MEMORY LANE…
Bang. Tom, the new assistant, was noisily shuffling around with God-knows-what outside of the small office room, while Shaun’s concentration was shattered into a million thought-particles. “No worries,” he thought, “that’s where the story ended, for the most part. My fantastical tale of the Eastern side of the world.” He picked up his paper coffee cup he’d gotten from the downstairs lounge. “I’m here and I’m alive.” Bringing the cup to his parched lips, he managed to only gather a few drops of liquid motivation. The fatigue set in and it became a challenge to keep his eyes from wandering into a dazed state. Sighing, he slapped his desk, lifted himself from his chair and said, “What the hell. Why fight it.” Making his way from his office entrance, he noticed Tom carrying more boxes to the third floor. “Hey Tom, I’m callin’ it a night. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He waited for a response and then hearing what he thought was, “See you tomorrow,” he lifted his empty coffee cup to a jesting toast and tossed it into a wastebasket.
The old floorboards in the building creaked eerily, something of a haunted house asset. Grabbing hold of the doorknob, he noticed that the weather outside wasn’t altogether pleasant. The trees were bending with the wind currents and the streets were practically flooding. It was like déjà vu. That image of Kenya stuck in his mind like a pungent aroma lingered stubbornly within the air. The way the blood had run through the dirt-ridden streets, entwined with the gushing water and washed-up soil. He shook the memory from his mind and damned himself for not bringing an umbrella. Stepping out into the rain, he drew his jacket up over his head.
He fumbled through his pants pockets for his apartment key and slid it into the keyhole. Walking in, he flipped the switch on and peered at what was his home. “It’s not much,” he thought, “but it sure as hell beats unsheltered territory at the moment.” Shaun took his jacket off and tossed it onto his couch. “Baxter!” he called, “Come here boy!” An average-sized golden retriever came from around the corner of the hallway and greeted his master with a salivating tongue and enthusiastic tail-wagging. The dog was his only comfort for a normal life, the only thing in the world that allowed him to come and go as he pleased. It was a gift from his mother, just before she passed, so he held the animal with high regard. He had always said he wanted a puppy and the day finally came when she had given him one, not long after the divorce between her and his father was finalized. It was a way of comforting him, he thought. And then she killed herself. What a lady.
After preparing a most presumptuous dinner (one that consisted of a macaroni and cheese tv dinner, very light on the cheese), Shaun turned off the eleven o’clock news, flipped the living room light switch off and retreated to his bedroom quarters.
He searched through the trees, past the village and beyond the lightening embodied skies. The dark swirls of wrath above reflected his own thoughts, dim and bleak. He still searched for a reaction to Allen’s untimely death, but all he could think about, guiltily so, was that he opposed his friend’s current position. He opposed death and he had lived. It made him sick to be void of anguish, but simultaneously he envied the card he was dealt. Looking back at Allen’s body, it had not changed, hadn’t moved. “Are you stupid?” he thought to himself. “He’s dead. Of course he wouldn’t move.” He turned back to the window. Shaun. The voice was icy and shrill. The hair on the back of Shaun’s neck stood on end. Shauaun. It drug his name out, almost tauntingly, mimicking the actions of a child on a playground. He tried to keep focus on the window. SHAUN! Shaun hesitatingly turned his gaze from the window and to the corpse. Allen’s eyes were wide open, glazed over and still void of soul-filled features. But his mouth was curved into a smile. The corpse--Allen--was smiling. “See you soon.”
He shot upright from his bed, a cold sweat dampening his entire body. “A nightmare,” he thought reassuringly, “nothing but a nightmare. It’s strange how humans react to certain experiences, and it’s even stranger when they decide to react, for at that moment Shaun had decided to do just that. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Allen in his dreams, but the way he had said “See you soon” made him feel extremely uncomfortable. It was almost as if something inevitable would befall him, but it lie in waiting for the moment. For the moment though he looked past the fear and into the eyes of guilt, which ironically, belonged to himself. When he saw himself, he grew sick. He hated who he was and most of all, he hated that he had let Allen die. He began to shake with the grief that intoxicated him, wept where he was and felt his heart breaking into tiny fragments.
