Come & Play

COME & PLAY

The old clock downstairs chimes midnight. Tom lies in his bed, eyes wide open. He feels uncomfortable; the broccoli that his mom had made for dinner had been undercooked. He doesn't mind though, after all, his mom has been overworked at her job which Tom didn’t know all that much about. No one ever tells an eight-year-old anything.

The telephone rings shrilly, shocking Tom and stirring the shadows. He creeps lower under his blanket to hide from them, staying quiet in the hopes that the monsters wouldn't appear.

The phone rings again, and Tom can hear the stairs creak as someone goes down them. Each stair creaked, but there was one louder than normal stair that creaked longer than all the other stairs about halfway up (or down) the stairs that Tom found very annoying.

The phone rings once more, then halfway through the next ring it cuts off abruptly.

There's silence for a while, then the stairs creak once more as the person walks up the steps. Tom hears his parents talking in the next room, but he doesn't hear anything more than muffled voices.

An eerie silence creeps into the house, and Tom’s stomach growls unpleasantly. He turns once more, now facing his door.
Slowly, the door creaks open, filtering light into the room. The shadows seem to hiss, blurring around the edges of the light.
Tom waits with bated breath, and breathes a sigh of relief when his dad walks through the door. His father, upon noticing Tom, smiles and asks, “Why're you up at this hour, son?”

“Mom’s broccoli,” Tom replies, and they both chuckle. His dad sits on his bed, near his head and ruffles his hair. “Are you going somewhere, dad?”

“I've got a case, Tom, in a town south of here. They need me immediately, and I don’t know when I'll be back; it could be a couple days. Meanwhile, look after yourself and your mother, okay?”

Tom nods dutifully, then says, “Come back soon, okay?”

His dad smiles, kissing his forehead. “I'll be back before you know it, son.” He then gets up as Tom’s mother appears at the door in her nightclothes, which are in stark contrast to his dad’s uniform.

Seeing him awake, Tom’s mother smiles at him, and at that moment, he feels safer than any eight year old kid in the world.

*

Tom wakes up the next day, well into the morning. Sunlight streams across his bed through the window, wide open with the curtains fluttering in the breeze.

Tom gets out of bed and after brushing his teeth, heads downstairs, taking care to avoid the extra-creaky step. Each step of the staircase creaks, but one did more than the others; an awful whining sound that would annoy anyone who heard it. He reaches the landing and heads to the kitchen to fix himself breakfast, which consisted of cereal and orange juice. Tom notices his mom in the living room, speaking to someone over the telephone.

He sits at the dining table and slowly finishes breakfast, washing down the chocolaty cereal with orange juice. He puts his dishes in the sink, then goes to the living room to watch television.

As he walks in, he hears his mother say, “… had to go away on a case. It's a Sunday, too! I know, I know…” her voice trails off as Tom enters her field of vision. She smiles at him, then lifts up a finger to indicate that she'd be with him in a moment. “I'll call you back, Tara,” she says, then hangs up. She turns to Tom with a wide smile on her face and says, “Look who’s awake! Did you sleep well, love? Have you eaten, or do I need to make you breakfast?”

“I’ve eaten, mommy,” Tom says, yawning tiredly. “Although I don’t think I slept very well last night.” The monsters had come after his dad had left, teasing and scaring him pretty much the entire night.

“Well,” his mother muses, “maybe you need to go to bed earlier. And no late night misadventures; I know you’re on your summer break, but there’s still a time and place for everything.”

Tom simply nods, then plants himself in front of the television. He would not move from that spot for the rest of the day.

*

“It’s off to bed with you, young man,” Tom’s mother says, and Tom couldn’t agree with her more. His head is drooping onto his chest, his eyes heavy, and his stomach pleasantly full. His mother didn’t seem to have the energy to cook, so they had just ordered pizza, since it was only the two of them.

His mother takes him in her arms, and he nestles his head comfortably on her shoulder as she carries him up the stairs. “You’re getting too big for this, love. Pretty soon you’ll have to carry me!” Tom smiles, picturing him carrying his mother. He’s almost asleep when the louder-than-normal stair creaks beneath his mother, and then his eyes are wide open, watching for the shadows he knew would come.

All the shadows around him take a general fuzzy appearance, like a spark, or some static had passed through it. As his mother climbs, the shadows seem to close in on them, climbing up the stairs, slowly creaking.
They reach the upper landing, and Tom’s heart is pounding; all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears as the shadows draw nearer. They form the shape of feet, mirroring the steps that his mother takes.

