A short story called "Something in the Dark"

Something in the Dark

Timothy is sprinting, a slippery pavement under him. It is cold and dark and rain is pouring down, wetting his tweed suit and splattering loudly on the concrete ground. Every few steps a lamppost looms creepily above him and he is bathed in sallow light. Then he is in the dark again.

Something is lurking in the darkness behind him. He saw it soon after he got off the routine 342 bus. It was dark then too, but he had still made out a flash of something in the gloom behind. A flash of something white and tall – and wide. Bureaucratic. The more he thinks about it the clearer the image gets. It’s a businessman. A pale, fat businessman. With a comb-over. Grinning. Grinning maniacally. Murderously. And he had a briefcase, a brown one. A brown one in his right hand.

It hadn’t stopped following him; he is sure of that. The more he runs, the closer he senses it gets.

Its thirst for blood cannot be slaked.

Timothy is getting tired. Soon he will be unable to run any further. He can already sense he is dropping his pace. His breaths are becoming more difficult and more painful. His mouth is parched and clogged with thick, waterless saliva.

He swallows some; it stings his throat as it goes down.

His legs feel heavier and heavier, and his clothes are becoming more and more soaked. Sweat slides down his forehead, warmer than the rain.

He looks behind him, for just a moment: through the blackness, he sees a flash. The businessman is still pursuing him, close behind. He begins to sing the tune of Mary had a Little Lamb with his fast, shallow breaths. He looks behind him once more: he sees a flash again, this time closer.

For a moment, Timothy sees himself doddering to a halt, exhausted, absolutely unable to go on. He watches as he collapses to his knees. He watches as he takes out his crucifix necklace from under his shirt, kisses the small gold symbol and begins fervently praying. The movements of his mouth seem to indicate he is whispering “Please save me” again and again. The view switches to Timothy’s own as the businessman approaches him. His face is pale and porcine, his fingers – now stroking Timothy’s face – are fat and thick, and his belly, bulbous and with hairs poking out through his shirt, presses against Timothy’s back. The businessman’s erect penis presses into his rump.

All of a sudden, the businessman grabs the necklace, wrenches it off his neck and throws it into the gutter. It clatters in the dark.

The night is still again. Now the businessman slowly places his hands on Timothy’s face, their gross, fat, hairiness right in front of Timothy’s eyes, and begins to caress his face. He does it delicately, adoringly – like a lover. The businessman places his nails on his chin, and then – suddenly – shoves them in. He begins to dig – dig so hard his fingers penetrate his flesh. The squishy, viscous sound reminds Timothy of sticking his fingers into an orange. Within seconds, the fingers are firmly embedded inside.

And then the businessman begins, slowly and clinically, to peel off his face. Timothy watches as the skin below him is reluctantly ripped away, making a sort of sucking sound. His view is suddenly obscured by some clumped up, folded facial skin. And then, with an excruciating rip, he feels his face come completely off.

The view zooms out and Timothy sees his face is fleshy and red, his eyes – terrified and glistening – are staring out, and his mouth, whose lips are just discernible from the raw, peeled flesh, are letting out a scream.

Timothy suddenly returns to real life and sees something red and angular in the gloom ahead of him, illuminated by sickly lamp-light. He begins to sprint even faster. Now only a few steps away from the object, he perceives it is a telephone box.

He runs into the box. He sticks his finger into the tight coin pouch of his trousers and pinches as many coins as he can. A couple fall on the ground. He doesn’t pick them up – he begins to shove coins into the slot.

“10 pence,” he pants, “20 pence”.

It’s enough for a call. But the businessman is still behind him. He can feel him lurking only a few metres behind.

He scrambles for the receiver. He picks it up and begins pressing the numbers of Emergency: 999. It begins ringing.

Ring. Ring.

It’s taking too long. He releases the phone and runs out of the box. Now his only hope is getting home. He just has to make it home and then he will be safe. The businessman can’t get inside there.

Suddenly he slips and falls on the wet, hard ground. His hands and knees sting intensely. He can’t see them but he can tell his knees are badly grazed. For a second he is dazed, but then he puts his hands out in front of him and tries to get up. His feet scrabble uselessly on the slippery ground. Something – a hand – brushes his hair. He gets to his feet and starts running again. He wheezes and gasps for air.

The businessman is right behind him now, inexorably, indefatigably approaching his goal. He can feel his hot breath on his neck. For a second, Timothy considers whether to give up, to let the vision come true. But he doesn’t. He keeps running. His eyes water and his lungs hurt.

…

Just as he’s about to abandon all hope, he realises he’s almost home. Still running, he fumbles around in his inside coat pocket for his house key. He finds it and takes it out. A few steps later, he’s at his gate. Key pinched between two fingers, he fumbles open the latch, loudly slams the gate shut and sprints down his garden path. The handle of his front door glints before him. He hears a slight clink behind him. He bends down to the key hole; he tries to shove the key into it and misses. Finally, he jams it in. He tries to turn it but it won’t budge. He senses the businessman is about to get him.

“Come on, come on, come on”.

The key turns, the door opens and he jumps inside. He slams it shut.

He stands in the darkness, panting heavily. He registers that he is sore all over, and that his knees sting worst of all.

All of a sudden, he feels a desperate urge to turn on the light. He scrabbles on the wall next to him for the switch. He can’t feel it, only the slightly rough texture of paint on plaster. He is beginning to panic; the terror is returning.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.  

But then he feels it. He presses it and it is light.

He walks, shivering with cold, through the well-kept foyer of his house and into his living room. He turns on the television. It is the news, and on the screen there is an enormous mushroom cloud, billowing out with infernal power, consuming the screen. There is something behind him!

Outside his front door, there is no one around. There is no trace of any fat, balding businessman with a briefcase. None at all. Just the wind, running through the neighbourhood, rustling trees, making things clink.