Forcing himself to stop crying, he drew the sheets from his body and stood on the cold wooden floor. He couldn’t bring Allen back, but he could drown his sorrows. Making his way downstairs and to the fridge, he recollected more memories of the past, ones that occurred before the trip to Kenya. How Allen had been sick, had opposed the idea to go with Shaun. Shaun had insisted he go along, said it would “build character,” but Allen was feeling ill. He told Shaun about his frequent hospital visits and how the medical staff were unable to uncover the mystery behind his illness. It would “Come and go,” he said, “the nausea and body-temperature fluctuations.” If Shaun hadn’t encouraged his friend to go, just let him be and allowed him to remain in the States, he may have still been alive. He was certain he would be. They would both be having the time of their lives, popping caps off of Budweisers and toasting to each other’s good fortune. “But instead,” he thought to himself as he opened the refrigerator door, “I’m going to enjoy this one solo.” Pulling the can from it’s box, he let the door shut on it’s own accord, the light slowly escaping the darkened kitchen. Breaking the seal, air escaping the top, he raised the bottle to his lips and momentarily pausing, raised it before him. “To you, Allen.”
The carbonation was a relief beyond anything else that could rid him of his sorrows and he savored every last bit. Shaun. Shaun’s body became a frozen statue. He didn’t dare to turn his head, only stared at the floor beneath him. He was tired and the beer wasn’t helping. “Beer and sleep deprivation,” he said, “not the best combo Shauny boy.” He downed the rest of the beer and tossed it into the trash-can as he made his way for the stairs again. The weather was still in a hostile state, wind howling against the building and rain batting violently against the windows. The thunder roared behind clouds of gray and black, sending vibrations through the floor. He was on the third step when a flash of lightening blinded him for a moment, but he thought he saw the shadow of something dance before him. Betraying his fear of sudden surprise, he quickly turned his head, only to face the sliding door that led to the balcony. Nothing. A few tree limbs from the tall oak out back swaying helplessly with the wind. His heart was racing, pounding against the insides of his chest and he felt deprived of breath. “Get a grip man.”
After a quick visit to the bathroom, he approached his room and making his way there, felt a drastic change in air temperature. He felt a strong draft, it blew against the strands of hair that hung over his eyes. Taking caution when entering the bedroom, he saw that his window was open, curtains flailing aimlessly. He took slow steps toward it, the outdated floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet. The strong gusts beat against his body and rain spat on his face, as he gripped the top of the window and sent it flying down with a loud and clarifying “bang.” There was a thought that scraped against the back of his mind, beckoned to be let loose. But he wouldn’t allow it, he would repress it downward, bury it deep beneath the surface of Kenya--bury it with the reoccurring images of Allen. He would tell himself it was ridiculous, inconceivable. But he knew he was trying to convince himself the falseness of a greater horror that clung to his soul with its monstrous talons. The truth was, it scared him to death.
He lie down in his bed, folding his hands behind his head. Turning to his side, he looked at the framed photo of him and Allen together, sitting on his nightstand, at a younger age and fresh into the position of Red-Cross volunteers. It made him smile, but at the same time a pang of grief gripped his heart. Another flash of lightening. Shaun. Shaun closed his eyes tight and attempted to shut out the roar of thunder. A door behind him creaked, a long, drawn out creak. He couldn’t move. It wasn’t so much that it was in his ability to move but refused, he felt completely rid of the option to get up and flee the apartment building. Shauaun. A mimicking tone--a child’s taunting mockery. Shaun didn’t know what was real and what was imagination anymore, he couldn’t draw the line between reality and unreality. His increased heart palpitations, the cold sweat that dampened his forehead; the fear that saw through him: these were all real.
Shaun muttered bible scripture, whatever he could conjure that Sunday school had taught him. Even, surely by mistake, reciting parts of The Star-Spangled Banner. The creak came again, shorter in time-lapse this time. Shaun bit his lip hard and forced himself to move. Once he regained the will within his limbs again, he shifted his body to the left and lay facing the opposite wall. The closet door stood open. Shaun just lay there and stared at it, unblinking and gripping the sheets tight with his white-knuckled hands. Whatever lurked behind that door, whatever was watching him silently cower in fear, waited for the precise moment to launch it’s appearance. Shaun knew this and could no longer deny it. This is the night he paid his dues, when the nightmare broke beyond its subconscious realm and fully consumed him. The door moved slightly again, whining against its rusty hinges. “Get ready.” he thought. The door moved a little more. “Here it comes.” Something tugged at the bed sheets. They pulled downward, resisting the grip Shaun had on them. It sprung at him and he felt its weight on his legs. Without a moment’s hesitation and a newfound courage, he pulled the hunting knife he kept beneath his pillow and thrust it at the being that attacked him. He felt it sink within its flesh, surpassing muscle tissue and hitting bone. It “yelped” in defeat, as warm blood trickled down his hand that gripped the hilt. It was an odd sensation he felt at that moment, something that would have been impossible only moments before: he felt victorious and invincible. It’s body lay still on him, he knew it was dead. Shaun hadn’t thought of getting up just yet, he indulged in the fact he had finally killed the nightmare.
