Straying from the Path

Straying From the Path










Stumbling and falling over himself, Bill carried on in the direction he estimated would lead him home. Streetlights kaleidoscoped past as he lumbered forward, their amber glow sending golden spears shooting off the wet pathway. Around him, the ice cold air took tiny stabs at the exposed skin of his face and hands.

Where the hell was he? He could have sworn he had seen that gnarled oak that marked his usual path home. That would have suggested that he was a few minutes away from his warm bed at the time of passing – ten minutes if you leave time for all the zig-zagging and falling. He checked his watch. It was ten past two in the morning. That meant it was about half an hour later, and his house was still nowhere in sight. All he could see was the path ahead of him, outlined by streetlights and gnarled branches. Outside of this path, the world didn’t seem to exist. All he could make out was a grim blackness. What was going on?

It was his bloody wife’s fault, that useless wretch. All Amanda had done all day was worry about him and try to mother him with endless status-checking phone calls and unannounced arrivals. It was because of this that he drank so much. If he were having an affair, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see her wander into the room, put a sandwich down on the table, and then leave with a reassured smile as long as he was alright. Oh, how she played with his guilt sometimes. It wasn’t as though she was constantly starting arguments, or even anything remotely similar, and yet he couldn’t help the repulsion he felt every time she just turned up. All he wanted was a little privacy, for God’s sake!

He stumbled a little, almost going headfirst. He steadied himself and paused for a moment, ensuring his balance had time to catch up with him. He took a cautious step, then a more confident one. Then he was off again at his staggering pace.

Jesus, it’s never taken me this long to get home from the pub, he thought. The longest it had ever taken him in his worst state was twenty minutes. Sober, he could do it in about seven. So why was it taking so long this time? Was he really that drunk? Well, that was a stupid question; of course he was. He couldn’t think of a single time in his life where he had fallen over more times than tonight. He just couldn’t seem to keep it together; his legs kept turning on him. It was a little frightening actually. Like that time he had taken that drug during university. He had laid face-down in his room for a day, absolutely petrified and convinced he was going to die, before someone had finally found him. Still, as hard as it was to walk in straight line at the moment, Bill vaguely remembered starting his journey off without nearly as much difficulty.

He remembered the look he had gotten from the barman before he left, a look that wondered how it was possible for a man to get in such a state. To get that look from a barman, that really said something. And those boys, those young boys who kept harassing him and calling to him because he was sitting on his own, calling him an old drunken wreck and laughing at him, they must have seen it too. Now that he thought about it, this was probably the most drunk he had ever been in his life. He had made a fool of himself; he deserved their ridicule.

Why hadn’t his wife phoned him? She had done just before he left the pub, and he had grumpily slurred down the receiver to her that he was on his way. Usually if he hadn’t made it home within fifteen minutes, she would call a second time to check up on him. He hated that; sometimes he toyed with the idea of destroying the mobile phone she gave him for his fortieth birthday. He knew she’d just buy him another one though. But still, even though he had no idea what time he had left the pub, he was sure that double the usual time it took for him to get home had elapsed. That bloody woman, he thought. The only time he could do with her help was the only time she wasn’t harassing him with phone calls. I mean, this was the woman who would turn up at the pub with his lunch if she didn’t hear from him to find out what he was doing for food. And she would never offer to stay, just drop off the package, ask the usual few worried questions, then leave feeling better. God, he would have a talk with her when he got home. A big one, he decided. Because this had to stop once and for all; he was the man in this relationship.

Bill stumbled again, veering off the road onto the wet grass. He landed on his front. The slimy tendrils lapped at his face and sent unpleasant shivers down his body. A horrific feeling of gloom rolled over him, and for a moment it looked as though the jagged oak branches above were reaching out for him. With a gasp of surprise, he quickly rolled onto the pathway and, with great effort, pulled himself up onto his feet. He gazed into the darkness by the side of the road in shock. My God! What was that? For a moment it seemed as though he had exposed himself to a malicious force, something that had wanted to drain him of his life and keep toying with his still body. He could feel the evil intent from where he stood, lashing at him with an ice-cold gaze. What horror watched him from the shadows? He strained his eyes and gazed deep into the darkness, but his blurred vision failed him. He could not see past the golden streetlamps. Something told him that he had rolled away just in time.

