999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [304]
One evening after a walk, Harlow returned to the house and opened the door to a closet—“Christ!” he shouted, and leaped back as something black in the darkness twisted up and away. His heart thudding, Harlow snapped on the closet light. Nothing was there but two jackets hanging on the coat rod. Harlow snapped off the light and swung the door to and fro, watching its shadow move. It didn’t look the same.
Days went by, and still flickers of movement in the darkness caught Harlow’s eye, while now and again someone or some thing stood in the black at the foot of his bed.
God, no wonder my granduncle had lights all over this pl— Oh my, but wait!
Harlow stepped to the phone and punched in a number.
“This is Harlow Winton. Ask him to give me a call. Yes: w-i-n-t-o-n. He has my number.”
That night the phone rang. “Winton here. … Oh, Arthur, thanks for returning my—… Yes, yes, I’m fine. … What? … Right. … Tell me … my uncle, how did they find him? I mean, you said he was … Yes, that’s right. Watching TV. How do you—? … I see. The remote was in his hand. The TV remote? Oh, my. … No, no. No reason, just curious.” Harlow sighed and looked about. “Thank you, Arthur. Yes, yes, thank you.”
Harlow pushed the handset off button.
Damn! He grabbed the TV remote instead of the one for the lights.
Replacing the handset in the cradle, Harlow stepped away from the escritoire, noting for the first time just how dark were the shadows beneath.
After that return call from Maxon, things seemed to get worse. The feeling that something loomed behind him in the dark, or waited in the shadows in the next room, became overwhelming. And Harlow began reaching around door frames to flip on the lights before entering a darkened room, as well as reaching back around to flip off the lights behind. And now and again in the corner of his eye he thought he saw shadows following after, slithering down the hallways behind.
And at times he thought he heard slow breathing. But when he listened … nothing.
Oh God. Am I going mad or is something really here? And if something is here—if some thing is here—then I’ve got to get out. But wait. No. I can’t leave. I’d lose everything. I have to live here, in this house, in this house where my uncle died in the dark … of fright, I think. Or maybe the thing killed him.
Days passed. Nights passed. And Harlow’s dread worsened. And as his fear of darkness grew, so did his desire to be quit of this thing.
It’s the thing I need to get rid of. But how? Bring back all those lights, all that glare? All that hideous transparent furniture? No sir. I got rid of those goddamned things, and I’ll never bring them back. Besides, that was my uncle’s solution, and you see what it got him: dead, that’s what, killed by terror. Instead, I want this thing gone forever, not merely hiding from light.
An unremitting grinding knot settled deep in the pit of his stomach, and every day, every night, it seemed to grow worse and worse. His appetite waned and he lost weight; his hands trembled all the time.
And he began whispering to himself.
And he was weary, for although he had tried sleeping in the day, he simply couldn’t; in the orphanage it had been taps at ten and reveille at six: it was ingrained in his life. But although he went to bed at night, he couldn’t bring himself to turn out the light, and so he slept with it on—if it could be called sleeping—the closet door open, its light on as well.
And then one night as he got into bed, Harlow leapt the last yard or so to keep his feet from coming too close to the darkness beneath.
God, what am I doing? Am I a child?
But from that point on, he continued to leap to reach the bed, and upon wakening, he leapt out as well, even in the light of day.
And he acquired a stammer.
And at night, now and again, he was certain he heard what must be the thing moving through