levee breaches with the door swinging open as my family spills into the foyer. I force the door shut with a sloshing thud. We take a collective sighing breath in a puddle of defeat. So much for my winning streak, I guffawed to myself.
Home feels like home, and that was a rewarding consolation prize. We had done really well to find this house. It is a rather large split-level. The front door opens to the foyer, which has either the option of leading to a half floor up or the remainder of the entered floor. Taking a tour of that floor, you find immediately a laundry room, a bathroom, an office, a generously sized room we converted into a playroom for Kevin, a door that leads to the large basement, and a hallway that leads to the garage.
The half-floor up is a spacious family room with a sizable fireplace, followed by an ample dining room and an airy pass-through kitchen. The kitchen with a picturesque window view of the forest is a big selling point of the house for us, and a significant reason we fell in love with the house. The final floor, using the stairs from the family room, leads to the main bathroom, the library, a nursery, and the master bathroom with a private bath. Sitting on over two-thirds of an acre, there was plenty of playroom in the dense forestry landscape that surrounds the house.
Our home was built in the 70s but has undergone some major upgrades along the way. It has a lot of character, as you would expect in an older-style home with modern amenities. For anything that needed further updating, we were looking forward to DIY remodeling and planning each and every upgrade. In a relatively short time, we have already moved in and set up the place comfortably, with only a few boxes left to unpack here and there.
I can’t wait to get my office set up entirely and really be able to get to working on my novel again. Out of the entire house, that is the one most neglected, with towers of boxes still left to be unpacked or even touched. It made sense, as it was the only room that no one else needed to be in, and I prioritized the family’s needs.
I stand here in a puddle in the foyer and think about how the stormy weather made me yearn to be at my desk, writing away through the storm. I look at Morgan and Kevin and smile. My wife smiles and giggles back. We are drenched, but we are inside our wonderful home, and it is right where I want to be.
Dripping jackets are hung, and Morgan takes Kevin up the stairs to begin the bedtime routine. I strip off all my wet clothes and grab some dry clothes from the laundry room. Right now, a nice warm fire would hit the spot. I cross the living room and reach for a fresh log next to the fireplace. “AHHHH!” My wife screamed.
“Are you okay?” I respond in terrified panic. I spin around as Morgan shouts, “There’s a bird in the house! AH AH EEEEE!” She slams the door to the nursery, protecting her and Kevin even if they are trapped in there for the moment. I stand in a panic. What am I expected to do about a bird in the house? I have never faced something like this before.
I lean to peer down the hallway past the main bathroom to see the bird for myself. Nothing is there. “Where did you see it go?” I shout. A muffled voice from somewhere behind the nursery door mutters what sounds like, “… Don’t know … something something … it’s bad? … something … library … do something.” I am a bit shaken up, and I don’t like this situation at all.
I work hard for my family and will work myself to the bone to make a pleasant home with good meals on the table and a comforting environment all around. I am also, unfortunately and admittedly, a scaredy cat with an anxiety disorder, so something like a bird flying potentially right at you is a nightmare come to life. I am now facing that nightmare and attempting to psyche myself into breaking free from my fear paralysis and investigating what my wife saw. I clench my trembling fists while taking a deep, long, calming breath, as I have practiced a million times before: “Be brave.”
Bravery is not something that comes naturally to me when it comes to things flying around my face in close quarters at high speeds. In fact, to be honest, I suffer from night terrors and horrific nightmares that feature shadowy figures that aggressively rush forward, fighting for my flesh. The nightmarish ghouls have no specific form as they are barely even humanoid forms of pure black void. My psychologist had been working on it with me, explaining the works of Carl Jung and how the shadow was actually the suppressed negative impulsive nature of my own self that manifested into these dark guests lashing out. The more suppressed and bottled up the guests become, the more they gain strength and begin tormenting the conscious self, creating impulsivity and irrationality to the extent of self-sabotage.
I admit I am a bit messed up. I have been working for months on this, but fully comprehending a subject and actually dealing with it are two entirely different beasts. My glasses recently got a tiny scratch on them, thanks to the flailing of my son, and when light catches my lenses just right, I swear I can see shadow figures trying to break through into the world of the awakened. Nightmares have recently gotten much worse, too. Morgan, on several occasions, has had to shake me pretty hard to wake me up from my screaming sleep paralysis.
On one occasion, just last week, I even lay there uncontrollably screaming with eyes apparently wide open yet still in an unconscious trance so bad that Morgan had slapped me across the face while violently shaking me just to bring me back to reality. The dark guests are immensely stronger than ever, and right now it feels as if they have found a way to pierce the veil into reality. My reality. They are coming for me, and I feel the intense fear of my nightmares. It’s just a bird. It’s just a bird. It’s just a bird.
