The Dark Visitor

A fictional story about a strange visitor and a traumatic experience, based on a writing prompt.

The Dark Visitor

I woke suddenly, from a restless, troubled sleep.  I was in a strange, dark room.  All around me, I heard faint beeps and whirs, which sounded like carry-overs from my weird, unsettling dreams.  In the corner of the room, down past my feet, was an open door.  I saw a figure against the bright light of the open doorway.  Still halfway lost in my dream, I started screaming.

Immediately, the figure moved closer, still back-lit by the glaring, white light beyond the doorway.  It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. 

“Don’t be afraid,” said a soft, low, androgynous voice.  It spoke slowly and gently.  “It’s all over.  You’re safe now.  No one’s going to hurt you.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but it did seem that the terror I’d been reliving, over and over again, for as long as I could remember, had stopped.  The beeps and whirs, now that I was more fully awake, were gentle, even soothing; before, I had been surrounded by shouts, screams, blaring horns, and sirens, all surrounded by harshly glaring, flashing, spinning lights.  As that change burrowed its way past my terror into my consciousness, I took a gulp of cool air … two … and then three.  My screams subsided into a few whimpering hiccups.

“That’s right,” the softly melodious voice softly crooned.  “Take a few breaths.  You’ll feel calmer in a moment.”

I lay as still as I could.  I didn’t yet trust myself to try to speak.  Instead, I let my eyes drift around the room.  Small red, blue, green, and amber lights blinked, glowed, or moved in small waves all about the room.  Without my glasses, I couldn’t make out any details.  I turned my gaze back to the figure, and found it had moved; it was now half as far away as it had been, but it was still back-lit, and I couldn’t see any details.

“Wh… wh… where?” I managed to whisper through a sore throat and a dry mouth.  I licked my lips, but there was no moisture on my tongue, which felt thick and furry.

“Hush,” the voice replied.  “Here, let’s see if I can help.”

It moved, and something cool and moist, with a faint taste of lemon, pressed gently against my lips.  It was only a few drops, but I sucked at them greedily.  Immediately, my tongue seemed to shrink back to its proper size.  I ran it around my lips, capturing every drop.

“That’s better,” the voice encouraged.  “Do you remember what happened?”

I tried to think.  My mind still swirled with the infernal screams, the pulsing red light, and the heat, which had replayed in my head countless times.  That couldn’t be right.  Could it?  It was a place to start; maybe it would make more sense, if I said it out loud.

“Pain,” I said, very slowly, thinking as I spoke.  “People screaming.  Bright lights.  They hurt my eyes.”  I sagged deeper into the bed, exhausted by the effort.  I tried to seek out the other’s eyes, but saw only an indistinct darkness against the bright light.

“Yes, I’m sure they did hurt your eyes,” the voice said, sounding surprisingly credulous.  You must have been in a great deal of pain.  Your throat was terribly raw when you arrived.”  Mercifully, the cool wetness was put to my lips again, and I sucked at it.  I felt the cool drops sting as they trickled down the back of my throat.  I realized that the figure was right beside me.

“You mean it was real?” I managed.

“Well, I don’t know what you remember, so I can’t say, but you were certainly in pain.  Do you remember the color of the lights?”

It was an odd question, and I groped in my memories to be sure of the answer.  “Red,” I said at last, my voice stronger, although harsh and rough.  “Red, like fire and blood.”

The figure moved in what might have been a nod.  “Yes, there was fire, and there was blood, and there were red lights.  Can you remember what you were doing before that?”

Before?  I hadn’t considered yet that there had been anything before the pain and the screaming and the lights.  I forced myself to take a deep, slow breath, and then another.  I tried to think of what I was doing before.  “Driving,” I said softly, almost dreamily.  I was driving home, I think.”

“Good,” the voice urged.  “What happened then?”

I struggled back through the tangle of nightmares and nightmarish memories.  The pain, the screaming, the flames, the lights all swirled about me, and then I was driving home from work in my dark blue Ford station wagon, the windows down to let in the soft, summer air.  I was listening to a cassette tape of the Moody Blues, with the volume turned up to help me stay awake.  Suddenly, it all came back, and I started to sob.

“The little boy.  He just ran out….”

“Hush, now,” the figure said.  “Jamey Christopher is fine.  You never hit him.”

