Blackest Nightmare

She could feel it. A quiet but malicious presence at the foot of her bed. Its dark essence was the strongest there. It was coming closer, black and ugly with rotten breath that rolled like magma over her prone form.

She knew it was hesitant, but determined to achieve its goal. She felt the trudge of its heavy feet on the cold wooden floor. She struggled to open her eyes, finding them weighted, as if large bags of fine sand hung from them. The sand dripped onto her body, progressively and steadily slowing her movements. Her uncomfortable twists and turns.

Her hand was heavy as she lifted it, brushing though the watery air to feel nothing but the monster’s heavy stare. The sheets of her bed were sticky with what felt like blood, though she knew it was nothing but the sweat dripping down her limbs in droves. Its presence was hot and irrefutable and she knew its eyes were the same, gasped when they appeared beneath her closed eyelids.

They were a bright, sticky yellow with wide black pupils. She struggled with the hold they had on her movements and therefore freedom. Her legs flailed madly and the eyes seemed to laugh at her with unfettered amusement.

The eyes disappeared, and she breathed a sigh of relief that lasted only so long. It was the painting she kept in her living room that appeared next. One of a medieval tavern by some relatively unknown artist that she was sorely tempted to move into the kitchen.

In the background sat a man. He wore relatively well-fairing clothes, his glossy hair was combed and raven’s wing black. In one hand he held a full tankard, fresh froth tumbling over the side, and in the other he clutched a glinting knife. His smile was pleasant and welcoming, but false on close inspection. It didn’t come close to reaching his eyes, which were the same sore yellow.

The man stood up, walking closer and closer till she could clearly see the bubbling hate in the thick, black pupils and the dry, cracked state of his thin lips. She noticed his hands were suddenly empty, but she also noticed they were old. Skin like crumpled tissue paper covered them, and large veins with faintly black coloring disappeared up his sleeve. Her eyes turned to his face. It was young. So his handsome façade was an illusion.

She screamed as the man opened his mouth in a silent laugh full of gleeful and welcomed rage.

She tried to move but her sheets were sucking her in, pulling at her body with great gasps of sick energy. She watched as his skin began to crawl, and her body moved with new destitution.

In the background she could hear her neighbors pounding at the front door, the frantic rhythm matching the one of her heart. She tried to tell herself that it would be okay, that they would save her from this nightmare, but the words rang cruelly false.

She screamed again, wishing she had some protection, slashing out in despondency with ethereal arms. And suddenly her hands held the knife. Its blade cut through the man, as she could feel it slash coldly through the black thing by her bed. She heard its roar of pain, and an anger that felt like it had been cultivated for many years.

She struck again and again till there was nothing left but thin, bloody ribbons. The she opened her eye like a newborn babe, and sat up.

The room was empty, devoid of life but for her own. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She could hear that her neighbors had broken down her door and were calling her name. Black bile was oozing between her toes and she grimaced and shuddered violently before throwing open her bedroom door.

The mucus on her feet made her slip and fall, scraping her leg and banging her head, but she didn’t stop. Scrambling up she raced into the living room. The people already there stared at her in her soggy clothes and mussed hair like she was man. No matter.

She walked carefully up the painting, breathing hard, and looked at it. Her head began to pound as she focused on the corner.

The man was no longer there.

AN – This is the fourth in my Strong Woman series. I think it’s coming along nicely. Actually, this is my second favorite of them all. My very favorite is the first one. I know that they are all so short, but I believe that my stories are better that way, although I do write longer ones.

This one is set in modern times, so the setting isn’t that hard to imagine. I’d like to thank all the people who read these words thrown together. Even if you don’t review, you’ve still taken the time to read something that I’ve written. That means a lot.

Thank you, and review!

Late March