One step at a time, I nervously raise a foot and begin the perilous ascension. The floorboards creak with blaring imperiousness that can wake and command the dead. I clench my teeth trying to find a footing that won’t produce such an audible calamity, but it is hopeless. One foot, then the next, my heart races further with each shaking step. Swallowing air and clinging to the handrail, I pull myself to the top as though I were dragging myself to ultimate doom. Reaching the top, I listen and search from my position.
Slowly, I push the bathroom door open and peer inside. Swaying my head back and forth, nothing produces itself. A sudden tick coming from the other door makes my head instantly spin. It is the door handle to the nursery, turning slowly to open ever so slightly. Morgan softly projects, “Do you see it?” I reply that I have not and start walking towards the doors. “Did you check the Library? I said I think it flew in there.” Morgan asks.
I open my mouth to respond as a burst of dark, flickering energy erupts around the corner and dives right at me. BAM! The nursery door slams shut as I scream, and I duck, narrowly missing getting hit by the shadowy dive-bombing banshee. I spun to see where the flying demon could have disappeared. The winged thing is shooting in circles around the living room now. It turns back towards me, and without a second thought, I dive into the bedroom, quickly shutting the door behind me. I am in over my head, and I have no earthly idea what to do next.
Pacing back and forth, frazzled, I am trying to think while letting my panic attack subside a bit. It isn’t working. Minutes pass, and I muster up enough confidence to poke my head out and see how I might get back down to the primary living floor and find some form of a solution. I stand there still for a minute watching it dart back and forth in a panic. How ironic that it seems as panicked as I am, but the humor I realize isn’t that funny because it also means it is erratic and dangerous.
Something about the movement seems off, and it itches to confirm my fear. There is a sort of undulation to its flight, and it lacks the expected flutter a bird would have. It feels wrong, but I am not sure why. I lean a bit forward, and the timing couldn’t be worse as the UFO shoots right up the stairs towards me. SLAM! I shut the door so hard the house shook, which only barely masked the embarrassingly high scream that emitted from my throat. The door closed just in time as my heart beat out of my chest.
Gasping for air, I stumble backwards and fall into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. I stare at the floor, terrified and wanting to cry. I am petrified with fear, in body and mind. The only thought circling my mind is that we are trapped, and that truth settles into a stillness of horror. What to do. What to do. I wait for something. I don’t know what. Something to give direction, maybe.
The door explodes open, giving me a jump as Morgan appears in the doorway, quickly sealing the room behind her. She has somehow successfully put Kevin to sleep during this horror show twice, actually. She is incredible. Kevin had awoken when I had earth-shakingly closed the door, so my amazing wife had to go for round two. Morgan collapses onto the bed next to me. “So what are we going to do?” she asks anxiously. “I don’t know.” I shuddered, quivering. I know that isn’t a suitable answer, and she needs more, but I can’t think of a thing, and silence begins to linger.
Morgan breaks the silence. “Have you looked up online how to get a bat out of the house?” My eyes grow wide. “A WHAT!?” Instantly, I realized my mistake. Earlier, she had not said the word ‘bad’ but instead had been telling me it was a bat. The way it flies now makes perfect sense, but it feels so much worse. A creepy creature of the night is somewhere outside that door.
Reality vanishes into the shadows of terror. It all makes so much sense now, but also doesn’t at all. I seem to shut down as my eyes go gray and my mind goes on autopilot. I turn to my phone and run internet searches in rapid succession. The thought persists in my brain that there must be a straightforward solution for how to do this. How to take care of that awful creature.
Several minutes fly by as the demonic shadow creature undoubtedly does. “Well, anything?” Morgan’s impatience breaks the silence. There isn’t much help to be found, as the vast majority of links are just lures to a business for pest removal, which are all closed at this hour on a Sunday night. The few real posts are largely instructing to open windows so they can fly out or trap them in a blanket or box. I think to myself that it sounds so simple, and while I am at it, maybe I can also put a dog leash on a bear because both concepts sound equally plausible at the moment.
I stand up and struggle to catch my breath again. I swear I am not that out of shape. I am just that terrified. I hear a thumping ahead that makes me pause. It couldn’t be bumping against the door, could it? Tightness grasps at my chest, and the thumping grows a bit louder and faster, and I can feel it wanting to burst out of my chest. My heart. I feel overwhelming shame as I shake more than I care to admit.
“Are you going out there?” Morgan asks me.
I sheepishly reply, “Yeah, I just want to calm my nerves for a second before I face it.” I can’t tell her the truth.
I need to be brave for my family, brave for my pregnant wife and unborn child, brave because… I have nothing. Fear was winning, and this wasn’t about courage anymore. It is nothing more than torture and survival. No one else can do it, and the struggle between protecting the family and pure phobia is prevalent. My hand grabs the doorknob, and I rip off the bandaid with a turn and pull, opening the door to the nightmare realm.
