The Dark Man

What could a ghost want with a junkie? I have nothing. I was probably something somewhere, one day before, but tonight I’m dead and can’t speak. I’ve felt like this for a long time.

I’m lying on my left side, paralysed, my right arm flopped over my head, my eyes open, my voice box broken, staring at the bedroom wall. I was thinking of heroin and misery, of long days and cold nights, of life and love and there must be beauty somewhere, when from amongst the corner darkness the shadows stirred. More than the movement I witnessed, a cold frisson alerted me to the human shape that took form and now stands bent at the waist, not three feet from me. The dark man is here.

I’m not frightened, even though I can’t move and I know it’s because of him. I’m excited by his presence and want to tell my girlfriend who is asleep behind me. But I can’t move. I’ve been incubating a heroin habit for a long time now; in fact I may have already given birth to my addiction, the present company lurking beside me being the physical manifestation of my nurturing. Is it too late to abort? I’m quietly confident that I can end matters any time I want. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I stare at the dark entity. The ghost of my soul? A final warning perhaps? Yet the irony is that the little taste I had just a couple of hours ago hardly touched the sides. I am not stoned, I’m held still by sleep paralysis, it’s happened to me before. The mind wakes, the eyes open, but the body is paralysed in sleep. It is the origin of the term frozen with fright. I’m frozen alright, incapacitated, in an awkward sleeping position no less but I am awake, oh so awake.
Am I in some dimension between known worlds, stuck between a heroin rock of oblivion and the hard place of what I’m told is reality?

The shadow man stays where he is. I decide to form sentences for him in my mind. I tell him: it’s alright, I’m friendly. What do you want? Why can’t we talk? I have much to share about life, love and the pain of existence. We can be friends.

I always wanted a ghost to show off to my family and friends. Proof is the sort of thing they would want, a mere story wouldn’t satisfy. They would need to see the real thing. Unbelievers. Of course, they could kneel in front of an altar every week or every Christmas, or at their kids christenings while a priest waves his hands through the air, drinks blood and eats flesh and talks of the dead coming back to life. But mention your own little ghost and they would pooh pooh and scoff and snigger. ‘Say hi to Casper for me,’ they would say. ‘We think he’s on drugs,’ they would tell each other at their drinking functions, and then the next morning, after a breakfast of vitamin aspirin and Eno, they’d go to their rituals and ceremonies, solemn and pious, and in their arrogance they would pray for me.

Come with me my friend, I tell the dark man. Come out of the shadows, I won’t bite. Come with me and we’ll say ‘fuck you’ to everyone. Come with me and we’ll show them.

The dark man, hunched in the corner, stirs in the shadows. I know he can hear me. We are on the same wavelength. There is a lilting movement of darkness about him that sends an emotional thrill through me. I think he’s going to acknowledge me. Wait till I tell the boys about this! But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look at me, he remains still. Patient. Not bothered with a pitiful creature like myself.

My mind drifts to heroin. When he’s gone and I can move again, I’ll get up and have another hit. I’m always waiting for an excuse to shoot more smack. I know my girlfriend will be happy as well. It’s the only joy we’ve got at the moment, living life in the dark. We can see beauty all around us, well I can anyway, we don’t talk about it, but I think she sees it .
We hear about it from the sunshine people and we can see it out there, on the edge of our perambulations, out there past our reach.

Of course, living in the darkness has its own beauty too, but it is one that beguiles and I have a gnawing feeling of being cheated. Tempted by its company and then left cold and alone, its once warm embrace is turning into a mirage, no doubt born from the heat of living amongst adult’s foetid breaths. ‘You look lovely today. That really suits you. I give to charities. I vote in a democracy. I am married with children and a mortgage. Go to school son. The Easter bunny brought eggs. Don’t tell lies or Father Christmas won’t give you anything. Be nice to your sister. Look at our renovations. Support the troops. Did you watch that show last night? My football team won. Don’t drink and drive. Have another drink. The tooth fairy came last night. Build more prisons. What they are doing to each other is terrible. Buy more stocks. Don’t be mad. Tell me you love me. I’m on holiday. I work hard. Clean up.’ FUCK OFF!

Thinking about existence strengthens my desire to reach out to this dark shadow man and ask him about life as a ghost. I feel he would understand me, I feel we have something in common. He could reveal to me secrets; share with me the pain and agony of the netherworld.

But I am agonisingly incapacitated. Who are you? I silently, frustratingly scream in anger. The dark man stands straight up, seven foot tall at least and turns to me. His face is a shadowy mass, yet I can feel his penetrating look. I search for his eyes where they should be, but before I can find a point of focus he’s hurtling at me, accompanied by a tumultuous roar. Something inside me recoils at the sound and I yearn to feel behind me for my girlfriend’s sleeping form, but I’m paralysed. I’m paralysed.


This is a 1000 word comp. entry.