I gulped, sure I’d heard wrong.  “But I saw him fall.  And I felt… I felt… the thump.”  I barely whispered the last words, horror enveloping me.  My mind played the memory over again: the ball bouncing through my headlights, the small child dashing into the street after it, and the thump of my tires bumping over something on the ground, as my foot jammed down on the brake, and I spun the wheel, trying to swerve.  Then the screaming started.  The pain came later, and the wailing of sirens.  The flashing red lights of the volunteer fire-and-ambulance squad blinded me.  Then it was only the dreams, until I awoke in this bed.

“The hospital,” I whispered, realization dawning.  “Putnam?”

“That’s right.  Good, very good.  But Jamey is fine.  I promise.  His parents have been to see you every day since you got here.”

“His parents?”  I looked up, startled.

“They say your quick response saved his life.  They’ve been praying by your bed every day.”

“But…,” I started, and then swallowed hard before continuing.  “But I felt the thump.  I ran over….”  I broke down again, and couldn’t finish.

“You ran over a bag of trash that rolled into the street.  It was in the report from the police.  The only person who got hurt was you, when your car slammed into a tree, and you went through the windshield.  You weren’t wearing a seatbelt.”

“No, I never do,” I agreed absently.  I’d run over a bag of trash?  Not a child?

“They’ll make seatbelts mandatory soon, if they have any sense,” the other replied.  “You might not have been hurt, if you’d been wearing it.”

I just lay there, staring.  As my mind cleared, I finally became aware of the sharp, antiseptic odor in the air.  I heard the murmur of voices in the corridor, outside the open door.  After a minute or two, I became aware that there was a plastic tube blowing cool oxygen into my nostrils.  How’d I not noticed that before?  Then I felt the slight pinch at the crook of my left elbow.  I didn’t look, but I flexed my arm slightly, and confirmed that there was an IV in the vein there, feeding fluid into my body.  With that realization came the awareness of other pains all over my body.  Most felt like scrapes or bruises, but a few felt deeper.  A weight on my left leg suggested a cast.  Was my leg broken?  As I lay there, my mind started drifting.  I fell asleep.  For the first time since the accident, I didn’t dream of pain, screaming, and luridly red lights.  I didn’t dream at all.

“Miss Fairbanks?  Miss Fairbanks?  Can you hear me, dear?”  A cheerful voice was calling my name, and a hand gently patted the back of my right arm.  I came awake slowly, the fog of oblivion clearing.

“That’s right, Miss Fairbanks.  Welcome back,” the same cheerful, young, feminine voice said encouragingly.  “Good morning.”

“Hi,” I said, a bit groggily, working to coax my eyelids open.  “What happened?”

“You were in an accident, about five days ago.  You were beat up pretty bad, and that bump on your head had us worried, but it looks like you’ll be okay now.”

“Accident…,” I said, slowly trailing off.  “Yeah, that nurse last night told me about it.”

“Nurse?” she inquired.  I was your nurse all night.  I’m Jenny.  No one was in your room but me, and you never woke up ‘til now.”  Her voice clouded with concern at the last words.

I finally opened my eyes, and looked at her.  She was pretty, probably in her mid-twenties �" about my own age.  Her curly, dirty-blonde hair had escaped her ponytail, and tendrils curled along her cheekbones.  Her slate-blue eyes looked worried.  I looked around the room.  The lights were on above my bed, and above the hand-washing sink, near the door.  A curtain hung on each side of the bed, blocking both the windows and the door from view, but letting in the morning sunlight, and the sounds of people and carts passing in the corridor.  The lights and sounds of monitoring equipment came from beside the bed, just out of sight beyond the edge of my pillow.

“Someone came in last night, and talked to me.  I couldn’t see their face; the room was too dark.”

“The lights’ve been on in here ever since you came in,” she replied.  “We didn’t want you waking up in a dark room, and getting scared.”  She moved toward the door.  “I’ll just call the doctor, to be safe, but you prob’ly just had a dream.”

“Okay,” I said.  A dream?  Could it have been?

Author's Note

Initial reactions and constructive criticism welcome. Please let me know if you find glaring typos. This is based on the writing prompt shown at the top.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Not that it's important, but I suspected early on that the narrator might have been in an accident. I took the first visitor as actual and was surprised to learn it may have been something out of the ordinary. Having spent time in ER's before and under heavy sedation, I know what wild, unpredictable things can occur in the brain. Dreams, visions and reality can get all jumbled up. Very engaging, competent writing, my friend.

[Debbie Barry]

Thanks, Samuel. I'm really pleased that you enjoyed it. I'm glad you were surprised, as that was the intent. Yes, I've spent my share of time in the ER, too, and under heavy sedation. Weird things can happen. The fact that the reader can tell it was an accident doesn't bother me much,