In the Darkness

Ben's fragile sleep shattered, snapping his eyes open and prompting
the question. The disorientation that accompanied being freshly awake
made recollection difficult.

Reality came to him in chunks: he remembered his evening run-a storm
approached so he took a shortcut home, cutting across a farmer's field
near the edge of town.

The field was barren, save for a few hard clumps of soil, making
footing treacherous. Ben slowed down, and over the grumble of thunder
signaling an imminent storm, he heard a thwack.

The sound was muted and wet, like punching a waterbed. With his hearing
perked, another thwack sounded. Then another.

Storm clouds strangled the night sky until it was blind-black,
swallowing the town whole, except for the streetlights which fought
valiantly. Later, streaks of lightning would burn bright enough to end
their resistance to the pitch-like grip.

Those very streetlights now burned in the distance, towering
lighthouses telling Ben to come in from his run on the back-roads to
where it was safe. Thwack.

He approached the edge of town with caution, wondering where the sound
was coming from. He heard nothing else, except for his light footsteps
and the increasingly agitated wind.

Usually, the dark didn't bother Ben. Like any fourteen year old, he
paid money to be scared by roller coasters or slasher movies. He was
sterilized against what lurks in the dark because modern movie-making
exploited it so frequently-and comically.

However, reality had more bite than a B-movie, which Ben realized as he
drew close enough to see a man wrapped in black, raising an axe high
above his head and bringing it crashing down. Thwack. It was in the
rear of the city park, where an industrial dumpster laid half-full and
a lone streetlight pushed a weak, yellow light upon the scene. Ben drew
nearer, his pulse quickening; his mind racing with all of the horrible
possibilities the movies had revealed to him.

Despite the weakness of the light, the man's flesh had an albino glow
all its own-beyond pale-freakishly, disgustingly white. The only flesh
that could be seen was the face, the rest seemed a living shadow, dark
and barely moving, but move it did-and the axe followed. Thwack.

Most axe heads were painted red-this one was no exception, although
Ben's now wandering mind revealed the horrible possibility that perhaps
this particular paint was blood, and the target the demonic figure was
dropping the head into repeatedly could be a human body.

Because of the dumpster and all the surrounding piles scrap, Ben only
saw the upper portion of the scene. The axe's target and the lower
portion of the pale figure was blocked from view. Frozen in a fit of
terror and wonder, Ben realized he'd stopped approaching the
town.

Thwack.

The man's white face snapped to the side, as if he sensed Ben, looking
directly at him with holeish, blackened eyes. The fit of terror and
wonder became all terror, and Ben did what any good fourteen year old
would do in such a situation-he ran. He ran until his lungs were
paralyzed, flaming from a lack of air. He ran until the balls of his
feet felt worn to the nub, and just when he thought he had to stop, he
pictured the ghastly figure swinging the axe, and then he ran some
more.

He only wished his stopwatch would've been running. In all, he covered
a mile and a half to the safety of his country home, slicing across
yards and shadows to cross the rural town. He thought about waking his
parents, but decided against it. The best thing he could think to do
was go to bed, endure any nightmares that might come, and re-evaluate
what when on during the safety of a lighted day.

The only light in his now dark room was the red digits from his alarm
clock, which rested on the desk at the foot of his bed. It was ten
o'clock. Pulling his blanket up to his chin, Ben closed his eyes, and
though it came slowly, sleep did come.

Usually a sound sleeper, Ben wasn't surprised when he woke up four
hours later. As stressed as his mind was a bad sleeping night was
inevitable, and his urge to urinate was inching towards
intolerable.

Most nights, he would slide onto his feet, flip on the light, and make
the journey down a shadowy hallway to the bathroom. Ben had every
intention of doing just that, but found that he couldn't move. There
were no bonds on his hands or feet, but his recollection of what he'd
witnessed earlier made movement seem impossible, especially now, lying
in the darkness.

