Night Scream

See, this is what happens when you watch too many true life horror stories on TV.

        He rolled over and almost fell out of bed.  That would have hurt like hell, he thought. He rolled back over and partially fluffed the pillow under his head. It was one of those specialty pillows you see on TV. Some guy pitching them. It actually was pretty good. Problem was it was the last thing his wife had gotten him before -- he shut off the memory. Dwelling on it for too long always made him cry. It had been a year since hell. Since he sat by  her bedside, changed her disposable briefs and forced her to eat. 

Please, baby, ya got to eat something. Please.

I am not hungry, came the weak refrain.

Please try, love.

Nothing.

You got to have something in your stomach for the meds. Please.

     He felt a tear beginning to well up.

D****t. D****t all to hell.

     As he lay on his side of the bed a question drifted into his mind. Did something wake him?  He seemed to have been jerked awake. A noise? In the house? The dog pattering clicking on the hard floor on untrimmed toe-nails. No. Something else. He looked at the bedside digital clock. 3:30. So what. Then it occurred to him that this was not the first time he had awakened at this time. How many? Can't recall. Outside? Forget it. Back to sleep. As he often did, he stared at the pitch black ceiling.

" I miss you, baby."

He felt so groggy day after day. It seemed that sleep had evaded him for such a long time since -- He couldn't even find the strength to sleep on the right side of the bed. That was her side after all. He would wake up so often and find his hand stretched out to that side and for a second. Just one second he would think that she was up going to the bathroom or in the office playing Solitare, which she did on those night that she couldn't sleep. He would shuffle in and put his arms around her, kissing  her neck.

"Come to bed, love."

Soon, she would reply.

But now that would never happen. He has closed off the office, a shrine to her memory. After a while he would crawl back in bed and drift off, knowing that she would join  him shortly. But now that was never going to happen. And his sleep was fitful. And and as usual he would drift off only to awaken at 3:30. What the hell?

     The morning sun broke a dull yellow, almost orange. There must be a fire somewhere. He could smell the distant smoke and the haze filtering the sun. His dog trotted into the bed room and tilted his head to one side.

      "Hungry, I know. Give me a second."

The animal walked out of the room, stopped and looked back at him.

         "I said I was coming." 

The curled tail wagged expectantly. He walked to the laundry room and scooped out a cup full of dried Kibbles.

"Chow down Squirt." He said and went about starting his day. Being that is was the weekend, he spent most of the morning before the heat became too much, pulling weeds and clipping flowers.

 I was never much good at this,  he mused. His wife was the garderner of the family. He felt like a pathetic shade in comparison to her green thumb.

As the day wore on he felt a bit hungry but didn't feel like eating. He got that way sometimes after working in the flowers or doing other things around the house that his wife had done for the most part.

Why did he miss her so much today? Ir seemed true -- no, it was true that he missed her all the time. Every minute  of every day. His friends, the few that he had, has told him with forced smiles that things would get better. Really???  Kiss my lily white --  never mind. Its not their fault. They are just trying to be supportive. He knew that. Didn't help. Neither did not getting any good sleep. Waking up nearly every night at 3 in the morning sucked to be frank. Quit being such a whinny little baby. Waa--waa.. 

Dinner was some improperly heated left-overs which he at in protest. He didn't feel like cooking and no place local sounded good for take-out. This day is sucking all around. That is for sure. He once again fed the dog his evening meal and begrudgingly went to bed, staring at the ceiling in mute protest  until he drifted off the sleep. His dreams were fitful, restless. Unsettled.

Something -- what?? What the hell was that?? He awoke with a start. He sat bolt up right out of bed. He swung his head around and looked at the clock. Damn. 3:30 AM. Again? Why had he --Then there was a sound. Something off in the distance. From the backyard. From the trees. That beautiful stand of pines and white barked birch. He and his wife had fallen in love with this little house because of the backyard. There was a line of trees that butted up against some small rolling hills that gradually grew into mountains of a national forest. It was idyllic. 

The sound came again. Clearer this time. It was -- what in the world?? It sounded like a distant wailing. Wolf? Coyote?

Fine. be that way. He threw on his bathrobe and slippers and walked to the back porch. Light on or off?? Off. There was a nearly full moon so the back yard was partially illuminated. But the tree line was still dark. He stood in the moon light not moving. Far off it came. The wailing. But closer. And off to his right in the trees. He strained to listen. Something brushed against his feet. He jumped. The dog. The animal seemed to hear it too. He krept close to his leg, almost hiding behind him. A low whine coming from deep in his throat.

"What is that, boy?"

Closer.

"Is that an animal?"

The dog didn't answer. He just stared along with his master into the dark woods. Now to the left the weird screeching came. Closer.

I wish I had a gun. Yeah, big one. Where's Dirty Harry when you need him?

Again. This time the sound was fading. Moving away. Losing its energy.

He stood staring for a very long time, watching the tree line and the moon slowly dip into the west. Nothing. Who ever -- what ever it was was gone. He shook his  head, looking down at the dog.

"That was weird, huh, boy?"

The dog wagged his tail.

Without another thought he went back into the house and fell into a still troubled sleep.

