They

short story. trying my hand at suspense

It was dark.

And They were coming.

It was dark, and They were coming.

And They had two yellow, glinting eyes.  And pinching teeth that chewed on bones in the night.   Soundless feet and claws as sharp as piercing light.

 It was dark, and They were coming.

Sherry crawled deeper into the trench that was her bed, pulled the covers above the top of her head.  She shivered in the silence that engulfed her room and knew that somewhere out there They were coming.

She pulled one teddy bear closer—so close she might have strangled him—and tossed the other teddies above her covers.  These teddies would act as sentries to warn her, their master, when They came.  Sherry felt a small twinge of guilt to know that, when They came, the teddies would have to fend for themselves.

But she was their master, their Queen, and they would gladly go down fighting for her.

The trees outside snarled in the wind of late December.  One far-reaching tree rapped for help against her two-story window, and Sherry pictured Them down there, creeping up the driveway and looking wickedly right and left and licking Their lips expectantly for the taste of her blood.

The tree rapped again, and a terrifying thought snuck into her head: what if this rapping was no tree, what if it was Them, climbing with their scraping claws up the bleeding red brick wall of her house?

She could hear them now: a cackling, unanimous howl in the darkness—twisted, shrill screams that come with the end of sunlight.  And They were coming.

Her window was creeping open, just beyond her hearing, and one of Their claws was scraping a scar in the wood of her windowsill.

They were twisting Their thick, furry bodies through her window, using Their monstrously powerful upper-body strength to pull Themselves through, leaving tidbits of scraggly, blood-tinted fur on the window’s ledge.

They were studying her with Their cruel, unblinking eyes.  They were only waiting for the right moment to devour her.  She did not know what Their perfect moment was, what They were waiting for, but they knew—oh, they knew!

Sherry could feel the heat of their breath at the foot of her bed.  She wiggled her toes fearfully and pulled her knees up to her chest.

But it was night, and They were here, and even curling up in this little ball could certainly not save her.

She could smell Their stench, and she wrinkled her nose, a vile knot forming in her throat.  They smelled of countless midnight raids and bloody feasts beneath the wicked, golden glimmer of the moon.

She could feel the pinpricks of Their yellow, narrowed eyes.  They were watching her, and she could not escape Them.  She could barely rise up a whimper in her throat.

Her sentries were surely gone now—half of them scattered by cowardice, the others brutally devoured, having stood their ground, their golden teddy locks scattered all over the room, their blood glowing red, splattered by the creatures of the moonlight.

Sherry knew there was nothing that could save her now.  If she tried to wake her parents, They—the creatures—would eat her up in an instant, and turn to eat her parents next.

Yes, it was dark.

And They were here.

And it was far too late for her.

She heard one of Them snarl—a wicked rasp in its throat: greedy and purely evil—the Black Plague of creatures.

She tried to stop her shivering, wanted to calm her heart and make a brave—though futile—last stand.

But she was just a little child, and being brave was something that she had always thought ought to be left up to the adults.  She could barely catch her breath.  Her heart pounded like the harsh beating of a ten-ton hammer on sheet metal.

They were here—she knew it—but why had They not yet attacked?

Sherry unwillingly, halfway wished They would get it over with.  She could feel the razor of Their fangs—chilled by the cold and pre-stained with other’s blood.

Oh, she hated waiting!

Death was certain, and she had surely moments left—was it wrong to hate the waiting?

Why were They just watching her?

Sherry felt that cool glaze of night creeping over her—a sleepy sedative to stop even the most terrifying.  She let her hands loosen their clench on the teddy bear and blankets, felt her heart slow a little, and her eyes unwillingly begin to shut.

As she fell asleep—to the slow clicking of the clock at a little past midnight—she began to forget about Them and how They were waiting, waiting, waiting at the foot of her bed and how They smelled like wild wickedness and how Their claws—oh, yes, there claws were sharp. 

Weren’t their claws sharp?  She couldn’t remember.

She slept.

She twitched in nightmare beneath the covers.

And it was dark.

           And They came.

Author's Note

was it real or was it all a nightmare?

Reviews

[Dressed in Poetry]

My first thought was that it was a nightmare, but then I could also see this creepy stalker guy attacking her too, for some reason. Still, I settled on the idea that it was a nightmare, and "They" are the things within it. I liked this a lot, particularly the last bit.