It was time to get out of here. Bill stared at the path ahead of him, trying to focus with his afflicted eyes, to see how far he was from home, but they failed him again. His vision was limited by ambiguity, and a dark fog. He blindly stumbled onwards.

He could feel them, feel their influence around him, taunting him and reaching for him from the darkness. He tried to ignore them. He also ignored the impulse to run, for he knew if he did he would no doubt veer right off the path again. And this time he feared the darkness would not let him get awa. With a hammering heart, he took it slowly, against the survival instinct to flee screaming. He swore he could feel an artery in his chest throbbing with pressure.

They were determined to unnerve him. He could hear them running beside him now, just out of his view, keeping up with him and waiting for him to fall. Vultures, that’s what they were, waiting for him to collapse in a weak pile so they could peck at his flesh and eyes. They were putting images into his head now, trying to unnerve him, repulsive images of things tearing at his body and spilling it over the pathway. He shook the images away with a shudder and tried to carry on.

Suddenly, it intensified. He could feel them, feel their sharp eyes glaring at him, daring him not to fall, promising that they would catch up with him sooner or later. He could feel their fury at his persistence, at his will to keep on going and to survive. They would make his suffering long and painful, he was sure of this. They would make him pay for his insolence. For a moment, Bill considered throwing himself into the shadows intentionally just to rid himself of the horror, of the suspense of death, and to please them so they would perhaps spare him from such agony.

But no, there was something keeping him going, an unlikely suspect. Something he would have laughed at earlier in the night had someone told him: his wife, Amanda, the only person in the world that cared about him. Who was he kidding when he had told himself she had been responsible for his heavy drinking? He knew it was nothing to do with her. He just needed someone to blame and picked her. Christ, did he miss her. When he got home after this terrible ordeal, she would rush to comfort him. She would lie him down in bed and stroke his hair while his banging heart calmed down and he ultimately succumbed to relaxation in their safe home. God, he wanted to be with her so bad. It was the only thing in the world he desired. He stared at his watch, took a moment to take it in, then almost had a heart attack when the hands came into focus. It was still ten past two. Time was not moving at all.
What was happening? Where had all this evil come from? Why had it chosen him of all people? Because of his tragic nature, perhaps? He felt his depression and sense of loss was of an adequate quantity to feed an entire army of darkness at least. Or maybe they had picked him because he had been beginning to lose the will to live as of late. He was no longer of use in today’s world, he would often mourn over a pint. His skills were moribund; technology had advanced too quickly, leaving him stranded behind. He had lost his job, and with it he had lost his self-respect. His wife had tried to help him, had shared her bank account with him and all he had done in return was spend it on alcohol and resent her. Now, in the most unlikely of situations, he had come face-to-face with an overpowering sense of self-realisation. He knew what was wrong with him, knew what he must do to change it. He had never even attempted to get a new job once he had been paid off, just spent the money he had been given then moved onto his wife’s. If he got out of this situation, if he escaped this evil, then he could not think of a more apt time to change everything and make it up to the woman he had married.

There had been a part of him that had suspected for a while now that he had become a monster. That a part of his insides had blackened like a rotten fruit and stayed sour since. Still stumbling, he increased his pace ever so slightly. He felt tears beginning to sting his eyes from regret, horror and intense determination. If he had one wish in the world, he would have without a doubt used it to be with his wife.

