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THIRD PLACE
In the Darkness
By Fred Venturini
Patoka, Illinois
Ben’s fragile sleep shattered,
snapping his eyes open and prompting the question. The
disorientation that accompanied being freshly awake
made recollection difficult.
Reality came to him in chunks: he remembered his evening
run — a storm approached so he took a shortcut
home, cutting across a farmer’s field near the
edge of town.
The field was barren, save for a few hard clumps of
soil, making footing treacherous. Ben slowed down,
and over the grumble of thunder signaling an imminent
storm, he heard a thwack.
The sound was muted and wet, like punching a waterbed. With
his hearing perked, another thwack sounded. Then
another.
Storm clouds strangled the night sky until it was blind-black,
swallowing the town whole, except for the streetlights
which fought valiantly. Later, streaks of lightning
would burn bright enough to end their resistance to
the pitch-like grip.
Those very streetlights now burned in the distance,
towering lighthouses telling Ben to come in from his
run on the back-roads to where it was safe. Thwack.
He approached the edge of town with caution, wondering
where the sound was coming from. He heard nothing
else, except for his light footsteps and the increasingly
agitated wind.
Usually, the dark didn’t bother Ben. Like
any fourteen year old, he paid money to be scared by
roller coasters or slasher movies. He was sterilized
against what lurks in the dark because modern movie-making
exploited it so frequently — and comically.
However, reality had more bite than a B-movie, which
Ben realized as he drew close enough to see a man wrapped
in black, raising an axe high above his head and bringing
it crashing down. Thwack. It was in the rear
of the city park, where an industrial dumpster laid
half-full and a lone streetlight pushed a weak, yellow
light upon the scene. Ben drew nearer, his pulse
quickening; his mind racing with all of the horrible
possibilities the movies had revealed to him.
Despite the weakness of the light, the man’s
flesh had an albino glow all its own — beyond
pale — freakishly, disgustingly white. The
only flesh that could be seen was the face, the rest
seemed a living shadow, dark and barely moving, but
move it did — and the axe followed. Thwack.
Most axe heads were painted red — this one was
no exception, although Ben’s now wandering mind
revealed the horrible possibility that perhaps this
particular paint was blood, and the target the demonic
figure was dropping the head into repeatedly could
be a human body.
Because of the dumpster and all the surrounding piles
scrap, Ben only saw the upper portion of the scene. The
axe’s target and the lower portion of the pale
figure was blocked from view. Frozen in a fit
of terror and wonder, Ben realized he’d stopped
approaching the town.
Thwack. The man’s white face snapped to
the side, as if he sensed Ben, looking directly at
him with holeish, blackened eyes. The fit of terror
and wonder became all terror, and Ben did what any
good fourteen year old would do in such a situation — he
ran. He ran until his lungs were paralyzed, flaming
from a lack of air. He ran until the balls of
his feet felt worn to the nub, and just when he thought
he had to stop, he pictured the ghastly figure swinging
the axe, and then he ran some more.
He only wished his stopwatch would’ve been running. In
all, he covered a mile and a half to the safety of
his country home, slicing across yards and shadows
to cross the rural town. He thought about waking his
parents, but decided against it. The best thing
he could think to do was go to bed, endure any nightmares
that might come, and re-evaluate what when on during
the safety of a lighted day.
The only light in his now dark room was the red digits
from his alarm clock, which rested on the desk at the
foot of his bed. It was ten o’clock. Pulling
his blanket up to his chin, Ben closed his eyes, and
though it came slowly, sleep did come.
Usually a sound sleeper, Ben wasn’t surprised
when he woke up four hours later. As stressed
as his mind was a bad sleeping night was inevitable,
and his urge to urinate was inching towards intolerable.
Most nights, he would slide onto his feet, flip on
the light, and make the journey down a shadowy hallway
to the bathroom. Ben had every intention of doing
just that, but found that he couldn’t move. There
were no bonds on his hands or feet, but his recollection
of what he’d witnessed earlier made movement
seem impossible, especially now, lying in the darkness.