Protection for my wife is achieved for the moment as the door seals behind me. The stillness of the air creates a maddening sensory overload as every tiny creak and reflection teases at the creature’s potential location. Insecure, timid steps forward, there is only illusion, but no sign of the terror yet. Reaching the top of the stairs, I crouched down to get an easier view into the living room. Where is it? I am not sure what is more terrifying, seeing the evil creature as it comes in for the kill, or having it pop out of nowhere to end me. There is no third option.
Cautiously, I take a step down, and the floorboards scream like I am tripping an alarm that seems to resonate through the house and cause a clicking echo in the dining room. I glare at the step as it occurs to me that echoes don’t click. My eyes rise just in time to see the black jet explode into the living room from the dining room corner. The flashing black streak snaps back and forth around the rooms like it is trying to break the record for the fastest and angriest lap. Violent and aggressive, it is nearly impossible to even see a flap or get a decent look at it. It is a rampaging shadow demon looking for a way out or possibly someone to kill for their current predicament.
I wait until it moves to the kitchen. As long as I stay opposite of where it is, then I can reach the windows, and this can all be over soon. Minutes pass by as the shifting dance takes place, while I take careful note of flight paths and where to stay the heck away from. I feel a moment of triumph as I take the first step into the kitchen. It flies past and down to the lower floor.
Now or never, I dash for the window and fling it open, knocking over kitchen utensils and containers with a crash. Panic and adrenaline are in control as the two windows in the room are opened and the patio light is clicked on. “Don’t fail me now, internet,” I whisper to myself. I glance at the lower floor as it darts in a manic circle and suddenly screams straight for my skin.
Aaaacchhhkkk! I scream and sprint through the living room, flipping the light switches, and I fly up the stairs towards the bedroom. If I am stepping on any of the steps, I certainly am not feeling it or hearing it this time. Escape, that’s it. I glance back for a second, only to ensure it won’t make it into the room with me as I grab the door handle and barrel through to the other side. Slamming the door behind me, it was now a matter of it finding the window, and we could then try to put this all behind us.
“Are you okay?” Morgan snaps in panic.
“Fine” is all that I can muster as I hyperventilate.
“Did you get the windows open?” she asks. I nod my head. “And the lights are off inside and the patio on,” I manage to spill with a heavy breath.
“What?” Morgan clamors. “You are supposed to do the opposite. The light is freaking it out, and it wants dark. It isn’t going to leave if it is nice and dark and head straight for bright lights that it hates.”
“That is not what I read.” I cry, not wanting to believe it. “What I read suggested having a light on outside the house to attract bugs and lure them out. It sounded logical at the time.”
Morgan pulls up several sources to defend her point and explain why what I did won’t work. I don’t argue at all, as I knew before she even started pulling the proof that she is right. Ranting acts as a filibuster, buying me more time before the inevitable. I know what I am going to have to do, but I really didn’t want to. Quite simply, I will need to go back down again.
Staring at me, the doorknob feels deathly cold. “Are you going or what?” Morgan barks.
“I’m scared, okay?” I cry back, no more delay. I fight back the tears while my chest tightens, and I once more enter the demon’s domain. This time around, the hallway feels forever long. The darkness before me descends into a cavernous lair of the damned. Traversing into the bellows, the shadows dance as a taunting mockery of wickedness. The house teases me with creaks, pops, and moans that shelter the foe’s whereabouts. Flipping the switch, I glance in nearly every direction all at once. Nothing.
I work through the kitchen and into the dining room, reaching switch after switch. The light has washed away the darkness, and stillness silences the taunts that were shouted moments before. I find no comfort in the calm. It is here somewhere. The agony of the inevitable weighs heavily on me. When will it strike? The thought is pounding in my mind. A flicker. No, a flash. Something appears as a shadow where no shadow makes any sense, but only for an instant and then vanishes.
Staring motionless at the floor below, I wait, frozen in place. Was I imagining things? Did my eyes play tricks on me? Was it the light catching my glasses that caused a bizarre flicker? Seconds are passing by, chipping away at my sanity. “Am I going crazy?” I say aloud.
Maybe it is simply to ground myself back into a tangible reality, or perhaps it is a grasp at validation from the beast itself. My heart races with heavy thumps, and the sound is audible in every gasping breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose.
Calmness begins to wash over me. Maybe therapy is working after all. My pulse begins to settle. I sigh a deep, exhaustive exhale. The thought comes to me that perhaps it had worked after all. While I was upstairs, it just might have flown out of the window as I planned. A bug flew in the kitchen window. The bugs are certainly out there, attracted to the light. Morgan would never let me gloat about it, but it doesn’t matter as long as the nightmare is over.
