LEGAL HORROR STORIES

In the dark, his nightmares wait for him

In the dark, his nightmares wait for him. Watching him. Stalking him. Hungry as he walks along the boulevards and streets.

He girds himself as he steps out onto the street, preparing for the demons that prowl the last hours before dawn. Hoping they will grant him one more night to get home, looking for another chance to see the following day unharmed. Praying. If they catch him, they can tear him and his life apart. Even if they do not, they can creep into him and suck the flesh from inside, leaving him an empty husk.

Work is over, night still reigns, walking home. Always more dangerous after the dark falls. He moves quickly along the street, but not too quickly for fear he attracts attention. He keeps quiet and to himself, but again, not so quiet that he attracts attention that way either. His path is bordered tightly, between summoning the soul-eaters who hunt him by making noise, or alerting them through conspicuous silence. So far, he has managed the tightrope to the tracks safely, but with every trip, the odds of being found increase.

There is always a threat by daylight — but it’s only a threat. He knows there are those who nudge their confidants as they see him, making quiet comments, reacting. In daylight, they are less likely to act on their fear and hatred. More restrained. He is less likely to hear what they say about him. They are less likely to attack. During the day, he is another invisible man. But at night, under cover of the dark, there is less to stop them. The dark shrouds inhibitions: to them their actions seem less real, less consequent, his humanity less corporeal than ever to them. He is a dessert to be enjoyed after a night in the bar.

He hears a scream and inhales deeply, bracing himself. A banshee’s shrill cry. He turns — slowly — and looks about himself. Eventually he sees the woman, screaming. Is she far away enough? Is that possible? Perhaps. She lets another scream loose, but this time he is looking straight at her. Like a simpleton he keeps looking — he can’t turn away, and that is evidence enough for some. It’s a cackling scream. Is it laughter? Yes, mercifully. He breathes out, muttering under that breath “idiot, idiot, idiot.” He knows better, that someone like him can be swept off in a moment for being who he is and being where he is — this kind of thing isn’t uncommon. Not being involved doesn’t mean much, especially when being who you are is enough reason for the powerful to blame you.

No more stops. Keep going, get to the other side of the tracks. Get moving — but not too fast. Think about something else. Maybe it’s a good time to listen to music or a podcast, but no — it is not worth risking having his senses distracted. What music would be good to listen to now? His wandering mind wonders what his phantoms expect him to listen to. Expecting his taste to match their guess — liking the music “his people” like, listening to podcasts about “his type”. That’s how his work colleagues behave during the daylight, why expect different of a ghoul?

Then he spots them. A group of seven? No, six. Teenagers? Most likely. Directly on the street in front, maybe 120 yards away. Perhaps just five. Even so. Without having to think, his body looks along the street to make sure the other side is safe. As he crosses, he feels slight shame. He is a grown man, he shouldn’t be running away from teenagers. Is staying the course worth the risk? They’re probably not going to start something, but they could. It isn’t worth it, he reminds himself, but feels defeated.

Like at work. Like when he talks of the wraiths, the hellhounds, the goblins that he encounters every night. He uses the socially accepted names for them, but he doesn’t disguise the menace. But his colleagues think nothing of it. “You’re imagining it”, they say. “They’re only boys”, or “They’re here to protect you”. One line stays with him in particular: “It can’t be nearly as bad as you say — I go walking the same route some nights” — as though walking could be a leisure activity! No one willing to believe how nightmares lurk here. “I am not a mad man”, he tells himself, “It happens to so many”. He presses on, and after a block changes sides of the street again. Onto the brighter side, and he feels slightly less vulnerable in the light.

As he walks, he repeats the incantation to himself, silently, “I am not a mad man”. It fits the rhythm of his stride as he marks it out, block by block. He hears it synchronize with his feet hitting the pavement — “I am not a mad man”. The streets are quiet — a relief in one way. However, fewer witnesses and fewer to intervene. No one on the streets now, but he feels the possibility of danger more acutely. With each passing step, each passing street, he edges closer to the tracks, and home.

“I am not a mad man”. He feels stronger, braver, until he hears a loud bang. In sight of the track, he runs. He doesn’t feel like it was fired at him, but he doesn’t wait to find out. As he runs, he hears a trailing crack, and he realizes it’s just a firework, and he slows down to a jog, and he takes a moment to look over his shoulder. Yes, just a firework. He realizes he’s sweating, despite the cold in the air.

He lets the remainder of the jog in him take him up the gravel slope to the tracks. He recalls one night arriving here just in time to see a train rasp along slowly in front of him: new cars being transported from one city to another, where they can live out their lives. In memory, it is a mile long and travelling a snail’s pace, leaving him trapped, so close to home, so very unfair. No train tonight as he reaches the tracks.

He felt reassured and relieved. Back in his home, his city, his community. Only a rail track divided it all, but for him the difference between home where known, and work where other.

He walked along the tracks a little before coming down the thick railroad gravel, sliding and stepping, and not really looking ahead. He was only a block or two away: he knew every kid on the block, and they all knew him, his brother, his family, his own particular history. Here he was no longer outside. Here he was just him, whatever that happened to mean on any given day.

As he stepped up back onto road, he finally noticed the car. As soon as he noticed the car, he felt a light blaze directly into his face, and the light tore into him with incisor sharpness. He saw nothing ahead of him but the bright light, burning him where he stood. His heart filled the silence. Eventually, he could see through it to a peripheral reflection, perhaps early daggers of dawn. He can almost see markings on the car, etchings of what must be shiny buttons and the underside of a star on a uniform. When he could hear again, there was a dying faceless chuckle.

In the dark, through the light, his nightmares found him.