Another flash of lightening brought a horrible truth to his eyes though. Shauaun. The cold voice came second to the horrific sight before him. He hadn’t executed his nightmare--he had killed Baxter. The blood soaked through the sheets, scarlet shades of liquid death penetrating the underlying mattress. He still held the knife tight in his right hand, frozen in a state of terrifying awe. Look over here. Look at me. The tone was too familiar for Shaun’s liking. He hadn’t heard it since--since Kenya. Come on Shauny. Don’t you want to see me? Shaun looked to the dark corner of the room where the entrance door stood open and slowly, ever so slowly--it creaked shut. The heroic sense of triumph fleeted his mind as swiftly as it had come and he dropped the knife from his hand, his fingers becoming numb once more. Something was staring at him, he felt it. Looking long enough he could see two glints of light and after a moment of silence, a dark figure silhouetted against the white wall. Look at me.
Shaun swallowed hard, but his mouth was free of moisture and no saliva made its way down his throat. Instead, what he swallowed were blood-curdling screams that never escaped his dry lips, the need to exemplify his horror-stricken mind denied by the deer-stuck-in-headlights state he was in. The room flickered once more with the lightening crashing outside. With the few seconds the room was alit, Shaun looked into the cold, dull, lifeless gaze of Allen Arshavin who stood hunched in the corner by the door. Come on Shaun. I’ll make this as painless as possible. He spoke like a snake, hissed the words at him. The venom that coursed through Shaun’s body was unlike any a scaly serpent could distill, but it made him useless nonetheless. Another flash of lightening. Allen was gone. He was still there though, somewhere in the room. Shaun could feel it.
For the first time since he reentered his bedroom, Shaun was able to fully speak words, mostly out of the expectation of mercy he hoped his friend would have on him, the possibility of sparing his life. For old time’s sake. “Al-Allen?” he croaked, a result of his verbal repression. No answer. “Allen, please.” Shaun began to involuntarily cry, hearing a scratching noise coming from under the bed. “I promise I didn’t mean for this to happen, Allen. I should’ve listened to you, I shouldn’t have made you go.” The scratching grew louder and more prominent. “It was a bad choice, I shouldn’t have--,” icy fingers gripped his ankle, their nails digging beneath the skin. It pulled Shaun from the bed with great strength, sending him with a “thump” on the cold, hard floor. After realizing his nose was broken, he heard the eerie scratching noises once more, even louder now that he was at arms-reach from the side of the bed. He turned his body around, leaning his weight on his right arm.
“You forgot one rule before you go to sleep, Shaun,” said the arctic voice that came from beneath his mattress, “you always,” Shaun stared hard into the darkness, “always,” a face was protruding, its eyes glinting, “check for monsters under the bed.” Shaun cracked a crazed smile as the head of his former-friend peered directly at him, its mouth curved sinisterly.
Shaun shrugged. “So much for helping people, huh?” It was the final testament of a dying man, words that belonged muffled under six-feet of earth. Shaun stretched his arms out and surrendered himself, allowed the cold, gangly hands to grasp his wrists and drag him into the abyss.
The rain outside was as relentless as ever, heavily pattering against the windows that shook with heavy gusts of wind. The lightening branched through the skies like long and winding fingers, stretching their reach toward the ground below. Light ceremoniously passed the torch to sound, thunder echoing through the nocturnal skies above. The high-pitched screams that came from behind the walls of the apartment building were silenced by the anticipating “crackles” and thunderous “booms.” Allen Arshavin hadn’t come back at all. Something occupied the shell that had once sheltered his soul, it used it and manipulated it as its own, but it was not him. It wasn’t human.
