The Skinny Man

The Skinny Man

Sweat dripped off young Danny’s brow and he sat up with a start. His heart hammered in his chest, each loud retort echoing in his ears until he was certain they would explode. Clutching the blankets to his chin, he looked around the room, searching the shadows for him.

“It was just a dream,” his brother whispered, his voice hoarse. “It was just another one of your stupid nightmares. Stop being such a baby and go back to sleep.”

“I’m not a baby!” Danny retorted, glaring across the room. “And it wasn’t no stupid dream neither. It was real.”

“Whatever.”

With that, Billy rolled over and Danny sat staring into the darkness. He jumped as a late autumn breeze whistled through the window and their hand-stitched cowboy curtains tickled his neck. Clamping a hand over his mouth did nothing to silence the scream that rose in his throat, and he could feel his brother’s mounting annoyance. He wanted to explain but knew anything he said would only prompt his brother to hiss at him to “shut up.” His eyes watered; sweat trickled down his back.

The Skinny Man is coming, he thought. He’s coming!

Just thinking his name filled Danny with unspeakable dread. It had been three weeks since he first spotted the gaunt figure prowling through the shadows of their room. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, or the result of one too many scary movies before bed. Billy always watched them, laughing at the parts that made Danny jump, and calling him names—most of which he wasn’t allowed to think, let alone repeat. Not if he didn’t want to get the belt. But it wasn’t the moon playing tricks, or the movies, or his mind. The Skinny Man was real.

He didn’t know what it was, but it only came out at night and Danny was pretty sure it wasn’t a vampire. Those were made up, and this monster was real. It crept through their room, hugging the places the light didn't reach. Its movements were stiff and jerky, kind of like Grandma after she’d been sitting too long. The beast had long, wiry limbs and thin, yellow skin that looked brittle as if it were stretched too tight across its frail body.

For the first few nights, it kept its face hidden. He’d only hear the terrible noises it made as it breathed—quick, low snorts, like the ones Mr. Finney’s bulldog made. When he finally did see The Skinny Man’s face, Danny was too terrified to scream. Hot urine pooled between his sheets, a series of shrill whimpers building in his throat as he stared at the thing in horror. Its cheeks were hollow and sunken, as were the deep eye sockets. Those eyes--they were dark, endless abysses that chilled Danny to his soul and stole his breath. He sat rooted in horror, watching the thing sniff the air with its flattened snout, tracking its prey.

He didn’t know where The Skinny Man came from or why, but Danny was willing to bet it was a bad place, an awful place, like the one they talked about in Sunday school. It didn’t seem real. He’d dreamt about the monster one night and it was there the next . . . and every night since. Now it was coming again.

Danny wrinkled his nose against the awful stench flooding the room. It smelled like burnt hair and matches. The stink made his eyes burn. His nose stung. He sniffed as quietly as he could, too afraid to reach up and wipe away the liquid starting to drip out of his nostrils. Instead, he bit down on his knuckles as the dark patch under Billy’s bed began to deepen and swell.

“B-Billy,” he stammered. “Billy, wake up!”

“Shut up and go to sleep before I pummel you, pissy pants!”

The shadow loomed, inching its way up the side of Billy’s bed. Wide-eyed, Danny shook his head, biting back another scream. Gnarled fingers crept along the sheet, plying their way across the thin fabric.

“Billy! Watch out! He’s . . . he’s . . .”

“He’s not real, dumbass!” Billy yelled, flopping over. His fists struck the mattress in frustration, even as his eyes flared. Shock registered briefly across his freckled face and he opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late.

The Skinny Man snared the slender column of his throat, trapping any pleas for help. Danny cried, every inch of his eight-year-old body quaking with fear. Hot liquid soaked his pajama bottoms. His brother thrashed on the bed, legs tangling in the sheets as he fought to break free. Mouth open, Billy struggled to breathe; his face purpled and veins bulged along his temples.

Danny watched the wiry monster hunch over his brother. He could see the sharp bones strain against the creature’s yellow skin—count every knobby protrusion along its spine—and see the strange white mist rise from Billy’s throat. He blinked, once—twice, but the filmy tendrils continued to curl out of his brother’s mouth into The Skinny Man’s gaping maw.

Billy went lax. His arm dangled over the side of the bed as his body sagged against the sheets. The Skinny Man shuddered and lowered its head before it turned. It stared at Danny, eyeing the thin shaft of moonlight dividing the room as it ran a forked tongue across its lips. A pleasured grunt rumbled through its birdlike chest and, in a flash of movement almost too quick for him to register, it disappeared back under Billy’s bed.

Scalding tears traced Danny’s cheeks. Curling his knees to his chest, he rocked back and forth wondering how he was going to explain this to his mom. She would never believe him and the thought made him mad. Glaring in his brother’s direction, he offered the only words he had left.

“I told you it wasn’t no stupid dream.”

WC: 998