Summer Nights

         Sweat soaked through my shirt from the sweltering heat of the day when I stepped into the house to cool off and put on a dry shirt. Jacob, my twelve year-old grandson, stared at my back as I peeled it off. Thinking back on it, I believe that was the first time he’d ever seen the scars (I’m a bit self-conscious about them, so I rarely let anyone see me without a shirt).

         Ever the inquisitive one, Jacob asked, “Grandpa, what happened to your back?”

         I turned and faced him. Short for his age, Jacob barely reached my shoulders. His blond hair fell over bright blue eyes that watched me with curiosity. I wasn’t sure if I should tell him the story of how I got the scars, but then I realized that if anyone could handle it, it would be Jacob. He was constantly reading books that would give anyone else nightmares.

         I pulled a t-shirt down over my head and raised an eyebrow. “It’s not really something I like to talk about too much, Jake.”

         He glanced downward, obviously disappointed. “I’m sorry Grandpa. I just never saw it before.”

         “No, it’s okay,” I told him. “I’ll tell you. But I have to warn you, the story isn't for kids.”

         “But, I’m almost a teenager!” he protested. “I’m not a kid anymore. I bet it happened in the war, didn’t it?”

         I smiled; the perspective of age sure is an amazing thing. As far as I was concerned, Jacob’s father was still a kid; and here was his son insisting that he wasn’t a kid anymore. Jacob sat cross-legged on my bed, so I took a seat next to him and began my story...

Sixty years ago

         It was the summer of 1941 and I was seventeen years old. Though the war was distant and only an occasional headline in the paper, I figured it was inevitable that the United States would be drawn into the conflict; I was eager to fight Hitler’s army on the battlefields of Europe. I imagined myself as the hero of glorious battles from which my platoon would emerge bloody but victorious.

         That July, I traveled across the state to visit my grandfather. He lived alone in an old house that was once a plantation. The property wasn’t as large as it used to be; much of the land had been sold or seized over the years. A small creek leading into the nearby woods ran behind the house. The land was beautiful and when I was a child, I loved to explore it and pretend that I was Davey Crockett on the run from hostile Indians.

         At night, fireflies lit up the dark and owls hooted in the distance. The house was far enough from the city for a person to look up at the sky and see the brilliance of the Milky Way shining down on him. Moonlight would cast spooky shadows across the meadow. None of this bothered me, though. It was the inside of the house that frightened me.

         The last time I’d stayed at my grandfather’s house, I was ten and always insisted on sleeping with the bedroom door open so the light from the hall would shine in. However, I’d long since outgrown my fear of the dark; so the first night I was in the house that summer, I shut the door completely.

         As I lay in the antique wrought-iron bed, I closed my eyes and listened to the chirping of the crickets outside my window. I left it open to let in the cool night air, and the thin curtains billowed gently each time a breeze blew in. Due to the distance from the city - or even the nearest major road - the quiet of the night was uninterrupted by sounds of civilization. Nature’s music reigned at my grandfather’s home.

         You know when you’re in that state when you’re falling asleep, but you’re still aware of what’s going on around you? That’s how I was when I heard something heavy slam onto the floor. My eyes shot open and looked around, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The moon had not yet risen, so it was still fairly dark in the room. All I could see were the shadows and outlines of the furniture. I decided that I’d either imagined the sound or that my grandfather had dropped something, so I rolled over, tucked a hand underneath my pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. It didn’t take long.

         Bright sunlight shone into my room when I awakened. The clock told me that it was barely nine o’clock. On the wall opposite my bed, a great mirror reflected the morning sun onto my sheets. I sat up and squinted in the light. A book lay on the floor next to my father's old rolltop desk. As the fog lifted from my mind, I realized that that the sound I’d heard the previous night must have been from the book.

         “That’s odd,” I said to no one in particular, “how’d it fall?” Wiping the crust from my eyes, I shrugged and climbed out of the bed. I had some chores to do before I could go into town. I picked up the book then quickly dropped in disgust. A thin coat of slime covered it. I shoved the book into a corner with my toe and walked into the kitchen for breakfast before I started on my chores.

         I heard bacon sizzling and its aroma made my mouth water. The last time I ate anything was when I rode the Greyhound yesterday morning. My grandfather stood by the gas stove. Born shortly before the Civil War, he was in his early eighties and could be quite stern. This morning, however, he was actually very genial. He flashed a toothless smile at me. I hated when he didn’t put his teeth in.

         “I thought you was goin’ to sleep the day away, boy.” He always called me ‘boy.’

         I sat at the kitchen table where he’d already set a plate and glass. “No sir, it’s only nine o’clock.”

         He scraped a couple of slices of bacon onto the plate from the pan, the grease still sizzling. “In my day, young ‘uns got up with the rooster’s crow to do mornin’ chores.” He gave me a hard look before continuing, “When can I expect you to finish your chores, boy?”

         I shrugged and hungrily shoveled the bacon into my mouth. “I’ll get ‘em done by noon, Granddad. I wanta go into town later on too.”

