The Incubus

    Vaguely but certainly do I remember the first night he visited me.  I was to be 13 years of age the day subsequent to the one I am currently recalling and though I usually remained awake on the nights before an event, something else kept my eyes pinned to the ceiling.  Customarily I would require some form of light in my room to keep thoughts of darkness away, but on that night my mother acquainted me with the fact that I was on the brink of becoming a teenager and that my apprehension of the night would have to cease.

    “But mom,” I spoke in a muffled tone as the end of a quilt rested on the bridge of my nose.  “It’s not because I’m afraid of the dark.  I just can’t focus on sleeping when I can’t see anything.”

    “That’s a bad excuse Lev.  If it becomes a problem, I’ll let you keep the TV on or something.  Deal?”

I nodded then turned over; which (my mother knew) was my last resort to get what I wanted.  As expected, she did not budge; she left the room almost inaudibly but before she had gone, she assured the cessation of all light except that of nature.  The visit came shortly after she had left my room.  I recall the childish safety that I thought existed beneath the quilt that slept over my fragile body.  I wholeheartedly believed if something existed beyond this world’s comprehension, whatever it may be, that it could not reach me within my realm of cotton.    

    That night seemed longer than any prior to it and all that I have had since.  I concluded that my parents were asleep as I could not see their room light from the crack beneath my door.  And I began to convince myself that if a noise was made somewhere throughout the house, that it could not be made by my parents, but instead, by some apparition who wanted nothing more than to haunt me.  But even now, silence is a fearful essence, and that night, as the silence began to thicken around the room, I heard a knock.  A very low volume knock, redundantly sounding against my bedroom door.  

    The temperature phase commenced and did so with a heat resembling Summer.  I started to sweat underneath such a thick quilt but no matter what, I thought, I’m not coming out from under these blankets.  The knock gradually grew louder and probably had been doing so for a reasonable time, but I did not notice due to my absolute focus on ironing my will to remain under that quilt.  I then tried to decipher the possible origins of the noise.  Could it have been the wind from outside, pushing the door ever so slightly against the frame?  Or could it have been my parents’ bed, tapping the wall with each thrust by whomever was doing so?  

    No, the knock is definitely on my door.  Someone is knocking on my door.  And the door isn’t---the door isn’t locked!  The sound of my own heart mimicked that of the knocking, only my organ beat much faster.  It grew louder and louder, the knocking I mean, and I feared that it would eventually reach an astounding conclusion, forcing it open and leaving me without privacy or security.  I most definitely considered calling out for my mother and father, but what held my tongue in place was the frightening thought that my screams would provoke the visitor, thus causing it to rush in and abduct me before my parents could even get out of bed.  

    I realized how deep and indecisive my thoughts were, for when I brought my concentration back to the tangible world, my ears could no longer hear the redundant knocking.  Relief set into my bones; it put me into a state of coolness, and I questioned (for a brief moment), could it have been my imagination the entire time?  I would soon learn the answer to my rhetorical question.  That night, as I considered sliding the quilt from my face in order to receive a breath of actual air, I acquired that feeling of sense where it is almost certain that something else is near or approaching.  That irremovable sensation that someone is watching your back with malice intentions.  

I slid the edge of the quilt from my face, primarily to observe the room and to make sure that my door was as my mother had left it, closed.  But when I looked towards my door, I did not see the white paint and hook that held my jacket.  Instead, I looked coldly at the hallway walls; at the daisies that decorated them, but even they looked unpleasant.