So it's been edited once. It's still prone to grammer errors and spelling mis-haps, so I'm sorry about that.
Anyways, enjoy!
Nightcalls
Shock. Clock. Tic tock. Follow the flock.
My mind slowly bends open. At first I am awake, yet purely aware that I am asleep. And slowly a face, sinister and smiling, spreads across my vision. I bolt awake, sitting up with my eyes clenched shut. The bed vibrates and all that I know of is that face. That face. That dangerous face. No, I do not want to open my eyes. That face may be waiting again. Thoughts of dreams enter my mind, and I think back, trying to remember my sleep. But it is nothing but a hazy snowfall; an unfocussed mist. Slowly I lower myself for only a moment. Maybe I’ll get a snack before going back to sleep? I look around the insides of my eye lids. As I do this I feel my eye lids squirm, and it’s painful; like a dark hand pushing into my eye socket. Slowly reality seeps into my veins, and I can feel it in my brains, and soon I know that there’ll be no more strains for sleep. My back arches up. Darkness reaches into my head, and I feel faint. Head rush. That’s what they call it.
I’m an endless pit of nothing. Momentarily free from my mind’s shackles. Stay like this. But I remember my day too quickly. His smile. The edges of his mouth curving up, and the smile mark imprinted onto his flawlessly porcelain skin. If only I could imagine touching him. I had imagined it as touching glass, but no, the feeling was better. It was like touching... like touching...
Something human.
Oh, yes, something human. No, glass wouldn’t have been fun at all. That’s what I always look for in someone; their true human nature. I remember his warm skin. The way he had shaved. Slowly I had rubbed his cheek and he had rubbed back for only a moment until he... The memory collapses under it’s own weight, and the world closes in on me as the doorbells rings. Already my eyes are sucking in light as I look around the room. My bedsheets crinkle, and I rub them with my hands as if to make sure that they are there. My doorbell buzzing drives into my skull like thousands of tiny marbles zooming through my head. Who could it be? Not at a time like... I look at the clock... three sixteen in the morning.
My feet whip around and dangle off of the bed. A rosy pink covers my lap, and I realize that I’m wearing my night gown. I must have been too drunk to realize that I had put it on. Drunk. The night before pushes into my mind again. Drinking. A dance. Him leaving. Her crying. And that “her” is me. I know it. As I saunter down the stairs I ask myself how I’m awake at 3:16 in the morning. After such a crazy club night, I would usually be having some sot of hangover by now... I wait for it to come. I feel as if it’s slowly making its way into my head; the drumming of nails. No headache. 3:17 in the morning. The doorbell.
It rings again, but this time it seems much more impatient. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” I mumble under the dense silence. Nothing replies except for a distant cry in the night. Possibly a cat. Or maybe a dog. Or a girl. The doorbell. My groan. I need to stop thinking about him, I tell myself, it’s all pointless. Quietly I nudge near the door, and my heart races. I don’t know why. Before I open up I take the chain lock, looping it into the lock way. I don’t want some dumb-a** sneaking in here tonight. The door squeaks open, but comes short as the chain-lock is yanked. I look down.
“Hello miss,” the boy says. The boy? His head is down, his hair covering his curious eyes. A shiver runs down my spine. Outside, the cool night air rushes through, as if to coax me back into my home.
“Hey there, is something wrong?” I ask worriedly.
His head remains down as he responds, “No, nothing is wrong. I was simply looking for a place to stay the night. Might I come in?” His English accent acts as a sealing for his innocents. I don’t trust it. Something in the way he keeps his head down. And his skin. Almost like his, accept more... inhuman. No, It’s not glass. But marble. The young boy is made of marble, I know it, I think insanely. The rational side of my brain comes knocking.
‘Let the boy in for crying out loud!’ it screams.
My instincts speak back, ‘No! Something is off about him! You can’t let him in!’
‘He’s a young boy!’
‘He’s dangerous!’
The boy hits me out of my thoughts, “Ma’am?”
“Oh, sorry, um, maybe you can try the next house? I’m not sure if I have any place for you to sleep,” I reply uncertainly.
“It’s fine, I can sleep on the floor,” he tries to convince me.
“No, really, I’d rather you not come in...”
He puts his hand on the door. Something in his skin changes color, as if he’d just adopted a shade of purple, “Please, I must get into this house,” he says looking up. And I’m suddenly staring into the eyes of evil. Nothing but dark black. His eyes are an ocean of darkness, and I can feel it enveloping me. Like round pool balls they glisten in the moon’s light, and I feel coaxed to open the door.
But instead it closes. I close the door. His hand falls limp as my instincts take over and the door begins to shut.The wind snaps through, running from the boy, and I hear a growl. His face twists into a silent roar as I close the door. His head seems to stretch out as he screams silently. Violet veins suddenly pop out from his face. The door clicks shut. And then a moan. It is a deep throaty moan, and my door suddenly shudders, as if bombarded by a baseball bat. Or the boy’s fist. I let out a squeal and fall back, but there’s nothing but silence. To my back stand large windows covering the entire wall, and I feel a shadow run across my shoulder. The moonlight sparkles through, and I look back. Standing in the shadows is the boy, his silhouette pasted menacingly in front of the window. His shadow stretches over the patio and into the foyer, his head landing before me. And I blink. He’s gone.
I spend the rest of the night huddled behind my couch, using it was a barrier. I’m almost positive that the boy will come to get me. He’ll plow through the door and come for me. Follow my scent. Find me behind the couch. But through my shaking limbs nothing moves. And it isn’t until daylight peaks above the horizon that I am convinced that I’m safe.
As I hobble outside later that day to retrieve the newspaper, I can’t help but look across the street. The front door to my neighbor’s house is wide open. The top window is smashed through, and I can see the tiny shards of glass carpeting their lawn. Finally I see a trail of deep red, leading from a hand laying lifelessly from the inside of my neighbor’s doorway. The trail moves across the street, creeping onto the sidewalk. It paints itself a path onto my front stoop, where a message is left for me.
In blood.
THEY OPENED UP FOR ME. WHY COULDN’T YOU?
I scream. In the distance police sirens explode, but I’m frozen in time, thinking back to those horrible black eyes that almost coaxed me into opening up the door.
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