I close the window as I glance around, ensuring there is no sign of the creature. I walk over to the kitchen light switch and, with a click, flip it off, then begin to step away. With my hand attempting to leave the switch, a gentle nudge in my brain urges me to flip the light on to the hall space of the half floor just below me. It would ease the nerves even more if I could confirm it is nowhere to be found, and the night’s sleep will be an incredibly welcome retreat from the horror of the night. It would be an appropriately rewarding prize for an evening of torment endured.
I lavished in the awestruck moment with a glowing pride that in a moment, I would have my deserved security. Click. Light floods the floor a half flight below, and the lack of movement fills my heart with joy. Ha! Wait till Morgan hears this. I turn and reach for the light switch.
Eeeeeuuuewwoosh! The phantom nearly strikes me in the face as it shoots straight for my head. A noise that sounds somewhere between the ringing buzz of an old computer monitor and a dog whistle is somehow targeting me, barely missing me with a hint of a nearly inaudible flutter. I fall back, crashing against the kitchen cabinets, and claw my way backward as fast as I can. The creature chaotically circles back and down to the floor below once more in a manic, aggressive manner.
With panicking hops backward, I make my way through the kitchen to the dining room to get as far as I can away while attempting to get a view of the nocturnus nightmare. The vantage point is proving fruitful as I get a superb view of the flying foe darting back and forth along the hall and into my office over and over again. There aren’t exactly windows along its flight path, as it is the center of the house. Now what? I walk towards the living room to keep my distance, but work around to the second stairwell and on down to that floor. I dare not look away from that thing. I strafe through the living room, never letting my guard down, and I strain not to even blink.
“Watch it!” I nearly jumped out of my skin because I hadn’t heard or seen my wife come down from the top floor. “Where is it?” Morgan inquires.
I, still shaking, point towards the stairwell down and mutter, “There… in and out of the office.” Morgan sat there thinking for a second. “Can you trap it in the office and then open one of the office windows?” It is a good thought, but it is easier said than done.
“I wish I could help,” she states. I know better for her and our unborn child’s safety.
“Get back upstairs, and I will take care of it.” I express with a sound of confidence. The truth is, I have no plan or idea of how to approach it, and the confidence is more of an attempt to convince myself that I can. I hold my breath and make it down the stairs to the occupied floor. It is time to end this.
Back and forth. Back and forth. It zips past me over and over again as I stand in an adjacent doorway. I tell myself it is simply a matter of timing to trap the foul beast. This mentality is a mere excuse and self-justification for my terrified, statuesque stillness. I refuse to face the fraudulent notion that I intend to act when the opening arises. As long as it paces back and forth, I find solace in my stratagem. If the foe flies back up and out, I will be free of this foxhole position. Woooffllllooosshh! Nearly striking my face, it snaps me out of the trance and vanishes into my office.
Panic strikes with a fierce rush of adrenaline. This is the moment I had disconcertingly hoped to avoid, and yet it is precisely the courageous, opportune, pivotal point that I must act upon, regardless of my cowardice. I tell myself to lunge forward and shut the door, but my body clinches in place as my pounding heart creates an invisible barrier of anxiety. Swallowing a gasp of air, I force my heart to seize for only a moment, and I pounce forward. I pray my hand will reach the knob.
Cold, cheap brass meets my palm, screaming a valiant victory. Yanking the knob toward myself, I slam the door so hard the frames on the wall shake. The house moans and creaks. A shrieking hypersonic cry, as though from a banshee, emits from somewhere on the other side of that door. The noise chills to the bone as a violent threat, for vengeance resonates in the tone. On to the next step.
Gloves. I, for sure, want gloves, I realize while I put on my jacket and boots. This part of the plan feels more like wishful thinking of a best-case scenario. If I open a window from the outside of the office, then the trapped terrorist could become untrapped and escape through it. The idea is quite simple and could be highly successful as long as the weather cooperates. It is for the moment that feels like fortune is finally on my side. Lady Luck has graced me with her presence once more. There is a mere drizzle at best, nothing that will deter the beast.
Now, to break in. I am not entirely sure how to approach this. For starters, the office has two windows on two adjacent walls, so I have two chances. I reach the first window. Each window has an outer storm window and an inner everyday-use window. The thin storm window is not designed to be opened from the outside, so there isn’t exactly anything to get a good hold of.
I try pushing laterally against the tiny frame through gloves with my already stubby fingers. I can’t get a grip at all. I use both palms flat and try to force the window open by dragging it, but it won’t even budge. I make a run to the garage to grab anything that I can use as a pry bar. The best I can do is a long, large screwdriver. It will have to work.