Suddenly, he could feel them inside his head, clawing at its thoughts. He had left his guard down, and now they were trying to take Amanda from him! To remove the only thing from his mind that was keeping him going! He strained hard and snarled. Never! he thought. I’ll never let go of you, Amanda! He staggered on, trying determinedly to prevent their dark fingers from prising around too deep and taking his most precious mental treasure.
How long did he have to go? How much more of this torture did he have to endure? He looked ahead of him. Still nothing. The path faded to black a few meters ahead of him. There seemed to be no end to it. His heart sank. He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the infinite any longer. His vision began to fade into nothingness. He stopped walking, slowly dropped to his knees, then curled into the fetal position. Why don’t you phone me, Amanda? he wept. Why only this time?

Around him, he felt the shadows converging. Waiting. But he would not give in, would not succumb to their horrible influence. If he was going to die, it wasn’t going to be by the hand of evil. It would be to the elements. The wet ground was cold, but still he felt safer on the path than off it. He closed his eyes and tried to block everything out. Patiently, the darkness waited, lashing at him with bouts of horror. Bill twitched and moaned at the scenes playing out in his head, at the absolute horror that they contained: Amanda was killed over and over, her body a plaything for the shadows, being splayed and ripped and thrown around. Would this ever stop? he thought weakly. Please stop soon.

He awoke later. The light kaleidoscoped and vaulted again as he turned his head, but it was a different kind of light from the street lamps. A cold light; an artificial light. But the atmosphere, it was not cold – well, not as cold as the path he had lay on earlier. Where was he? With a sense of relief, he realised that he could no longer feel the things in his peripheral senses. They were gone; he was safe. He sighed to himself and wiped at his blurred eyes.

His sudden movement brought attention. You’re awake! a startled voice cried. A familiar one. Suddenly, a smudged figure moved towards him with great speed. He felt warm arms wrapping around his body. His eyesight sharpened a little. He looked around the room at the white surfaces, at the pristine surroundings, at the other beds and their white sheets. He was in a hospital.

Am...Amanda? he stammered. Yes, she replied. Bill felt warm relief flood through his body. He couldn't believe it. It’s me, baby, it's me, she said. I was so worried, Bill. What happened, Amanda? She leaned back, staring into his eyes and stroking his hair. She had never looked more beautiful. You were poisoned, sweetheart. Some sick boys at the pub spiked your drink because they thought it would be funny. They’ve been caught though, the police have them. You’re lucky someone found you, baby. You could have died out there in the cold. It’s a miracle.

Amanda, Bill began, his eyes watering. I’m so sorry for everything. I’ve blamed you for losing my job, for what I am today. I swear to God I’ll make it up to you. I’ll never be like that again. I love you, Amanda.

She smiled happily. I love you too, baby. Bill smiled back at her. He couldn’t believe what was happening. It felt like a dream. Look, wait here, she said. I need to get the doctor now that you’ve woken up. She stood back and tried to leave the room. Wait! Bill cried, reaching for her. Don’t go yet. Let me hold you again. Amanda’s mouth grew into a smile. But I need to get the doctor, baby.

Just one more hug, reasoned Bill. Amanda smirked grew. Well, she said, opening her arms. Come here then. Bill smiled back and, shaking, sat up on his bed. He placed a trembling foot on the freezing floor, and then another. Then he stood. Amanda, still smiling at him, nodded and beckoned him over. Cautiously, his legs still weak, he took a single step towards her. Then another. She nodded even more eagerly as he approached.

Bill caught the darkness in her eyes at the last minute, but by then it was too late. He stumbled off the path and into the shadows, right into the arms of the evil. He hit the grass hard. Horror rushed through him when he realised what was happening, and he struggled in vain to clamber back onto the path. But it was no use, they had a tight hold of him. He was theirs now. They pinned him to the ground with their influence, and prepared to feed.

Bill tried to let out a cry, but the evil plugged his throat. He felt the strength being sapped from his body as he was overwhelmed. Intense agony shot through his torso as the skin over his stomach was ruptured. Crimson liquid sloshed from the gauze and splashed over the grass. He moaned weakly as his life force drained from him. With a final sigh, he went limp; he would not be getting up again. In his jacket pocket, his unanswered mobile phone rang into the night.







2,800 words.