Dead Ringer Page #2

I'm a huge fan of horror because I find that it is most often the most suitable genre to realize our fears in a safe space where the bad things that happen are make believe but the outcome is often a sense of catharsis. We faced our fears, and though we really had nothing to lose because it was all pretend, we still grew stronger for it. Horror is also a perfect vehicle to make a statement, whether creative, personal, political, or any way else, horror is an excellent way to make a point. That's partly why I wrote this story, but the other reason is a little simpler; I love a good scare.

• Horror

								

There. 
Gone. 
There. 
Gone. 
Other than these two landmarks, the back yard and the thick shrubs and trees which outlined its far end was nothing but a dark void. It was all too easy to imagine some knife-wielding maniac hiding out there, standing just outside the reaching strobe of the airport light and watching. Tom wouldn’t be able to see him, but he would surely be able to see Tom through the kitchen window while he ate the ham sandwich in his hand. How creepy it was that darkness could be like a depthless ocean, concealing so much unknown just out of sight. A guy could lose his mind thinking too much about such a concept, so Tom finished his sandwich quickly and left the room. 
Back in the living room, the weather was now playing on the television. Meteorologist Mike Bishop gestured toward a rather crude map of Maine and explained that a cold front moving into the area might cause thunderstorm activity in Fever Springs and neighboring towns. Tom walked around the couch, snatched up the remote from the coffee table and clicked the television off. Other than a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the house was now silent, which only amplified his sense of loneliness. 
He turned to face his dad’s easy chair once more. With the glow of the hallway light filtering in from behind the couch, that chair seemed slightly less sinister than it had in the strobe of the television, but only marginally so. This much silence and this many shadows was beyond unnerving, and Tom decided he’d had enough of it. There was school in the morning to think about, and it was already heading toward half past eleven. 
Yes, it was getting late. So, what could be so interesting at Aunt Bedelia’s that his family still wasn’t home? He had meant the question to be a joke, but it only left him with a disturbing feeling he couldn’t quite quantify, like seeing a cockroach crawl out of your bowl of cereal just as you’re about to take a spoonful. Then again, what was the likelihood of being murdered? Like one in a million. 
That was all well and good but try telling that to the families of anyone who had been murdered. Like being struck by lightning, it was bound to happen to someone sometime. All you could do was hope that poor sap wasn’t you or anyone you loved.
There was no point in dwelling on such things. What could Tom do about any of it? Nothing. So, he walked into the hallway and climbed the stairs. After using the bathroom and brushing his teeth, he stripped to his underwear and climbed into bed. By this time, it was five of midnight and his family still wasn’t home. With a moment’s debate, he picked up the phone and dialed Bedelia’s number, but though it rang and rang for what felt an eternity, no one answered. That was a first. Aunt Bedelia was homebound; she always answered her phone. Still, there was no need to panic, was there? It was late. Maybe Tom just had poor timing. Maybe Mom and Dad and Dan had just left and Aunt Bedelia was in bed now. Such a notion didn’t feel right, but it was most likely the case. Of course, it was! He’d hear the front door open and the idle chatter of his family any minute now. 
No. Big. Deal. 
So, why did the phone nearly slip from his sweaty hand as he tried to hang it up? The murders had made him nervous, which was a natural reaction, the only natural reaction to such disturbing news. That was all. He dropped the phone into its cradle and plopped his head down onto his pillow. Sleep would help his nerves if sleep would ever come. This night, he wasn’t so sure it would. After another moment of consideration, he reached over and shut out the lamp, because to leave it on like he was afraid of the dark would be such a baby move. Though his unease was nearly suffocating, Tom drifted off to sleep almost immediately in the way that only children are capable of. 
He was startled awake when a loud bang of thunder ripped him from his troubled dreams.
He bolted upright in bed, staring into the darkness. At first, he was so disoriented that he didn’t even realize he was in his own room, but slowly he regained his senses. That leering shadow across from his bed! Only his dresser. The strange man sitting in the corner! Nothing more than his fall jacket tossed over a chair. The twinkling eyes peering back at him by his closet door! Just the faint light from his alarm clock reflected back at him in the full-length mirror. This was his room, and he was the only one in it. There was nothing to be afraid of. Now, if only he could tell that to his crashing heart, maybe he could believe it. 
Above his headboard, heavy rain pattered against the window as the airport light continued its incessant rotation through the sparkling glass. The dream he’d been awoken from still lingered in his mind, but only in fragments now. Something about a man with a knife standing over him, watching while he slept. Except, he hadn’t been in his room, he’d been dozing inside a tiny alcove in the bushes of his backyard while heavy rain, a thunderstorm much like this one, raged on. He recalled something about his mother being stabbed to death while she folded laundry in her bedroom, and a man in the hallway window holding something up to show him while he sneered through the pouring rain. Or maybe he was misremembering; already, the dream was growing fuzzy. It was strange how quickly something so vivid and frightening could quickly fade into oblivion, but it didn’t really matter, either. Or did it? The dream had left him so cold and viscerally terrified with its stark realness, surely it meant something.  
CRACK!
Another bolt of lightning flashed through the window, bringing the room into sharp focus for about a half-second as a grumble of thunder shook the house and rattled the glass in the windows. Then there was nothing but the white noise rush of the rain pouring down again. This was shaping up to be one corker of a thunderstorm, and normally Tom enjoyed such weather.
But not on this night. 
As he reached for his alarm clock to check the time, a new noise filled the dark, empty house, the sound of the front door opening then snicking shut.
Phew!
Mom and Dad and Dan were finally home! He could rest easy now; it didn’t even matter what time it was anymore. But though he expected to hear some chatter – Dad telling Dan to head up for bed or Mom complaining that her aunt wouldn’t stop talking, anything like that – it never came. The light from the airport rotated, a beacon as familiar and tied to Tom’s home and childhood as his own name, and yet everything about his room seemed foreign and sinister. Lightning struck again outside.
FLASH!
BANG!
So close! But still no sound from downstairs. 
He reached for the bedside lamp, and just as he was about to click it on, something other than the rain finally did reach his ear. A voice, to be sure, but not one he was familiar with.

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes