Fear of the Dark

Based on a true story.

Protesting dawn, loose pipes that pass through the wooden frame of a brown brick 100-year-old house squeak and bang. The shower abruptly spurts to life signifying safety. Mike is a skinny ten year old with bright green eyes and a mushroom cut of light brown hair.

“I’m still snow blinded but dad’s in the shower, I should relax and it will go away.”

He comes out from beneath the sheets and is imbued with solace.

“It's safe to look away from the wall.” Relieved, he uncovers his head and snuggles into his thick green comforter for the best shuteye of the morning.

. . .

“Wake up sleepy head, time to get ready for school! How did you sleep?” Mike’s short olive haired mother’s cheerfulness feels out of place. Unthawing from the familiar sensation of after-sleep numbness, he wearily pushes his grogginess away and sits up more tired than when he lay down to sleep.

“I slept fine.”

His muscles are weak and debasing. A train rumbles along in the far distance.

. . .

In the shower he is overcome with bewilderment for how Alien his body appears. Long toes and bony fingers speak of a foreign locale. Legs feel borrowed and look silly. The warm water is comforting while he contemplates if others share his sentiments.

. . .

On the radio a deep and rich voice announces probable flurries throughout the day. Mike sits at the round wooden table by the window and eats a bowl of fibrous cereal with extra milk. His mother scolds him when he sips the left over milk from the ceramic white bowl. Outside fat flurries are hurled about. White clusters jerk as the wind redirects. His mom pours him a glass of viscous brown green liquid.

“Remember this might taste bad but it will help you pay attention.”

“I’m too poor to pay attention.”

“Drink this and go brush your teeth and I’ll have a special desert for you, for lunch.”

While in the bathroom he turns the tap and looks out the window. Beyond the grid of fences a dog barks and neighbors shovel their walkway. He bides his time before closing the tap.

. . .

Mike thinks of his baggy snow pants gloves, neck warmer and other apparel as state-of-the-art armor. He wears this armor to march to the bus stop in subzero temperature. The wind is calm and crisp.

. . .

Mike has yet to habituate the snow-covered landscape. The idea of it seems as unusual as his sleeping pattern. The snow is deep in the white-blanketed neighborhood. The snow removal trucks have not yet cleared the streets. Reaching the bus stop on time becomes a mission. He drudges past thick fir trees, through a backyard and a gentle longhaired golden retriever. The snow becomes even deeper and reaches above his knees but finds an area of hardened snow and crawls cautiously to another back yard. The clouds awake and the snow borrows the sun.

. . .

In the driveway that passes over a shallow dip in the yard, the older brother of Mike's best friend shovels snow. The banks rise higher as kids gather. Cadieu leaves his medium sized blue house and waves goodbye to his mother before greeting Mike. The yellow bus arrives and the scruffy bus driver with a cossack hat grudgingly waits for the kids to line-up straight before allowing them to embark. He threatens to write everyone up in a reprimand report. Mike sits on a brown bench that is two rows from the back of the dissonant bus. He compulsively attempts a new approach to friendliness. He exhausts himself by trying to merge with the conversation and his overly eager attempts are baited against him. One of them snatches purple lip balm, stares at his audience, smiles imperiously and eats it. The audience readily reacts and pours their attention into him. His power is surprise and they help his confidence along while Mike remains stuffed from spurn.

. . .

In the slushy gray cement schoolyard fitted with an aluminum woven fence, everyone lines up according to class. The proud teachers intently survey for any flimsy formations. They ask for silence, something Mike struggles with. The round-faced Mrs. Howard betrays her belief in the importance of lining up.

“We’ll stand hear all day if we have to!”

. . .

Each night Ryan’s mother stands her ground on the brink of forcefulness as she asks him to recite times tables. There’s no forcing him at the beginning of Math class during the daily times table contest. The wiry, gray-haired Mrs. Howard smirks ostentatiously, as his swiftness remains unmatched. Mike sits anxiously in his assigned seat by the row of windows that are too high for his liking. He doesn’t stand a chance and everyone revels in it. Outside the oppressive sized windows, flurries of snow crash to the ground.

. . .

In a small room with posters for encouragement, intelligence games, small plants and varied plastic paraphernalia Mike listens to a women whose job remains unclear. He enjoys listening to the breezy timber of her lilting voice.

“Ok now your going to hear multiple voices, after each clip I would like you to repeat back what was said to the best of your ability. Ok Mike?”

She’s dressed in sophisticated black outfits that he finds alluring. He’s excited to be away from Mrs. Howard’s math class. Its boredom is the guiding light into day dreaming. She places earphones over his head and he’s taught the difference between acceptable curiosity and unacceptable behavior. A typical voice speaks on the left ear and then in the right and he regurgitates the dull communication. The test is increasingly difficult but the soft-spoken lady is sincere. He struggles and wonders whether his performance is acceptable.

. . .

In French class a pudgy faced black-eyed student is caught speaking English and is subsequently required to sit still in the corner at the front of the class. Humiliation is a tool that suppresses self-esteem and instills fear of embarrassment. Mike takes comfort that it’s not him that was caught. He is familiar with the debasing quality of humiliation and although he struggles with it, anonymity seems like an essential virtue to develop. The fair skinned teacher enjoys watching students assemble into groups. She believes the act of gathering into groups is an effective way to learn social skills that help in becoming a model citizen. She feels it’s her righteous duty to tame kids and mold their impulsive behavior into archetypal systems of behavior that allow people to coexist harmoniously. The chatter of negotiation isolates awkwardness. Mike wonders how superficial the coexistence might be and about his own inner turmoil and how easy it is to conceal with an ornamental smile or automated gesture. Mastering this adaptability of persona allows pupils to become popular. They are encouraged to pour their energies into adapting their persona to what’s cool in order to gather into groups. This energy is diverted from self-exploration. They are encouraged with the pleasure that comes with being popular and deterred with the pain of humiliation and alienation. The popular kids grow up and struggle with personal preference and empathy. Relating to people comes from the heart and feeling—it stems from self-exploration. The public lie that is told is that Mike should be an individual that is an archetype and not an individual with introspection. The popular kids see themselves as superior for learning to adapt and the losers resent the popular kids for this. This resentment often leads to apathy for conformity and socializing. Mike is taught that education is acquired from outside himself in textbooks and designated teachers. He grapples with teachings that proclaim that he is not qualified to think for himself. He is a rarity in that he can’t help but think for himself and not fit in. The class tenses as the voluptuous teacher bends down to pick up her expensive pen. Her large supple breasts hang down and the class tautens. She smiles slyly and amusingly while acknowledging her mistake.

. . .

Mike enters a gray aluminum portable where the line-up to the microwave bustles. After eating he wanders outside and finds a snow fort. There are two thick walls of snow connected at a 90-degree angle. One of the walls attach to the aluminum lunch portable. He approaches the entrance but there is a guard who refuses to allow him through. He is not aloud in any of the snow castles and so he disparages and plays away from everyone else. Not wanting anyone to know that he’s been exiled, he imagines a story of why he plays in the snow by himself. While Mrs. Howard looks on indifferently his bully finds him and bombards him with slander. While struggling to come to terms with the illusive dynamics of spontaneous hatred, the first bell rings and the barrage of insults propitiously cease. Line-ups form automatically while teachers stand at the front of every one. Mrs. Howard betrays her pride for conformity to the bell.

. . .

Mike eases up for art class and approaches the girl who he secretly has a profound crush on. His imagined story is that he needs to borrow her mango-scented marker for his colouring assignment. He feels satisfaction for keeping his love secret intact and can’t imagine she would ever return his sentiments. Other kids group together and plan social outings for the weekend. Straggling gazes catch his weakness of guard. He’s taunted and accosted while the teacher remains ostensibly deaf. The sound of the buses arriving at the front of the school brings anxiousness to the classroom and the loudness rises. When the final bell rings he is submerged in warm relief for weekend shelter. He decides to walk home with a few acquaintances that live closer. The roads are slow and wind past medium sized houses with medium sized lawns. Brown naked trees stir stiffly in the distinct burning pine scented sky. Redolence of warmth accompanies the journey. They jump at the snow banks to escape the road that’s turned to slush. Mike’s payment for company is snowball fodder. Caoilinn is a pretty, thin, white smiling, dark haired foreign girl who wears bright pink gloves, snow pants and a matching jacket. She lives nearest to him but has never asked him to play. He’s compulsively drawn to impress her and when they are alone behind a snow bank he divulges a secret short cut through a wooden fenced back yard.

“If we take the short cut we’ll get there much faster, but listen there’s this loud king German Shepard that often patrols in the back yard, um, I have like special hearing though, really and I don’t hear him and my vision is really good to, so that if his owners let him out I’ll see him a mile away.”

Her kind demeanor expresses bemusement. They take the long way home and a green haze warms the air. Mike is initially captivated at the unique site until he realizes he’s lost Caoilinn. Only he hasn’t lost her, he’s already passed her house without recollection of saying goodbye. The road home leads straight into the driveway and Mike’s bedroom window is dead center. The green haze suffuses the horizon.

. . .

His mother greets him at the door. “How was your day at school Mike?”

His candidness is undetectable. “It was good!”

She betrays her excitement for him. “Are you glad it’s the weekend?”

He recalls where his favorite stories left off. “Yes, it’s cartoon day tomorrow?”

His mother sustains a gentle smile. “I’ll be back in a half an hour.”

He sprawls out on the sofa beneath a brown wool blanket made with diligence by his graceful grandmother and forgets school with the help of foreign landscapes on the television. The vivifying vicarious missions are grand and far from school. During a commercial he watches the plentiful snowfall outside the adjacent window wall. Bestial growling in the conjoining room forcefully changes expectation and causes Mike to jump to his feet with violent frustration.

“It’s day time, I’m safe, that wasn’t real.”

The growling repeats and turns to rapid sporadic shrieks. The phone rings and his brother saunters inside.

“Don’t get that, it’s for me!”

When he hangs up he pins Mike down on the sofa and tickles him relentlessly.

“No stop it!”

His brother wipes the sinister smirk of his narrow face and smiles kindly.

“Do you want to build a fort in the basement?”

Mike is relieved and already imagining the fort.

“Ya, how about a spaceship that can go to Nars.”

“Sure, I’ll meet you there!”

Mike's faith in kindness is indelible hence he is easily dissuaded.

Mike flips the light switch on the outside and then goes down into the cool concrete basement. Just as he finds some supplies for the fort he hears the door creek shut. As he runs upstairs the lights go out and he is filled with beckoning dread.

“Let me out please.”

Mike refuses to elucidate the eerie noises of things moving and bumping into things. He screams to be let out. Grey speckles form out of nothingness and clump into monstrous shapes that are engendered with imagination. When their mother returns Darwin is watching the beaming television.

“Darwin where’s Mike?”

He is stultified by his mother and provides a brazen response. “I don’t know”

Mike’s muffled yelling is overheard. “Let me out!”

His mother becomes bold and impatient. “Darwin did you lock your brother in the basement again?”

“No.”

She releases him from his horrible and mind-numbingly terrifying entrapment and becomes riled up. His brother can’t relate to the fear that’s twisted Mike's face. She banishes his brother to his room and him to the corner for encouraging the ordeal. Sitting in the corner feeling an invisible force of entrapment he circuitously contemplates the emotional ordeal and wonders about the credence of the demonic growling.

. . .

The electrical motor starts and cranks the garage door open. In walks his father carrying a black leather brief case and dressed in a black work suit and tie. A day's work spills from his round blushing face as he smiles cheerfully. Mike runs into his arms and is given a bag of pickle chips that can only be opened after dinner.

. . .

A universal tournament of action figures is concluded with the unexpected resurrection of the mutant underdog. He dives off the couch and jams his oversized heels into his green mutated nemesis. His mother interrupts the eventful standoff with the first call for supper.

. . .

“Dad, can Cadieu come over?”

Mike's father is reassured by his willingness to have a social life.

“I’ll make a fire.”

Sparks catch the tips of dry splinters and fire comes together. When it catches an updraft, a wave of heat passes through the cozy family room. Cadieu arrives and curls up on the couch with Mike. They lose themselves to an adventure greater than their own. Afterward Cadieu hesitantly makes it clear that he is too afraid to sleep in Mike's house and consequently leaves for his own.

. . .

After his bedtime, Mike is confined to his green room. He rebels and leaves the lights on to play with imagination and action figures. On his white corner shelves he takes the creepy Daffy Duck doll and places it beneath his bed until morning. Not soon after his mother catches his betrayal from the seam of light beneath the door and sends verbal reprimands. She returns shortly to make sure that he has retreated to bed. He finally grabs his teddy bear and covers his body with the tightly tucked sheets and prays passionately for others and for a good night's sleep.

. . .

Slow methodical steps climb the staircase. With each step nervousness racks his brain. Desperate hope to remain invisible swallows all calmness. In rough darkness he is gradually forced into the terrifying possibilities of everything unbelievable. As he does every night he turns his belly and faces the wall so as not to see what might lurk in the bedroom. The punishing footsteps reach the top of the hardwood wound stairs. He covers his entire body meticulously beneath the blanket and wraps it around creating a tiny breathing hole from which he peers out at the wall. The footsteps stop at his door and the room darkens. His untamed imagination floods scenarios that mirror his terror. He loses the ability to discern whether his eyes are open or closed and yet fiery patterns form in the blackness. They brighten and form intricate geometrical structures that are as foreign as hatred and similar to the dermal ridges of his skinny hands. A black cloud eclipses the structures and his muscles lose strength. His eyelids become heavy and droop. A force of numbness bears down upon his curled body. It bulges, strengthens and swiftly anesthetizes.

. . .

Mike awakes with the sheets uncovered and wet from his sweat. The teddy bear is nowhere to be seen. Quickly he reaches for the bedside light and illuminates the small cubicle room. He grabs his blankets, opens his double door wooden closet and gets comfortable. He drifts off into a sleep cradled by terse light. When he opens his eyes the light is orange and feels distracting. Peering through the closet there is a small hovering craft with a side wide open revealing bright orange light with a black-haired woman dressed in a tight black uniform. The craft remains close enough to his window that it’s shape is concealed.

. . .

Although he awakes beneath his covers there is no reassurance to be found. Fear's temptation is the possibility of something unknown clutching onto his long-toed feet from below the single bed. He rolls over and summons courage from beyond a silver veil that camouflages comprehension. As he compulsively scans his forest green dark room, relief arises for the lack of blacker than black speckled blotches. Hit with abstract abhorrence, awareness speaks of black slimy abominations that slither and crawl upon one another behind the white-framed round mirror facing the bed. Plump limbless centipede bodies with dinosaur heads crawl above one another and rise toward the mirror's edge. Their black squid tentacles paddle through shadows. Keeping his eyes straight ahead he runs out of the bedroom down the hallway and into the white-tiled bathroom. He swirls around, closes the door, locks it and flips the light switch in one smooth and familiar motion. The tactile cool bathtub takes up half the bathroom. It’s a refuge with green curtains that are more useful drawn.

. . .

Mike runs to greet his mother at the peninsula counter that separates the kitchen from the dining area. As she smiles a spasmodic contortionist white chicken with blood shot eyes flies towards her and inserts it’s incisive beak into the whites of her own eyes. They burst and the flesh is torn from her face until blood gushes from the underlining muscular system. He jumps upon the counter and shrieks violently while the bloody chicken swoops back and forth.

. . .

Daffy Duck's parabolic beak, black feathered face and pearl white eyes appear just outside the window that’s centered in the bedroom. With an orange ribbed leg it steps over the sill and onto floor. It sways its hefty body through the window and stands six feet tall. Its face remains chillingly frozen and its lidless eyes bore into Mikes petrified body. Daffy takes one more flexible step towards the bed and blocks the door. The duck jiggles jostling feathers.

. . .

“I must protect myself, he must not be able to see any part of my body. There can’t be any opening in the blanket. My whole body must be covered completely even if it’s hard to breath.”

There is relentless shuffling downstairs and unique fetid fumes expel. He drifts further into the open unconscious. There is nothing until awareness washes upon him. The realization of the surroundings arrives and it’s a sterile looking but dirty feeling concrete bathroom with blue toilet stalls. The sound of rapid shuffling approaches the open doorway. Mike impulsively lowers the toilet seat and hides while watching beneath the blue thin metal door. The shuffling slows followed by a terrible prolonged sniffing noise. Purple parabolic monsters slither into the public washrooms. At the base of an obese lumpy body there are two weakly flinching dummy hands and one-foot high yellow legs attached to two-toed cyst ridden feet that slide across the wet floor. Their movements are incredibly fast and seem jerky. They search him out but their meager wandering hands are too low to the ground to open the doors.

. . .

“Finally, I’m awake this time.”

In the bedroom he is still covered seamlessly with the blanket. Feet shuffle just out side his room.

“It can’t be.”

A purple monster arrives and has one large green iris that contains two small black pupils and a broad flat nose with only one nostril. Three red ovular teeth jut out the lonely lip at the bottom of its awful frown.

. . .

“It can’t see me or else the dead will!”

The garage doors won’t close so he hides behind the median that separates the two garage doors. The ghost train nears and it’s insatiably hungry for capturing awkward spirits. Forgetting the restriction of movement, he makes his way next door for a better hiding place but it’s too late—the train arrives and forcibly draws him inside. The bus driver is so fat and grotesque that his belly hangs below it’s own seat. Its mouth bulges from its large head and black sparse hair droops over bushy eyebrows. Black eyes and red skin, it’s a site that Mike quickly evades. The melancholic passengers are translucent tinted pale blue. Silent and unstimulated they are the apathetic without caretakers. The train moves on and sounds its horn once again. He is snow-blinded and tumbles in the aisle.

. . .

Caught in black smog that disorients the senses Mike calls to his mother. It echoes in the mind only. Persistence prevails and his mouth opens to make the sound but when wakefulness arrives, the risk of escape seems more propitious path. Gasping for air, he passes a ledge that drops off to the stairway and is on the way to his parent’s room, but the door is locked.

“Not again? Why do they believe the doctor? Locking me out doesn’t help.”

His brother’s room is locked and so the office seems the safest.

. . .

Hiding below the blue plastic dashboard of his mother’s small blue car as it passes rustling green meadows, music like a broken jack-in-the-box rains down from the golden blue frozen sky. Balloons sail towards them instilling the deepest dread that Mike has ever known. They follow the car and lower beside window.

. . .

Mike penetrates a spherical periphery into an abyss of swirling viscous and luminescent liquid. The tactile sensation is a combination of flying and swimming. There are shades silver and indigo that curve in on themselves. There are tentacles of black and no matter how deep he plummets it remains bright and warm. There are other blue-silhouetted crystalline bodies that make the journey. They greet him as an old friend. There is safety here that he can’t comprehend but can’t deny. Again he penetrates the curved lining on the edge of the gravitation free abyss and is hurled high into an everlasting dawn. The clouds are pink like the sky. He feels warm piercing love that brings humbleness to his weary heart. Three Wuzzles hover before him as he floats atop a cozy cloud. They have the body of a bee and the limbs and head of baby orange lion. Their long pink hair flows straight beyond two antennae as they fly with bee wings. Mike feels at one with them and calls out.

“I want to stay here, Please let me stay!”

Their words form from within.

“We love you and although this place feels like home, you have an important mission that you must return to.”

. . .

Protesting dawn, loose pipes that pass through the wooden frame of the backside of the house squeak and bang as a shower abruptly signifies safety.

“I’m still snow-blinded but dad’s in the shower, I should relax and it will go away. But why are my ribs sore?”

As he comes out from beneath the sheets and wipes the tears from his eyes he remains deeply introspective.

“It's safe to look away from the wall. I can’t cry, ever, I’m strong, I’m God’s superhero.”

Relieved, he uncovers his head and snuggles into his thick comforter for extra shuteye before the beginning of cartoon day.

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