The Dark

I’m not sure how best to tell this story, so I’ll describe it as it happened, without any form of explanation that I may subsequently have manufactured; that way, you will understand why it is that I am so terrified of the dark. I tell my story to you through one that has written it down, not for entertainment, but so you will know what not to do as you become older.

It started only yesterday night, but that now seems like a lifetime away. I’ve told no one up to now, and don’t plan to share this with anyone close to me. I know what would happen if I did: they would explain it away and tell me not to worry; but I know there is plenty to be worried about.

When it started, I was sleeping on my side, facing the door to the landing as I usually do. I’m not sure whether I was dreaming or already in deep sleep, but either way, I suddenly became aware of a presence. There was a dull thud, as if something had hit the ground. It was not particularly loud, but for some reason that I will not try to explain, it woke me.

And it woke me suddenly. In an instant, I was alert, senses tingling. As I opened my eyes, I could see it happening: my pillow slipping off the bed and onto the floor; but as it landed, it made no sound. The sound had already been made as I slept, the action following as I awoke. The darkness of my dreams had connected with the real world around me. I could feel its presence in the room: something that would do harm; something that would hurt.

I tried to scream, terrified of the world around me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I was mute, unable to call for help, unable to move. I concentrated on my breathing, but found that I was more an observer than I was in control: I felt powerless, watching but unable to intervene.

Outside, the air was still. There was no wind. The leafless branches were fixed to the starlit backdrop beyond. My bed seemed very large. I did not want to turn around, afraid of what might be lurking in the wilderness behind me; of what might be stoking the air just above my hair; of what might be about to whisper nightmares in my ear.

I pulled the sheets over my head, leaving a gap just large enough for my face. I would stay still; I would not turn around. If I remained still, the darkness would remain buried in my dreams: evil without definition.

My pillow lay on the ground, a motionless testament to the power of darkness around me. I would not fall asleep; I could not allow myself to descend into a land from which I might not return.

I considered turning on the light. I would need to push back the covers, get out of bed and walk to the door: too much to ask; instead, I pulled my covers closer around me, protection from the dark.

So I did not get out of bed. I did not move. I did not scream. I did not talk or try to whisper. I stayed awake, afraid of sinking into the darkness.

I stayed awake until I could see the faint glow of dawn highlighting the branches outside my window. And as those rays of light once more brought definition to the features of my room, so the dark shadows disappeared; and I knew once more that I was safe. A new day was beginning.

And my day progressed much the same as any other day, though I could not concentrate on my work. Several people commented on how tired I looked. When I returned home, settling into my early evening routine, dusk settled across the house and I formulated a plan: I would leave my bedroom light on; if it were on, I would be safe; if it were on, I could look and know the darkness was not there; only where there was doubt could it exist.

So I left my light on and settled into bed. I closed my eyes, thankful of starting a full night’s sleep. The darkness would not be able to cross to my world; and I would not worry about descending into my dreams for I knew that when I returned, it would not be dark. There would be no shadow for evil to hide in.

I had started to drift off when I heard soft steps approaching, gently swishing against the landing carpet. I was jolted back to consciousness. I could see my door handle turning, as if in slow motion. And then my door began to slide open without a sound. I could only watch from my bed, too afraid to call out.

“Tommy, you know you’re old enough at five to sleep with the light off. You’ve been looking so tired today and need a good sleep. Night, night, love you and see you in the morning.” And with that my mother turned my light out and closed the door behind her.

My room was plunged into shadow; my throat was dry, unable to scream a plea.

The darkness had returned, a presence saturating the room with its evil: but unable to harm me if I did not move; unable to harm me as long as I did not enter its world.

And so here I am, awake in bed: I am very still and my eyes are open. I am very tired; and I am very scared. And I promise myself that if I make it through this night, I will never, ever turn my children’s light off if they do not want me to.