         Granddad sat and placed the pan in front of him. He always ate last and always directly from the pan. I asked him once why he did that, and he told me that bacon was best eaten that way. It stayed hot and you could sop up the grease with bread before it coagulated.

         “Into town, huh? You ain’t even here a day and you’re already wantin’ to get away from the old man.”

         “No, Granddad. It ain’t nothin’ like that,” I protested. “I jus’ wanta see it. I won’t be more than an hour or two.” I ate the second piece of bacon slowly so I could savor its flavor.

         Granddad sliced a hunk of bread from a loaf and handed it to me. “Well then, boy. You’d best get to eatin’. You’re too thin and it ain’t healthy. You city boys never eat enough. Look at you, you’re all pasty too. Doncha know that a little sun and hard work never hurt nobody?”

         I nodded in agreement. Several years had passed since I last stayed here, but I still knew that the best thing to do when Granddad started lecturing was just to agree with whatever he said. After a short spell, we finished eating and it was time to work.

         That night, I lay in bed and thought about the day’s events. I met a pretty girl in town and we promised to see each other at church on Sunday. Only three days away, the wait seemed to me to be an eternity. I closed my eyes and thought of her sweet scent and vivacious personality. I didn’t know any girls back home as pretty as her. A smile slowly spread across my face while my hand slowly reached into my pajamas. That’s when I heard it.

         It was a cough. I jerked my hand out from under the blanket and opened my eyes, fully expecting to see Granddad standing there with a disapproving expression. The man was old-fashioned and didn’t approve of modern attitudes toward, well, everything. However, I was alone in the room.

         Puzzled, I sat up and looked around. I definitely heard someone cough, but there was nobody else around. A sudden movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention and I swung my head toward it. I saw nothing. Oddly enough, that’s exactly what there was -- nothing. The night was still... almost too still. Even the crickets were silent.

         Then from the corner of my other eye, there was another movement. Instead of turning toward it this time, I tried to watch it with my peripheral vision. I could almost see it, but it was indistinct. I had the sense that it was near the mirror though, so I looked at it. I saw the reflection of the trees outside and realized that I must have seen deer through the mirror. I relaxed and lay back down and quickly fell asleep.

         The next afternoon, after sweating my balls off chopping wood, I was fishing in the pond in the woods when a shirtless boy joined me. He took a position near mine and silently cast his line into the water. His red hair complemented his freckled face. “New around here?” he finally asked.

         “Visitin’ my granddad. Ain’t seen him since I was a little kid.” I replied.

         The boy looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite identify. “Old Man Harvey? He’s your granddad?”

         I gave my line a tug to attract the fish to the worm on the hook. “Yep. I’m stayin’ wit’ him for a coupla weeks.”

         “Wow,” he said in awe. “I wouldn’t never dream of stayin’ in that house. Doncha know it’s haunted?”

         “Haunted? Yea right,” I scoffed. “It’s just an old house.”

         “Yea, but it’s still haunted. There ain’t enough money in the world to get me to go anywhere nears it. You ain’t heard about all the negroes that died there?”

         “Yea there used to be slaves ‘round these parts. I ain’t surprised that negroes died. A lot of slaves lived and died before they was finally freed.”

         The boy gazed at me again with that same strange look, and I suddenly realized that I didn’t even know his name. I was about to ask him what it was when he spoke. “Yea, but these negroes were diff’rent. Before the war one slave by the name of Jeremiah decided that he ain’t gonna work no more. He tol’ his master that it ain’t right to make him work in the fields like that. That same night, Jeremiah got lynched from that tree over yonder.” He pointed to the ancient oak in front of Granddad’s house.

         “Now, his woman, she were a witch, and she cried and begged the men not to kill Jeremiah. One of them slapped her to the ground while Jeremiah was bein’ dragged up the tree by a rope ‘round his neck. They whipped him while he hung there chokin’ and dyin’. After he was dead, she put a curse on the master. He was found dead as a doornail a week later!”

         “How’d he die?” I asked. In spite of myself, I was fascinated at this story.

         “He was all tore up! Like some beast got him and decided he didn’t taste none too good. They says the beast is still in the house.”

         I couldn’t help laughing. “I’ve stayed in my granddad’s house lots of times when I was little. I never saw no beast.”

         He reeled in his line and scrutinized me. “Just be careful, you hear? I live over yonder if you gotta get somewheres safe.” He pointed into the woods, then started walking in that direction.

         “Hey what’s your name?” I called after him.

         “Call me Tom.” he said before disappearing into the trees.

         I puzzled over the strange boy the rest of the day, but didn’t bring up the story he’d told me to Granddad. I figured the kid was just trying to spook me. The full moon rose early. It shined its pale light through my window. No strange noises bothered me that evening, and I nodded off as soon as my head hit the pillow.

