Illuminate by Rob

The torchlight flickers and dims.  Its feeble yellow glow doesn't reach the corners of the room -- it's barely enough to illuminate the faces around me; instead their features ebb and flow, shadows eating their expressions.

Sarah hasn't made a sound in twenty minutes, not since Adam.  She just follows us when we move and waits silently when we stop.

Joe isn't much better.  Back at the start he had been ready to fight: collecting things to use as weapons, chasing the noises instead of fleeing them.  But now he sits in that dusty old arm chair, his withered arms clutching the book to his chest.  I can hear his whisper as he rocks back and forth "It can't see us in the light.  It can't see us in the light.  It can't see us in the light."

It's too much.  I hear myself snap "Oh for god's sake shut up!"  It seems harsh to my ears, but no doubt I have my reasons.

The truth is I'm not in much of a better state.  Anger and fear boil acid in my chest, eating me from the inside, I swallow it down and lose a little more of myself.  "I'm sorry," I whisper, but neither the outburst nor the apology touches Joe.

"It can't see us in the light."

I keep quiet, but my hands tighten on the torch until my fingers hurt.  The only torch left now.  I need to be careful, but it won't last forever.  I need to decide.  Leave it with them to keep them safe, and chances are I will be dead before I can find a way out, but if I stay here with it, we are all dead.  Or I can take it myself -- I would move faster without them, and with the torch my odds of escape will increase.  

I can't look at them, Sarah and Joe, I can't bear to see their faces, catch their uncomprehending eyes as I slowly persuade myself to let them die.  I am a bastard.  I wonder what expression I am wearing as my decision seals their fate.

I listen, trying to tune out Joe's cant, the sound of my breathing, the hammering of my heart.  I haven't heard the noises for a while, but I am not reassured.  Adam had said "I think it's gone" and then those hands had closed around his throat in the dark, choking the life from him, timed as some macabre irony.  I have many reasons to hate the thing killing us, but whatever it is I think I hate its twisted sense of humour worst of all.

I take a step, and Sarah takes one with me.  “No, Sarah, stay here with Joe.  Stay here Sarah.  I’m just going for a quick look round.”  I hear my voice, I barely recognise it.  Cold and flat.  Joe pauses his recitation to look at me, his expression unreadable in the half light.  “A quick look round,” I repeat.

The darkness swallows them as I move into the corridor.

Silence.  Silence apart from my breathing, apart from my footsteps, slow and cautious.  I pause, swinging the torch, my view of the world confined to its beam.  I catch glimpses of broken tiles and peeling paint, shabby disrepair and neglect.

I feel a pressure on my shoulders, I know it’s not real, that it is only my imagination, but knowing that doesn’t stop the press of some unknown and imagined gaze.  I take a step forwards along the corridor, driven by that imaginary force, it pushes me again, and I take another step, another, imaginary hands grab for me, I feel their cold fingertips graze my spine, but not find purchase.  

I quicken my pace, a stumbling jog, but those hands remain, always inches behind, grasping and grabbing.  Faster.

The torch beam swings wildly as I run, I see flashes of the world around me, blurring, flickering.  A strobe of glimpses.

And then my flight ends, a tumble of legs and arms, sprawling forward.  Teeth snap shut on my tongue, I taste blood.  I clatter and bounce, sliding down the corridor, grazing and tearing skin.  The torch flies from my grip, its light vanishes, smashed or just lost, it’s irrelevant.  It’s gone.

I lie in the dark, and my mind goes away.

* * *

Fists pummel me, a rain of blows against my chest, my hands are holding someone back, trying to keep them away from me.  I feel hot fevered flesh beneath my fingers.  I don’t know what’s happening.  Is it real, is it imagined, is this it?  I tighten my grip twisting, pushing, trying to control the blows, keep them away from me.

I am standing, I realise.  I should run again.  I should just let go and get away.  But my hands tighten and squeeze again instead.  The fists against my chest are weaker.

What is happening?  I don’t understand.

I want to let go, but I can’t.  Flesh and sinew squeeze in my grip, my thumbs press against what I realise is a throat.  I feel the sob strangled in my grip.

What?

“You cannot see us in the light!” shouts Joe and flicks on a torch.  Where he found it I don’t know, but my body reacts, flinching away from the light.

I look down and see Sarah gasping, trying to breathe as I strangle her.  Her skin is pale and grey, almost papery around my hands, and the effect seems to be spreading, she is withering away as I watch.

I try to speak, I want to ask what is happening, but my voice says “You should have killed me Joe, you should have killed me.”  My voice, yet not.  Not my words, not my sentiment.  “This time the light is not enough.”

“You cannot see us in the light.” Joe shouts again, but it is useless.  Sarah falls lifeless from my grasp, a pale grey husk.

I feel my face set itself in a horrible smile, and I scrabble at the inside of my brain.  The light, why isn’t it working, why isn’t it stopping me?  I am too strong now, so strong I am too weak to stop myself.

“Lights out Joe,” my throat rasps, but inside I’m screaming.