I return to the window and begin to dig into the frame enough to get the screwdriver in. After a few minutes, I have it in place and begin to pry. The window moves, but in a small pivoting motion. My heart sinks. The paranoid, responsible adult that I am had locked the storm window. There was no way I was going to pry it open. On to the next one, and I hope this one proves more willing to cooperate.
Are you kidding me? The following window appears to be locked as well, but it is slightly less stable than the first. I try to see if, instead of prying from behind, maybe I can pop the slide lock up out of its nested home. I jiggle the screwdriver in the general area, and I can feel it almost take. Come on. Please work with me. A car door across the adjacent street closes, and I can hear the neighbors talking quite clearly about their evening.
I see them looking at things in their car and watching their dog smell stuff around the yard. The dog looks up straight at me and barks. Great! If I can see them, they can certainly see a shadowy figure of me trying to break into the house. If they do indeed see me, they are either likely to call the police or, worse, like a bang bang hero saves the neighborhood. I stand perfectly still and try my best to hide in the line of sight of one of my trees. The neighbor yells at their dog to knock it off, and they head inside.
I return to working on the window. I am glad they blew it off this time, but I will have to talk to them at some point to listen to their dog better, because what if I had been a burglar? Maybe I was right to keep my windows locked. Pop! The storm window gives way along the track. The inner window, luckily, doesn’t have a lock. After this, I may want to change that, though.
I stare at the vertical blinds now blocking the open window, and I sit for a minute listening for indications of the other side. I hear nothing. I imagine as soon as I begin to open the blinds, the creature will explode out into the night while scratching my face during its exit. It just occurred to me that this thing could have rabies. The reality of a flying rabies rat hell-bent on revenge reignites my fear, and my courage is retreating. I can’t do this.
Blinds stare at me like prison bars, confirming the state that I am in. I don’t want to be right at the window when I open the blinds, that is for sure. I can’t remember which way they open. I run and grab a rake from the garage and return to the window. Maybe if I just push the blinds back enough, it will create an opening wide enough, and I won’t have to worry about opening them properly.
I start the process, and loud crashes follow as I knock items over on my desk and shelf inside. That must have gotten its attention. Now that I have wrecked my office, I notice the vertical blind wand and feel like a total idiot, but at least this means I can open them properly now and not have to stand here holding them open with a rake, making way too much movement. This will take another few minutes of courage-building.
My hand needs to reach that wand, which is inside past the blinds, and pull it to the right, opening the perilous portal for primal evil. I focus on the afterward and how at peace I will feel once it is gone for good. I picture myself peacefully playing with my son in the playroom. He climbs onto a foam building block and acts like he is the king of the castle. I think of our child on the way and how their personality will be different and how that might look.
Distracted by my own thoughts, I know now is the time to strike, so, without losing the vision in my head of my kids, I impulsively grab the wand and yank on the blinds. Three inches and freezes to a crunching halt. I forgot you need to turn them first. I rectified my mistake by rapidly twisting the wand and flipping a few that were stuck, and finally, it slid entirely open.
I jump back and retreat several feet, watching the window and waiting. Any minute, it will rush out. I need to be ready to shut the window at lightning speed. Any minute now. Waiting for the moment. Any minute now. Seriously? Come on, where is it? My blood runs cold as I hear something shift on the exterior of the house above my head. With teeth clenched so tightly that they nearly broke, and a tremble that could spill any glass, I slowly tilted my head to face it.
Horrified and dizzy, I stare in the direction of the origin of the scratchy, shifting sound. “Did you get it yet?” Morgan asks from the dark space behind the window screen on the second floor above my head. It was the window opening I had heard previously.
“It is still in the office, but I got the window open.” I reply much louder than I am comfortable doing under the circumstances, but the last thing is her shouting ‘What?!?’ over and over.
Almost as if to spite my very annoyance of our loud correspondence, she continues, “So why don’t you come inside and go in the office and shoo it out?”
I respond with a curt “Fine.”
I admit I am getting pretty upset by the suggestions, regardless of whether she is right. Every moment I think I have reached a limit of terror and fear, I go again, upping the ante. A heart attack is starting to sound like a well-deserved way out if it happens like I feel it will. I march inside feeling every negative emotion I can feel, from anger to absolute terror, crippling fear.
I make the walk down the hallway like I am headed to the electric chair and turn the corners needed to face the ominous office door. I gaze at the door in a way, half expecting it to become animated or have a monstrous demon turn the handle from the other side, opening a gateway to the netherworld. It stares back at me blankly, waiting for me to do something. Everyone is so impatient.