The dawn broke a bit gray. A small front moving over the mountains. No rain in sight, just stray clouds obscuring the day's sun.

After breakfast his gaze turned to the woods and the bizarre events of the night.

I wonder --was all he could come up with. Why not?

He put on some decent boots, he and the dog went out to the back yard into the woods.

The trees were quiet for there was no breeze as he entered the forest.  The noise. It seemed for be from around here, he thought. He didn't know what he would find. He didn't really expect to find anything. It was stupid really. Just stupid. 

For a second, just a quick second he thought he felt -- what? Nothing. He thought he  heard -- nothing. He didn't hear a whisper off in the dark trees. He didn't hear the word -- please. It didn't sound like his wife's voice. No way. The mind plays tricks. There was nothing. He turned to walk back to the house and -- what the hell?? There was a series of marks on a birch tree. Five long marks, almost scratches. Scratches done by -- no, you've been reading too much Stephen King. He frowned. Stupid. Lets go home but -- but as he walked back to the house with  the dog once again hugging his leg, they did look like -- nails. Nails dug into the bark of that birch tree.

See, told you. There was nothing. No monster, no demon, no spectre.

But the -- nothing.

Today is Sunday. The week starts over tomorrow. A new week, new day, new outlook on life. If he could muster the strength. A good night's sleep and the world would look brighter in the morning.

That night almost as expected the sound came again. He whipped out of bed. What in the name of all that is holy is that? He became almost angry. He threw his slippers on and dashed to the back. Just in his boxer shorts  and slippers, he raced out into the backyard nearly tripping on  his way there. He bent over and scrabbled for a rock from the flower bed. He screamed and tossed it towards the woods, knowing full well that the stone wouldn't even come close to the tree line.

"Shut up! Shut UUUUPP! Leave me alone!!!" That felt better. The shouting didn't seemed to do any good, the noise continued.

"I am going to get a gun, you sonofabitch!" It was an idle threat, of course, he didn't have a gun. He looked around in the darkness and found a shovel.

"Here I come!"

Hefting the shovel like Arthur with Excalibur, he gritted his teeth and went out to slay the nightmare. What ever it was.

As he reached the tree line, he strained to see into the darkness. The moon provided a little in the way of light in these woods. There were some shafts of moonlight breaking here and there amongst the trees.  Still i should have grabbed a flashlight. Too late now. You're  here now. He thought. So is it, came the response from the back of his mind.

With the shovel held out in front of him he moved forward deeper in to the trees.

"Where are you?" He hissed silently.

Nothing.

"You can't be afraid of me. " And then almost in a growl, "Well, you should be."

Deeper and deeper he krept into the woods. His feet crunching on leaves and twigs. He stopped to listen,

Nothing.

Playing hard to get, huh?? He threw the thought out into the dark. As he did he heard a twig snap.

There!

He whipped around and saw -- not one dame thing. Another twig snapped behind him again. He swung the shovel around and hit -- nothing.

What ever it was seemed to be toying with him.

"Face me!" He growled between clenched teeth.

Then there was a breath behind him. A dry wheezing sound as if leaves and phlem were mixed, Swinging the shovel around again over his head and in a downward arc he hit -- something. A dry thud that ran up his arms. He opened his eyes and gazed upon the author of his nightmares.

The thing was standing before him in ragged torn clothes, almost  a light dress of some kind, hanging off of a rail thin body mostly of skin and bones. Its head was hanging down to one side, stringy matted hair covering most of its face. What skin he could see was bleached white, he could tell that even in this partial light. As he stared at it in growing horror he realized that it was a woman. A WOMAN!

The thing didn't even seemed to have reacted to being hit by the shovel. It swayed slightly and then slowly the head began to tilt up. Its mouth was partly open and he could see dirt and leaves in its maw. It observed him with one eye fully open and the left partially shut.

"Dear God." he whispered, dropping the shovel. For in that moment he knew three things. First the weapon would do no good and the second thing, which came to his mind slowly, was that he was going to die. And the third thing he knew as his knees struck the dark, damp earth. This thing was his wife.

He began to weep as it reached out for him. Sobs building and building. Racking his body in terror and final grief.

He opened his eyes and looked up at it as the broken-nailed hands reached him.

"Please." It gurgled.

Author's Note

Thanks for the review. I went back and did some editing. I think it improved.

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Why do they go out into the woods??? Jeez, I swear some people are just asking to be monster food. Smdh, and in a pair of slippers and boxers too? Honestly. That's body confidence, I wouldn't go outside without a large cardigan sweater and baggy jeans. Shoes may be optional, between sneakers and boots. But with a shovel? Omg, man, nothing less then a chainsaw, or crossbow. There are rules to follow, or how about just moving away, damn it. Obviously you have a monster squatting on your land, move to the city, apartments are cheap, except in downtown Frisco or LA. Excellent story well written and would have gotten a solid A, but the character aggravated me to know end and wouldn't listen to me when I kept yelling at him through my laptop screen to "Don't go fricken outside, Idiot!!!" Thank you for sharing this haunting story. Continued success. P.S. for some reason I kept visualizing Armie Hammer as the main protagonist. Oh well, good story.