The dark gripped him with fear, images of the axe-wielder snapping his
head to look at Ben fresh and vivid in his mind. Ben wasn't about to
leave the safety of his blanket, which, like any good blanket, was
impenetrable to the forces of evil.

Ben then pulled the force-field blanket over his face-the only
vulnerable area. Now he was truly safe-that is, until his bladder
burst, which seemed only minutes away.

The dark used to be his friend-an enemy to most, but not to him. He
always knew why people were afraid of the dark-the dark is uncertainty.
The darkness of space and the darkness of the ocean appeal and petrify
people because people don't know what terrible or enthralling secrets
they hold. There's nothing enthralling lurking in the true dark-the
dark of a child's room. Things can sneak up on you. Horrible things,
magnified by the microscope of a youthful, wandering mind.

Ben was young, but intelligent. He knew that the dark was not to be
feared because 99.9 percent of the time, there's nothing. But the
mysterious sight and the thump of the axe had thrown the door open on
that .01 percent.

Most nights, Ben knew the secrets of the dark. He knew that all it
concealed was his TV, the light switch, and countless other safe,
serine items in his room. But now, he was thinking about the greatest
horror of uncertainty-there's always a chance, albeit a small one, that
the worst case scenario supplied by the imagination might actually
happen.

Lightning flashed. A loud clap of thunder followed. Rain was pelting
his window, but there was no light-not even the dim light of glowing
stars or a full moon. The room was in total darkness-Ben could open one
eye wide and keep one shut, and not be able to tell the difference.
Even though he was underneath his blanket, he dared not open his eyes
for long. As long as he didn't open his eyes, nothing could get him. Or
at least, he wouldn't have to endure the horror of seeing it
coming.

Lightning flashed again. The rain was easing up, as the storm was
beginning to dissipate.

"This is ridiculous," he said aloud, pushing the covers down. He kept
his eyes shut, but the burning sensation in his midsection was too
much. Ben began to organize his own personal mission-step one, open
eyes. Two, turn on light. Three, take a leak. Four, go back to bed.
Five, laugh at self in the morning.

Step one would perhaps be the most difficult, but cracking his eyes
revealed no difference, so he opened them completely. Complete
darkness. He saw nothing. He may has well have kept them shut as he
groped for the light switch.

But wait. Too dark. Something was wrong . . . his alarm clock-was
nowhere to be seen. No comforting red numbers at the foot of his bed to
let him know how close he was to daylight. His pulse quickened, but
then logic struck again. "The power went out because of the storm," but
just as quickly, he heard the television in his parents room. They
would sometimes fall asleep with the TV on, and he could hear a muted
news reporter in the background.

So the power was on and the alarm clock numbers were gone. There was
only one explanation that he could think of. The numbers were blocked
by something. Or someone.

There's someone standing at the foot of the bed. He tried to keep that
thought from entering his mind, but enter it did. His eyes open but
useless, he wondered what do to next. The fear was wrought the calm
away. His pulse began to jackhammer against his flesh. Now, turning on
the lights were not an option, but neither was sitting in bed waiting
for something to happen. He had to know, and he had to know right
now.

Jesus, there's no one at the foot of the bed. Maybe the power surged
and it got knocked out. The guy I saw tonight was throwing out some
trash, chopping wood, or trying to scare someone. There's a logical
explanation. There always is. Except for my behavior here. I'm acting
like a little girl! Just get up, and turn on the light. Get up, and
turn on the light. OK, on the count of three, leap up, and turn on the
light! One . . . . two . . .

A flash of lightning came one more time, filling up the room with
light, and revealing what Ben couldn't see or fear when lightning
struck earlier since the blanket was over his face.

The fractional percentage had been manifested. An urban legend was
about to be written. His story would be the rarity that kept children
for years to come afraid of the dark, their eyes clenched and covers
pulled taught over their heads, whispering prayers, hopeful their
darkness was hollow.

The last thing Ben saw was an axe falling through the air, lightning
shimmering off the blood-stained edge-and a gnarled, whitish face
smiling above it.