Move. I command myself to take at least one step. Although only a few feet away, the death march seems impossibly long. I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. There is a mistake in the texture of the mud wall to my right that I never noticed before. The ceiling appears to be about an inch higher on the left half of the hill than on the right. The door isn’t solid white. I would have wagered it was, but here it is staring at me in a two-toned wood-grain revelation. My guess is it is a white-washed door, so the grain that catches the most paint is white, but the thinness in between is off-white due to the naturally colored wood whispering through. Confirmation of the application of paint is supported by the bottom of the door, worn down to the wood by years of bumping shoes and dusty drafts.
I take a few steps towards the door. I really need to stop neglecting this area of the house and give it a good cleaning. There are still pieces of tape, evidently from boxes unpacked in that spot. I see a few finishing nails that must have come free from the backing of the bookshelves in the office. The carpet needs a good vacuuming as well. A large dust bunny is caught under the door. I am a bit annoyed with myself for how badly I let it get down here. I reach for the dust bunny to pull it away. It isn’t a dust bunny at all.
Too late to scream, I stumble backward, tripping over my own feet as the creature crawling out from under the door fires straight for me. I fall hard with a thud, and my legs are a tangled mess. Ironically, the fall has saved me from getting hit by the projectile predator. I hear a lighter thud that seems to have echoed my own. I look over my shoulder back at the stairs and see the thing clear as day for the very first time. It must have flown right into the stairs so hard that it dazed itself and flipped head over heels, as it currently sits, feet in the air, back against the vertical wall of a step, and lying on top of its own wings. It twists its head, looking at me and figuring out its orientation.
The furry, yet somehow oily and grimy gremlin bares its sharp teeth, snarling nose, and beady eyes in a grueling glare. It screeches at a nearly inaudible wavelength, and I immediately understand the threatening message. I crush myself against the wall as it turns itself over while still piercing through my soul with those perilous pupils. On all fours, it barks as it skates itself off and launches into the air. I cover my head, screaming as I hear the flapping and screeching darting around inches above my head.
I wince and tremble with a gasp with each flyby as I feel the presence. Paranoia of the inevitable looming attack brings me to tears. I can’t do this anymore. Panic takes hold, and I am hyperventilating. My breathing is out of control, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears. It’s all too much. It’s too much. It’s too much. I just can’t. It’s… It. Wait, it’s silent. Where did it go?
I slowly, through rapid panting, uncover my head and look around for any evidence of the threatening terror. Nothing. It vanished. Hesitantly, I take my time standing on my own two feet. I am reluctant to move too quickly or to assume I am safe. I honestly don’t think I will ever feel safe again. Every shadow, crack, or space between any two given objects now becomes a portal for the shadow realm creatures that, at any moment, will release an immense horror.
I will never be safe. I really can’t do this. I must get back to my wife. I know I will need to trap it once again in the office or another room, but I can’t right now. I need comfort. I need to escape this torment. I face the stairs that lead to the main floor. It is just two sets of stairs and a hallway to my wife. I tell myself not to think much more now, and I can hide away from the fear, even if only for a moment. I imagine letting someone else take over because I feel so done.
I ascend the stairs to the kitchen and the main floor. I reach the top step and take a moment to stand perfectly still and determine where it vanished to, but there is still no sound. I creep to the bottom of the next set of stairs and face the upper hallway. The empty hallway resembles a kill chamber with no decor or windows, just the doors that offer virtually no comfort this time. Unless it is in the bathroom or library, a glint of hope burns in me at the moment. If it is one of these rooms, I can shut the door and block the space under it, then do the same thing as in the office by opening a window. Second chance, here I come.
I can’t deal with that thing flying at my head again, especially in such a tight area and on stairs, so I decide to crawl. I crush my body as low into the carpet as I can. I slowly ascend with awkward sliding lunges from step to step, body part to part. It is the most uncomfortable way to naturally go upstairs, but it still feels a lot more comfortable than the alternative of an unprotected, typical walk at this point.
The flattened bear crawl gets me to the top of the stairs. The bathroom door on the left is open about three-quarters. I carefully place my fingers under the door so that I can open it further, while also being able to pull it shut if it happens to be stuck. A subtle squeak of the hinges spooked me for a fraction of a second before my brain could recognize what it was. I hold my breath and peer around the corner. Still air reveals emptiness. It isn’t here. Move on.
I turn back to the hallway. On to the library, I must now travel. Caught in a large vise, the walls feel like they are closing in on me. I move one arm, then the next; One leg and then the next. Slow progress, but it is progress. I take a deep breath and begin to move again. One arm, one leg, at a time. One arm. One leg. Deep breath. I got this. No, I don’t! My breathing stops mid-draw as the fanged flier enters the hall with erratic, explosive energy. I retreat one arm, one leg, but in triple time to the top of the stairs. I clumsily but quickly try to descend a step and then aim for the next. Looking up, I see I am too late and it is bolting straight at me!
Sharp, pointy knives, twenty-two to be exact, accompany a jaw violently poised to bite with a vicious fury. Beady eyes glare with the promise of death. I crawl backwards as fast as I can down the stairs, sliding just as much as I am crawling. I look up to catch a glimpse that it is less than a few feet from me. In a full attack position, there is no escape.
I throw my arms up to shield my face as I feel the creature slam into my forehead. Wings thump against my temples as I ferociously flail to get the assassin off of me. The flaps stabilize the attacker, who is determined to do me in. It won’t stop. I attempt to scream but realize I am crying in a choking craze. I finally fling the vermin off of me and scramble back up towards the bedroom. My right arm and right leg scream in pain, but there is no time to assess the damage. I dare not even think to touch my head. The thought of rabies flashes in my mind again, but I tell it, not now. Just get to the door.
I get to my feet and shake and flail to ensure I do not have a stowaway. In sheer hysteria, I ruffle my hair all around my head. It’s not on me. I keep my back to the door, watching down the hallway, and reach the door handle. I spill into the bedroom and fumble to quickly close the door. “Are you okay?” Morgan asks.
On my knees, shaking, tears streaming, and reaching up to my forehead, I reply in utter sorrow, “No.”
Blood streaks down my forearm and stains my jeans along the shin. Between carpet burn and carpet tacks, I did a real number on myself with my retreating descent. It took me far too long, but I assessed my head to find nothing of note. It hit me, though. What if it had rabies? I am searching online and discovering that bites are like tiny needle pricks and wouldn’t necessarily even be visible. Even more so, the scratches are hairline and are equally dangerous. Do I remember a sting or pain, or was it just an impact thud?
I stare in the master bathroom mirror. Is that a red mark? Am I being paranoid? My wife is talking in the other room, but I realized I hadn’t heard a word she had said. “I am sorry, what?” I am hoping she won’t be too mad about my neglect. She doesn’t sound upset, but she also isn’t talking to me. I don’t mean that she is ignoring me. I mean, she is talking to someone else.
I peek my head around the corner and realize she is on the phone. She is calling for outside help. It hurts. It hurts because it means I most certainly failed. I know I failed. I couldn’t overcome the fear. I couldn’t trap it or get it out of the security of our home. I failed my wife. I couldn’t protect my family. It beat me. It tormented me. I let it win. I failed.
Everywhere was closed. After a few phone calls of listening to robo responses saying to call back or redirect, it was finally suggested to call the non-emergency police. After a very sympathetic conversation with dispatch, they found the only one who was willing and able to help was one Sheriff Stark. They let us know he would be there shortly. I sigh with a mixture of relief and shame. I should have been the knight in shining armor to save the day, but here I am trapped in the castle tower needing to be saved.
My wife is a little peppier now, feeling triumphant that she has solved the problem. “There you go. You don’t have to deal with it anymore, and he can take care of it. I am sure they have dealt with much worse and are used to it since they most likely have lived here a while, if not their entire lives.” I know she is right, and while there is a bit of comfort in knowing it will be resolved, I can’t shake the shame.
I look at my wife’s precious smile, and I feel a little better. I know she loves me even if I am not the knight in shining armor. She smiles a little bigger and then begins again, “Take a deep breath. It’s almost over. No more hurting yourself trying to chase or catch this thing. The sheriff will take care of it. I just, of course, need you to get the door when he gets here.”
I can feel my face drain as I turn white. Not again. Time is not on my side this time, so I have to face it like I haven’t before. I leave the room on edge. When I say on edge, I mean with the slightest breeze, and I am tumbling over that edge and losing every bit of sanity I have left. I start my descent, paying careful attention to the noisy floorboards that hide under the carpet, which, minutes ago, stripped my skin off. I peer around the living room for movement and see nothing. I am frozen in hesitation, primarily out of fear, but also, for some reason, I sense it is in the room. Was it waiting to strike again? Is it a trap? Where would it even hide?
I look around the room, at every nook and cranny that yields a shadow. Everything has a shadow. It could be anywhere. I give up. It then dawns on me that if I don’t know where it is and it is hiding when the sheriff arrives, he can’t exactly help. My eyes grow wide at the horrific thought that this may be far from over. I pan again with no luck. Maybe the office again? I turn to head towards the kitchen and stop in place. No motion detected, but something in my peripheral vision didn’t seem to make sense. Something for a fraction of a moment had appeared out of the corner of my eye on the drapes.
I turned with an abundance of caution and stealth slowness. There it is hanging on the curtains, completely still, and covering its body with its wings. The thing is asleep. Seriously? After all this torment and torture, it decides to take a nap? I dare not wake it, so I continue my stealthy movement to head towards the door. One step at a time. Quiet as a mouse. If I am patient and silent, this hopefully will make things easier. DING DONG!