The Present - by Shelly Berry

Valerie lay in bed, listening.  The pattern of the floral wallpaper danced through the gloom, dizzying her weary eyes.  She had drunk more than usual, which made the act of trying to sleep even more difficult.  She wondered if she had made a fool of herself.  She knew she had the excuse of Christmas, but had noticed her alcohol intake increase year by year, her level of inebriation becoming more noticeable.  Right now, she didn’t care.  She needed it as a safety blanket these days, to protect her from the onslaught she was exposed to every time they came over.  No doubt she was giving them more ammunition, but it was about survival, she reasoned.

Through the wall she could hear their voices.  They were deliberately low, but animated.  She strained to listen more carefully, silently cursing her fog horn of a husband.  It was no good, she could not pick up any words, but she was sure there was a pinch of irritation in her son in law’s voice.

She realised she had been holding her head tensely just above her pillow in her effort, and forced herself to relax, letting it flop onto the pillow with a sigh.  Harold grunted in protest at the reverberations before returning to his snoring, pulling the duvet over his heaving body more tightly.

Valerie reached over to her bedside light, being careful not to knock over the usual debris of coffee cups and hand cream cluttering her nightstand in the darkness.  The room was bathed in a soft pink glow.  Harold did not stir.  She fished down the side of the bed, blindly searching for her notebook and a pen.  Mission accomplished, she gently pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain in her wrists.  They were getting worse, like everything else, she mused self pityingly.  Settling into the new position, she looked around the room.  In her eyes the white double wardrobe, matching drawers and dressing table were still the height of sophistication, even though her daughter took pleasure in pointing out their datedness.  She lowered her eyes to the carpeted floor.  There were piles of carrier bags still stacked in corners full of present wrapping paraphernalia.  Clothes spilled out of the laundry basket.  She decided she would tackle these obstacles to domestic bliss once this whole happy family façade was over for another year and looked down to her notebook, opening it at the first available blank page.

Her pen hovered above it, shaking slightly in her hand.

“I really did try”.  She looked at the words, the spiky rise and fall of her familiar scrawl.  She was no good at this.  She could understand the logic behind keeping a journal, but she could not bring herself to record the truth.  “It will help you process what is going on in your head, mum,” her youngest daughter had assured her.  Emma had phoned three times today to check that she was okay.  Of course she had not admitted that was why she had called, but Valerie knew her too well.  She had noticed that Emma never came home when they were staying too, and the cool tone with which she referred to her older sister and brother in law.  It saddened her.  But she didn’t know what to do about it.  So she did nothing.

“I just never seem to get it right anymore”.

In her head she could hear Emma’s voice screaming at her, “You haven’t done anything wrong though!”  Maybe she hadn’t.  But she couldn’t help feeling responsible.

“I bought them everything they had asked for.”  Valerie closed her eyes, trying to remember their faces as they ripped open the parcels she had spent hours decorating with colour co-ordinated tags, ribbons and bows.  Blank expressions accompanied by the occasional grunt of thanks from him and a vocalization of it from her.  Of course, on occasion she had misinterpreted her daughter’s instructions.  The enamel bread bin was the wrong shade of blue.  The socks were wool, not cotton mix.  The coffee was ground, not beans as they preferred.  And of course she was promptly informed her when she had got it wrong.

“Why don’t you just give them money?”  Emma could not understand her mother’s efforts to please the unpleaseable.  But Valerie had started to see it as a challenge.  One day she would get it right.  Okay, she had thought it would be today.  But no such luck.

Then there were the ‘little surprises.’

“How could I have got it so wrong?”  The paper remained virgin white below her question withholding any answer.  She remembered when the girls were still little, squabbling over who got to give out the presents, crawling under the Christmas tree in their white and pink floral nighties, squealing when they got a pine needle stuck in their knees.  They were always so excited.  Valerie smiled to herself as she remembered her daughters fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years ago.  They had been so thankful of every little thing she gave them, from the Flower Fairy soaps to the tube of Rolo’s in their stockings.  But now…

“Mr Grumpy slippers?  How inappropriate!”  When she saw them in Next she had thought they were a fantastic present, and had imagined his usually stern face opening into a smile, a roll of the eyes, a gentle tease from her.  But of course the joke had fallen flat.  Then there was her daughter.

“How silly of me to buy her that book”.  Having heard her crying at the end of the phone over her recent weight gain, Paul McKenna’s I Can Make You Thin had seemed like a thoughtful offering to her sensitive daughter.  She touched her forehead, frowning as she remembered her daughter’s face, and the silence that ensued until Harold handed around his box of Celebrations.  She had meaningfully declined, glaring at her mother.

Harold snorted again and turned towards her, his eyes open.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing.”  Valerie fussed the book away under her pillow and dropped the pen onto the floor.  

He gazed at her through watery red eyes, his face softening slightly with a smile.

“Go to sleep, you.”  He patted her arm affectionately before puffing himself back onto his other side.

“Okay”.  She looked at his broad back, wondering what he made of it all.  She took an intake of breath but was interrupted by the sudden return of his snoring.  She tutted to herself before shuffling back under the covers, creating a nest for herself against his bulk.  Reaching towards the lamp she listened carefully to the night.  A car revving in the distance, a shriek of female laughter far away.  Then silence.  They were asleep.  Closing her eyes, Valerie wondered what kind of a mother her daughter would one day become.  Swallowing the lump she felt develop in her throat, she listened to her husband’s pneumatic breathing, forcing her own to fall in time with his.