Still in catch-up mode, today's challenge - Night - inspired me to dip into the more horrific section of my palette...
They Come At Night
They come at night, mostly.
When
the sun has slipped fully over the horizon, when the sky has turned from blue
to twilight purple to midnight black, that’s when they emerge from their lair
and begin their hunt for victims.
I first
realised what was going on in this neighbourhood a few weeks ago. I’d taken an
afternoon nap on the sofa, something I’ve done on occasion since retiring, and
when I woke up it was already dark outside. But for the fact that my back was
sore, I’d probably have got straight up and turned a lamp on and never been any
the wiser to them; but as I sat on the edge of the couch massaging my lower
back into life, I noticed two shadowy figures standing on the opposite side of
the road. Two men, pale skinned and smartly dressed in suits. They didn’t look
right, was my first impression.
When
they looked my way, a little voice in my head whispered for me to freeze right
where I was and I did so without questioning. The men stared at my house, as if
somehow sensing my gaze upon them, before finally turning away and instead
walking up the driveway to the house where Mr Simmons lives
.
I had
my suspicions about them immediately and, when I bumped into Mr Simmons a few
days later, my worst fears were confirmed. He was different; changed somehow
and despite his relaxed posture and easy smile, I felt the icy finger of terror
slithering down my back. As crazy as it might sound to you, I knew what those
men were and what they’d done to poor Mr Simmons.
I hoped
against hope that maybe that would be the end of it, but of course they didn’t
just come that one time. Perhaps they sensed that this was a neighbourhood where
they could sate themselves, a quiet little place where they could have their
way and no one would be any the wiser. They swiftly grew bolder, the two men became
four and I stopped turning the lights on in the house at night so that I could try
to secretly observe them.
I
learned their patterns, I learned their behaviour. It’s true, by the way; you have
to invite them in or they won’t cross the threshold. But I learned that they
have ways of securing that invitation; and, before long, first Ms Trunckle and then
Mr and Mrs Dweedle fell entirely under their influence. Their numbers were
swelling and there was nothing I could do.
And so,
each night, I would sit camped out in my living room with the lights down and
observe them, trying my very best to understand their strategies; I was
learning about them without them even realising I was there.
Until
tonight.
I fell
asleep in front of the lunchtime news and, when I wake up, my stomach leaps in
fear as I realise that I’ve inadvertently left the television on and the room is
bathed in a flickering white glow that paints electric shadows on the walls. My
troublesome back immediately forgotten, I lunge for the remote control and
press my thumb down hard on the power button.
But, of course, it’s too late.
As my
eyes accustom themselves to the darkness filling the room, I realise that there
are two faces pressed against the window. They have found me at last. I try to
avoid their gaze, try to pretend I’ve not seen them, but it’s no use. They move
silently away from the window and to the front door.
Two
knocks, sharp and hard, rattle the door and echo through the quiet stillness of
the house.
And I know then that I can no
longer hide from them; they know I’m here now and even if I manage to stay safe
from them this night they will never give up. They are relentless. They will
return until they get what they want and I know in my heart that this can only
ever end in one way. They will return until I finally open the door and crumble
and give them the permission that they so crave. The only option is to face
them.
The walk to the front door seems to
take forever and, when I get there, their elongated shadows, back lit from the
street lamps, stretch across the floor of the hall towards me. My breath
catches in my chest but I am committed now and my hand closes on the door
handle, the metal cold against the slickness of my palm. They wait, patient.
Finally, steeling myself, I open
the door wide and look at the two men in their suits. They smile at me; I’ve
made their job easier.
“Do you think God wants you to be
happy?” says the first man.
“Can we come in to tell you how you can let the light into your life?” asks the second.
And so, with weary resignation, I
invite the Jehovah’s Witnesses inside.
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