We Never Sleep
Can you see them? I can. The shadowy forms, hunched at the neck; lurking in the darkest corners of my room: behind the door, between my hanging clothes inside the closet, and wedged in the corner near the bed and bookcase.
I’m afraid to move a single muscle, twitch the slightest, or even breathe. I know that if I do, they’ll come to life and get me. Right now, they’re statuesque; still. Waiting. Watching me from beneath the black hood of dark that covers their faces. They make no sound. They are the most patient cryptozoological entities that exist—or don’t exist. Black shades or demons, or even long dead beings whose origins can’t be explained. If I move, they will get me.
I pretend I don’t exist. Hide within myself and feel as my soul shivers in primal terror. I want to pee. I want to open my mouth in a silent ‘o’ of horror. My toes want to curl in and my hands want to claw up as my body fights my mind to bolt from the room. But I know I’ll never make it.
I can’t see their faces or a glint of eyeballs but their bodies are turned to me and they are staring intently. Outlined forms in the dark with no set definition. Now there are more. Eight of them crowded together in the darkest spaces. My room feels colder and the air heavier, as if they’re breathing it all in—although I know they don’t breathe.
I have to shiver; to flee. I have to escape this room. Run out into the long empty hall of my unoccupied house. Sprint to the stairs, survive my way to the living room and yank open the front door. Run outside into the frigid night. I know I won’t do it though. My imagination takes hold of me—the only part of me that can move freely—and reminds me that it is dark in all those spaces beyond my bedroom door.
Even if I could make it to the hallway, there they would be: packed side by side on one end, sliding forward to my pale body. To get me.
What terrifies me most is sleeping. My body will drift off, relax, and move. Movement would trigger it. They would come to life and reach out and… I couldn’t sleep. I could not allow myself to.
I come to the conclusion that to move my eyes is alright. A meticulous blink here or there or slow—very slow—rise and fall of the chest didn’t prompt anything to happen. I could gaze at one shadowed form, then another.
Time is passing, yet I can’t hear the ticking of clocks anywhere in my house. I’m sure that my grandfather’s old clock—hanging from the kitchen wall downstairs—should cuckoo at midnight. But it hasn’t so far, yet it has to be past the witching hour.
The shadow behind my door is the worst. It is taller than the rest. So tall that its hardly-discernible-in-the-dark head tilts against the ceiling at an odd angle. The intimidating cold silence that emanates from it saturates the atmosphere with dread and hopelessness. It says, we have eternity to do this, you know. We will wait here as long as we have to.
There are moments where I can’t see them. When they blend so well with the black of the room that I can almost pretend they’re not there. Then my eyes find a blurred line and follows it: tracing the contours of the hunched forms, redefining where they are. That they’re real.
My heart hammers so loudly that I fear it will trigger the attack. I wonder what it will be like. Will they suck out my soul? Or pour something into me through my orifices, changing me into one of them? Will I wither into a husk or be torn apart in a sudden flurry of violence?
I need to cough. The urge is bad. I fight it with all I have, trying my best to not shake in mental agony. If I don’t cough, I’ll go insane. The urge grows. The tickle in the back of my throat becomes more alarming. A threat. Do it. Cough or the sensation will worsen. But I refuse. The hummingbird-wing tickle slows, slows, stops. I no longer have to cough. I almost sigh in relief.
Who are they? These dark nightmares that plague me? Why me? Reasoning and common sense are laws that they don’t abide by. It’s just an event. Nature. But not nature. A para-natural event.
Time, imagination, and self-doubt become my enemies. I question whether time is moving at all. Whether I’m in limbo, all roads and decisions eventually leading to the moment where I am lost to these shadow-creatures. How do I know they will move if I do? I have not tested it yet. Do I dare? No, I don’t.
There’s more than eight now. It’s hard to tell the exact number as some stand behind others. They all blend in so well with the darkness. Only one stands out. The tall form behind my door.
Why did I draw the curtains shut before I went to bed? The moonlight would have given them definition. Would light destroy them? If I made a move—went for the curtain and opened it—would I survive the night? I stare at the blocked window and know it’s too far to go for. It wouldn’t matter anyhow: two of the forms stand guard there as if they know what my plans are.
I wonder whether there are any laying down under my bed. Greedily waiting for me to run. Hoping I do so that they can surprise me. Drag me into a black cocoon and suffocate me. I know if these creatures take me, I’ll never be found again.
I watch them and they watch back. Patient and still. How kind of them to wait for me to make the first move.
I’m grateful for the blanket that covers me; feet to chin. It keeps me warm and prevents me from getting goosebumps. I have a sneaking suspicion that goosebumps would trigger them to attack. I have to be part of the furniture. Not animate or alive.
The silence causes me to imagine sounds. A low hum that comes from all around me. Guttural and deep. A noise from the bowels of the void that can shake my soul loose. I focus on it and attempt to understand it. Deeper and deeper I go into the bottomless pit of non-existence.
I awake with a start, my body jolting. Oh no. Oh no! I seize up, eyes dilating and widening. I have moved.
The shadow forms come to life. They have crowded the room now. So many of them. Black forms twisting and approaching. Haunted, tortured sub-life. My mouth makes an ‘o’ of terror. My hands clench, my toes curl; I pee myself. I groan out in horror and they echo back my animalistic sound. Some dance around each other in broken-bodied form, their movements jagged and spasmodic. Frozen and unfrozen. They surround my bed, forming a wall of darkness. Leaning. Looming. Imminent. Reaching.
The tall form from behind my door approaches. He comes forward, body and legs frozen in mid-walk, yet he still moves. His head drags along the ceiling. He is towering. They all bend down over me as I push my blanket out to cover myself, panic causing my heart to stop and start.
