As the evening unfolds, we wake. As
the shadows gather, so too, do we.
watch. We wait.
watch you. Wait for you. We wait for you to come back to us.
the evening unfolds, your face is illuminated by a glowing screen. Lines deepen
in your forehead. You frown. Behind you, the Thing That Lives In Your Walls
emerges. Plaster and wood stretch, taking the shape of grasping fingers and
open, hungry mouths. Slowly, it pushes its way toward you. Then, with a final
surge, it slashes at the nape of your neck, its many mouths howling in
anticipation of your spinal fluid wetting their lips.
slap the back of your neck as the blow lands, absently batting the thing’s
claws aside. You mutter something about mosquitos. Confused, the Thing That
Lives In Your Walls recedes, its already considerable hunger prolonged for one
minutes later, you darken the screen and stand. You glance at the door to make
sure it’s locked, and you walk to the bathroom, unaware of the Masked Killer
standing in the shadows outside. Had you but looked, his posture might have
straightened. Some eagerness for the sensation of the hot splash of your blood
on his skin might have surfaced. Instead, his shoulders sag and his mask is
downturned. He is regarding the long-bladed knife that dangles in his listless
fingers. It gleams along its entire length, untarnished, all traces of blood
having long-since dried and flaked away.
brush your teeth, oblivious to the Face In The Mirror That Is Not Your Own. Its
jaw distends impossibly wide in a silent shriek, and writhing maggots tumble
down its hollow cheeks from empty eye sockets. Your own eyes are blank. Distant.
Flecks of spittle and toothpaste spatter the tortured visage on the other side
of the glass. You don’t even bother wiping them away. You spit. You rinse. You
turn off the light.
upon a time, you were diligent about keeping your hands and feet within the
confines of your bed. You knew the rules and you respected them. Now though, as
you drift off, one leg flops over the edge of the mattress. Your foot dangles
like ripe fruit ready for the picking, and the Monster Under Your Bed pounces
with glee. That glee is short-lived, however, as he discovers that his talons
are no more substantial than the shadows in which he dwells.
do not understand what has happened to you. We do not know what it is that has
recently captivated your fear. We hope it releases you soon. We hope you come
back to us.
back to us.