         A shuffling sound awakened me several hours later. I opened my eyes but didn’t raise my head from the pillow. I looked over at the old clock on the nightstand; the glow of the radium-painted hands told me that it was shortly after one in the morning. The moon must have already set because the room was pitch dark.

         Holding my breath, I listened intently. There was a noise coming from the far end of the room. It was difficult to describe, but it seemed to be a cross between the shambling of a wino and a snake’s slither. Whatever it was, it moved quickly across the room. My heart raced; I never had to deal with a prowler before.

         I reached into the nightstand and grabbed the flashlight I kept in case I needed to use the toilet at night. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I shined the light toward the sound, but didn't see anything. The light reflected off the mirror and I thought I saw something moving in it. I quickly climbed out of bed and dashed to the window. Nothing stirred outside.

         My heart pounded in my chest. I knew that there had been someone in the room with me, but now there was no sign of him. I began to wonder if the Tom’s warning actually had some merit. My flashlight flickered twice then cut off; I slapped it a couple of times, but my efforts to get it working again were in vain. I was left standing alone in the dark. The skin on the back of my neck crawled.

         That’s when I heard it behind me. I swung around, holding the flashlight like a weapon. That shuffling-slithering noise was coming from near my bed. I struggled to see through the dark but could only see vague shapes. Unbelievably, the room seemed to be getting darker. I carefully walked toward the source of the sound, taking slow and measured breaths as I approached.

         I could hear my heart pounding. My hands shook with fear. I struggled with the light again. Something by the bed sighed loudly. I tried to call out for Granddad, but my voice got caught in my throat; only a tiny squeak escaped. I could now see a shadow looming over my bed. I stopped and stared at it. My mind screamed at me to leave the room, and to run from it now; but, I was frozen to the spot.

         From within the shadow I spied a pair of glowing embers. They seemed too small to be eyes, but that’s what they had to be. It turned toward me and growled quietly. A warm liquid flowed down my pajama pants; I ignored the piss. The ... thing started toward me. Its malevolent eyes bore into mine and I found myself unable to break its gaze as it came closer. I felt a wave of pure hatred flow over me.

         I stood stock still. It was only a few feet away and I could still not make out what it was. It stayed in the shadows where it remained invisible. It circled me, but I heard no footfalls. It seemed to be slithering around me. I had the impression that it was sizing me up. After a while, I could no longer hear it moving around.

         I could still hear the thing's heavy breathing and feel its evil eyes upon me. Its watchful gaze felt tangible against my skin. I wasn’t sure where it was, but it seemed to be near the mirror. My thumb flicked desperately at the switch on the flashlight as I tried to turn it back on. The thing growled at me just as the bulb’s light finally ripped through the darkness.

         I swung the light toward the thing, but saw only the mirror on the wall. I looked around the room but found nothing. I was alone. The only thing I saw was a shiny trail of slime where the thing had been slithering. The trail circled me and led to the mirror.

         That was the final straw for me. I rushed to the wall and turned on the light. The light was dim, but I felt safe within its glow. I began packing my bags; I absolutely was not going to spend another night in this house. I would leave a note for Granddad and go right to the bus station. I’d wait there all night long if necessary.

         The light went out with a pop while I was putting on my shoes, and the darkness once again engulfed the room. Struggling to maintain control of my sanity, I sat on the edge of my bed and listened intently. It wasn’t long before the slithering sound reappeared. I was now terrified beyond all belief, and I bolted toward the door. Safety lay beyond it.

         The thing pounced upon me before I reached the door. I screamed in agony as it shredded my back. I collapsed to the floor and the thing wrapped itself around my body. The touch of its slimy skin burned like a hot poker. Blood poured freely from my back where it was still attacking me. My shrieks shattered the night air.

         I felt it constricting me, forcing the breath from my lungs. I felt my ribs snapping like twigs. I was soon unable to breathe. A putrid miasma overwhelmed my nostrils. A demonic face appeared in front of mine. The stench came from its fanged and drooling mouth. It had no nose -- just a pair of slits that opened and closed as it breathed. A clawed hand swung down and slashed open my chest. My lungs burned for lack of air and my vision began to dim.

         Suddenly, a bright light shined on me and the creature vanished. I lay trembling in a pool of my blood. The air was cool and sweet as I gulped it in. The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was a red-haired boy standing by my window.

Present Day

         Jacob sat on my bed, his jaw hung open in disbelief. His face had gone pale. “What happened then, Grandpa?”

         “I woke up a week later in the hospital. A pretty nurse was washing my face when I came to. She was the first thing I saw, so I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I later married her, and she’s over there in the kitchen. She’s your grandmother.”

         “What did she say about the monster?”

         I leaned toward Jacob conspiratorially and whispered, “I never told her. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

         “That’s freaky, Grandpa. Did you ever find out what it was?”

         I shook my head. “It hasn’t been seen since. I think whatever that old witch summoned went back to where ever it came from.”

         That was a lie. I sometimes still hear strange sounds coming from the room in which Jacob sleeps.

Word count: 3,287