I fear this is the end.
I’m afraid to move a single muscle, twitch the slightest, or even breathe. I know that if I do, they’ll come to life and get me. Right now, they’re statuesque; still. Waiting. Watching me from beneath the black hood of dark that covers their faces. They make no sound. They are the most patient cryptozoological entities that exist—or don’t exist. Black shades or demons, or even long dead beings whose origins can’t be explained. If I move, they will get me.
I pretend I don’t exist. Hide within myself and feel as my soul shivers in primal terror. I want to pee. I want to open my mouth in a silent ‘o’ of horror. My toes want to curl in and my hands want to claw up as my body fights my mind to bolt from the room. But I know I’ll never make it.
I can’t see their faces or a glint of eyeballs but their bodies are turned to me and they are staring intently. Outlined forms in the dark with no set definition. Now there are more. Eight of them crowded together in the darkest spaces. My room feels colder and the air heavier, as if they’re breathing it all in—although I know they don’t breathe.
I have to shiver; to flee. I have to escape this room. Run out into the long empty hall of my unoccupied house. Sprint to the stairs, survive my way to the living room and yank open the front door. Run outside into the frigid night. I know I won’t do it though. My imagination takes hold of me—the only part of me that can move freely—and reminds me that it is dark in all those spaces beyond my bedroom door.
Even if I could make it to the hallway, there they would be: packed side by side on one end, sliding forward to my pale body. To get me.
What terrifies me most is sleeping. My body will drift off, relax, and move. Movement would trigger it. They would come to life and reach out and… I couldn’t sleep. I could not allow myself to.
I come to the conclusion that to move my eyes is alright. A meticulous blink here or there or slow—very slow—rise and fall of the chest didn’t prompt anything to happen. I could gaze at one shadowed form, then another.
Time is passing, yet I can’t hear the ticking of clocks anywhere in my house. I’m sure that my grandfather’s old clock—hanging from the kitchen wall downstairs—should cuckoo at midnight. But it hasn’t so far, yet it has to be past the witching hour.
The shadow behind my door is the worst. It is taller than the rest. So tall that its hardly-discernible-in-the-dark head tilts against the ceiling at an odd angle. The intimidating cold silence that emanates from it saturates the atmosphere with dread and hopelessness. It says, we have eternity to do this, you know. We will wait here as long as we have to.
There are moments where I can’t see them. When they blend so well with the black of the room that I can almost pretend they’re not there. Then my eyes find a blurred line and follows it: tracing the contours of the hunched forms, redefining where they are. That they’re real.
My heart hammers so loudly that I fear it will trigger the attack. I wonder what it will be like. Will they suck out my soul? Or pour something into me through my orifices, changing me into one of them? Will I wither into a husk or be torn apart in a sudden flurry of violence?
I need to cough. The urge is bad. I fight it with all I have, trying my best to not shake in mental agony. If I don’t cough, I’ll go insane. The urge grows. The tickle in the back of my throat becomes more alarming. A threat. Do it. Cough or the sensation will worsen. But I refuse. The hummingbird-wing tickle slows, slows, stops. I no longer have to cough. I almost sigh in relief.
Who are they? These dark nightmares that plague me? Why me? Reasoning and common sense are laws that they don’t abide by. It’s just an event. Nature. But not nature. A para-natural event.
Time, imagination, and self-doubt become my enemies. I question whether time is moving at all. Whether I’m in limbo, all roads and decisions eventually leading to the moment where I am lost to these shadow-creatures. How do I know they will move if I do? I have not tested it yet. Do I dare? No, I don’t.
There’s more than eight now. It’s hard to tell the exact number as some stand behind others. They all blend in so well with the darkness. Only one stands out. The tall form behind my door.
Why did I draw the curtains shut before I went to bed? The moonlight would have given them definition. Would light destroy them? If I made a move—went for the curtain and opened it—would I survive the night? I stare at the blocked window and know it’s too far to go for. It wouldn’t matter anyhow: two of the forms stand guard there as if they know what my plans are.
I wonder whether there are any laying down under my bed. Greedily waiting for me to run. Hoping I do so that they can surprise me. Drag me into a black cocoon and suffocate me. I know if these creatures take me, I’ll never be found again.
I watch them and they watch back. Patient and still. How kind of them to wait for me to make the first move.
I’m grateful for the blanket that covers me; feet to chin. It keeps me warm and prevents me from getting goosebumps. I have a sneaking suspicion that goosebumps would trigger them to attack. I have to be part of the furniture. Not animate or alive.
The silence causes me to imagine sounds. A low hum that comes from all around me. Guttural and deep. A noise from the bowels of the void that can shake my soul loose. I focus on it and attempt to understand it. Deeper and deeper I go into the bottomless pit of non-existence.
I awake with a start, my body jolting. Oh no. Oh no! I seize up, eyes dilating and widening. I have moved.
The shadow forms come to life. They have crowded the room now. So many of them. Black forms twisting and approaching. Haunted, tortured sub-life. My mouth makes an ‘o’ of terror. My hands clench, my toes curl; I pee myself. I groan out in horror and they echo back my animalistic sound. Some dance around each other in broken-bodied form, their movements jagged and spasmodic. Frozen and unfrozen. They surround my bed, forming a wall of darkness. Leaning. Looming. Imminent. Reaching.
The tall form from behind my door approaches. He comes forward, body and legs frozen in mid-walk, yet he still moves. His head drags along the ceiling. He is towering. They all bend down over me as I push my blanket out to cover myself, panic causing my heart to stop and start.
I fear this is the end.