I jump out of my skin and land before my heart can even think about beating again. Panicking, I immediately dart my eyes back at the creature and see it still in its sadistic slumber. I answer the door and greet Sheriff Stark in our home. He asks me where it is, which I bravely point to like a child pointing out where the scary monster in the closet is. He asks me for a tennis racket, a net, or something broad and flat, and a bag or a small flat shoebox. Unfortunately, I have nothing off the top of my head.
He asks if I have a broom. That I do have, which I admit I was a little too excited about, is my contribution to the solution. I bring him the broom, and he once more asks for a plastic bag or box, which I embarrassingly had forgotten. I bring him the bag, and he thanks me and says, “Now bear with me, as it has been several years since I have done this.”
I let him know it is far more experience than I have, and I appreciate his help. He puts on his gloves and wields the broom in his hands while palming the bag. He slowly approaches it with carefully calculated movements. He positions the broom bristles as I watch, wondering what he intends to do. He isn’t going to smack it, is he?
Before I can even work out the thought process, he moves quickly and pins it on the curtains against the bristles. A wailing, screechy cry and supersonic buzz transform the evil entity into a cowering, crying prey. The sheriff holds the broom in place with one hand while freeing the other. He orients the bag to grasp it from the bottom and makeshifts a sort of glove-like shape. I get it now. The screeching cries strengthen as it struggles to free itself, but it works right into the bag.
Rapidly, Sheriff Stark inverts the bag, trapping it inside. He hands me the broom, which feels like being given a sword by a master when I am a young boy pretending to be a knight. The creature snaps me out of it as I hear it screaming and struggling to escape. Suddenly, I am annoyed with how sorry I feel for the creature listening to those cries from containment. The sounds echoed my own agonized vocal expressions I had evoked only a few moments before. I guess tears are a universal unifier, or maybe it is fear that truly unites us all.
The sheriff has me open the door for him as I escort them outside into the night. He walks a reasonable distance away from the house before he gently sits down and opens the bag. The poor thing is terrified to move and twisted over itself. I imagine it was similar to how I appeared on the stairs when I felt pinned down. He helps correct its position, and it flies freely into the night sky. The sheriff hands back the bag, and I express my gratitude.
I close the door and turn the lock. My family is safe. Right? I somehow don’t feel safe. The lock on the door feels meaningless. I realize that if it got in here once, it can get in here again, right? I am not securing anything tonight, though. I make the long walk of shame up to the bedroom to face my wife. I admit it is hard to face her. I am a failure. I failed her.
I open the door to our bedroom, and Morgan looks at me with a smile. “All done?” She asks me in a dazzling mood. I feel better. She makes me feel better. I explain how he captured it and let it out. I admit to feeling inept at how easy he made it all seem.
“So now you know how to handle it if it ever happens again,” she replies, her enthusiasm evident. It is nice to know she believes I am capable of doing it myself, even if I am not entirely confident that I actually can.
She brings me close and holds me in her nurturing arms. “I know it has been a hard night, and I wish I could have helped. I am sorry you had to go through all of that,” she sweetly says to me. I want to reply, but I feel as though if I try, only tears will come out. I try to hide it with a gentle, squeezing hug and smile. I close my eyes and allow her touch to comfort me. Her words help soothe me to my very core.
For the time being, I feel safe, and my family is safe as well. It doesn’t matter if I was the hero or not as long as they are secure. I am feeling a little better. I open my eyes, staring blankly into our closet, but the fear still looms. I feel like it is still hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike again. Tonight will be one of several sleepless nights.
Hours pass by, and I lie in wait for the nightmare to once more become real. Hours become days. Days become weeks. Slowly, the fear lets up. It never is quite gone, but it isn’t nearly what it had been. I spend my free time looking for spaces or holes inside and out through which it could have come. I patch up what I can, board up larger areas, and place a fiberglass mesh screen along the gap by the fireplace mantle.
My mother comes to visit, and we decide not to tell her about the event to avoid unnecessary worry while she is visiting. We are feeling better each day about it not coming back, but the occasional squirrel in the attic keeps the realist in me on my toes and never truly confident. I try to stay optimistic. My mother and wife are in the living room and the kitchen, while I am printing pictures for my mom in my office. I’m never good at sending them, so now is as good a time as any to print them for her.
I hear my wife call down to me something about being quick and a sack. She knows I can’t hear well from the office when she is in the living room. I lean into the hallway and yell, “What?” I listen carefully and can hear the TV playing a children’s program for preschoolers, and my mother says something about what she could get for my wife.
My wife begins to yell again, “It is biting through the screen! It’s back!” The words echo in my head as a tremor pulses through my bones. I stare down the hall that leads to my fate. I take a step and then another and repeat. One more step. One more step.
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