The dark gripped him with fear, images of the axe-wielder
snapping his head to look at Ben fresh and vivid in
his mind. Ben wasn’t about to leave the
safety of his blanket, which, like any good blanket,
was impenetrable to the forces of evil.
Ben then pulled the force-field blanket over his face — the
only vulnerable area. Now he was truly safe — that
is, until his bladder burst, which seemed only minutes
away.
The dark used to be his friend — an enemy to
most, but not to him. He always knew why people
were afraid of the dark — the dark is uncertainty. The
darkness of space and the darkness of the ocean appeal
and petrify people because people don’t know
what terrible or enthralling secrets they hold. There’s
nothing enthralling lurking in the true dark — the
dark of a child’s room. Things can sneak
up on you. Horrible things, magnified by the microscope
of a youthful, wandering mind.
Ben was young, but intelligent. He knew that the
dark was not to be feared because 99.9 percent of the
time, there’s nothing. But the mysterious
sight and the thump of the axe had thrown the door
open on that .01 percent.
Most nights, Ben knew the secrets of the dark. He
knew that all it concealed was his TV, the light switch,
and countless other safe, serine items in his room. But
now, he was thinking about the greatest horror of uncertainty — there’s
always a chance, albeit a small one, that the worst
case scenario supplied by the imagination might actually
happen.
Lightning flashed. A loud clap of thunder followed. Rain
was pelting his window, but there was no light — not
even the dim light of glowing stars or a full moon. The
room was in total darkness — Ben could open one
eye wide and keep one shut, and not be able to tell
the difference. Even though he was underneath
his blanket, he dared not open his eyes for long. As
long as he didn’t open his eyes, nothing could
get him. Or at least, he wouldn’t have to
endure the horror of seeing it coming.
Lightning flashed again. The rain was easing up,
as the storm was beginning to dissipate.
“
This is ridiculous,” he said aloud, pushing the
covers down. He kept his eyes shut, but the burning
sensation in his midsection was too much. Ben
began to organize his own personal mission — step
one, open eyes. Two, turn on light. Three,
take a leak. Four, go back to bed. Five,
laugh at self in the morning.
Step one would perhaps be the most difficult, but cracking
his eyes revealed no difference, so he opened them
completely. Complete darkness. He saw nothing. He
may has well have kept them shut as he groped for the
light switch.
But wait. Too dark. Something was wrong .
. . his alarm clock — was nowhere to be seen. No
comforting red numbers at the foot of his bed to let
him know how close he was to daylight. His pulse
quickened, but then logic struck again. “The
power went out because of the storm,” but
just as quickly, he heard the television in his parents
room. They would sometimes fall asleep with the
TV on, and he could hear a muted news reporter in the
background.
So the power was on and the alarm clock numbers were
gone. There was only one explanation that he could
think of. The numbers were blocked by something. Or
someone.
There’s someone standing at the foot of the bed. He
tried to keep that thought from entering his mind,
but enter it did. His eyes open but useless, he
wondered what do to next. The fear was wrought
the calm away. His pulse began to jackhammer against
his flesh. Now, turning on the lights were not
an option, but neither was sitting in bed waiting for
something to happen. He had to know, and he had
to know right now.
Jesus, there’s no one at the foot of the bed. Maybe
the power surged and it got knocked out. The guy
I saw tonight was throwing out some trash, chopping
wood, or trying to scare someone. There’s
a logical explanation. There always is. Except
for my behavior here. I’m acting like a
little girl! Just get up, and turn on the light. Get
up, and turn on the light. OK, on the count of
three, leap up, and turn on the light! One . .
. . two . . .
A flash of lightning came one more time, filling up
the room with light, and revealing what Ben couldn’t
see or fear when lightning struck earlier since the
blanket was over his face.
The fractional percentage had been manifested. An
urban legend was about to be written. His story
would be the rarity that kept children for years to
come afraid of the dark, their eyes clenched and covers
pulled taught over their heads, whispering prayers,
hopeful their darkness was hollow.
The last thing Ben saw was an axe falling through the
air, lightning shimmering off the blood-stained edge — and
a gnarled, whitish face smiling above it.
Copyright (c) 2003 for the
author, all rights reserved. |
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