Creak, creak, creeeeeeeaaaaak.

And then the shadows are gone as his mom switches on the first floor landing light.

She takes him into his room, tucks him into bed, then sits with him until he feels warm and safe.

“Could you check for monsters under the bed?” he asks her, and his mother smiles obligingly. When his dad isn't home, it is his mom’s responsibility to do what he would do, which included putting him to bed and checking for monsters. Some days it helped, other days the monsters came anyway. 

She bends over, lifting the sheets, then says, “Nope, nothing here.”

“And the cupboard?”

His mother checks that too, then affirms that his cupboard is monster-free. She then glances at the clock on the wall, then exclaims, “Is that the time? Alright, sweetie, mommy’s got an early morning, so you be good tomorrow, you hear? You’ll have the house to yourself, so no funny business, and no leaving the house. I expect to see this place exactly the way I left it, okay?”

Tom nods dutifully, almost asleep. His mother smiles, kissing him on the forehead, then switches off his room light.

A rectangle of light remains in his room from the corridor light, and as his mom leaves his room, a tendril of shadow follows her menacingly.

Tom tries to scream, to say something to warn her, but he cannot; the scream is caught in his throat.

The tendril splits, becoming many, surrounding her shadow, but just before it can make contact, his mother shuts the door behind her, and the light disappears.

The room is now completely dark, and Tom lies in bed, eyes wide open. A barely inaudible hiss can be heard, which becomes an assortment of whispers, competing with each other, fighting to be heard.

Play with us… play with us, play with us, play with us, play with ussssssssss.

Tom huddles underneath his blanket, its warmth soothing him briefly. But now he cannot see the darkness, and his imagination paints him a vivid picture of tentacles hovering over his bed. He wants to scream, but he's afraid that he'll wake his mother, she has so many problems to deal with; he is a big boy, he could take care of this himself.

They aren't real, he thinks, tightly shutting his eyes. They aren't real, Tom.

Yes, we are, a voice says in his ear, and Tom opens his eyes to see a pair of red eyes staring right at him, located in the darkness near his chest.

He shrieks, pushing the covers off him, and suddenly the windows bang open, the curtains flailing about wildly, a wailing breeze flowing through. In the moonlight, he can see red eyes and sharp teeth everywhere, grim smiles painted across the faces of the monsters as they wait patiently.

And just like that, they're gone. A moment later his mother walks into the room, flicking the lights on and saying, “What on earth is that ruckus, Tom? You're supposed to be asleep!”

“There were monsters, mommy! They were everywhere!” Tom begins to sob, afraid that they would come back, wanting his mother to protect him.

“Oh, sweetie,” his mother says, sitting on his bed and taking him in her arms. “There are no monsters here, see? You're just imagining things, honey. Now, I want you to go to sleep, love.” She gets up to leave, and Tom utters a wordless cry, grabbing her hand. “Don't go, mommy, please,” he says, tears streaming down his face.

“Okay, baby,” his mother says, climbing into the small bed with him. “See? Mommy’s right here. I'm gonna stay right here till you fall asleep.”

Tom sniffles as his mother goes to switch off the lights, then smiles when she wraps his little body in her arms, pulling him close to her. He snuggles up to her, letting her warmth take over him, and he falls asleep, monsters the farthest thing from his mind.

*

The clock chimes and Tom’s eyes open. He was dreaming of something, but he cannot remember what. He feels a sudden desire to use the bathroom; the pizza plus his mom’s broccoli from the previous day were ready to go. His mom lies fast asleep beside him, snoring gently. The moonlight streaks across her exposed stomach, painting it in an ethereal silver hue.

He gets out of bed, making a beeline for the toilet, which is at the end of the corridor, past his parents’ bedroom.

Once inside, he locks the door behind him, then proceeds to do his business. Once done, he washes his hands. He looks up into the mirror, comforted by the image of himself looking back at him. His head just peeks over the counter, showing long, black hair which fell down to cover his eyes, which are a pale green. Upon closer inspection, he sees dark circles under his eyes, which he rubs, in the hopes that it will go away. When he opens his eyes, the dark circles are still there, along with the shadows behind him.

He turns around slowly, heart thumping in his chest. They tricked him, calling him here, where they could attack him at ease, away from his mother. He had locked the door as well, so screaming for her would do him no good.

The shadows shiver, then begin to swirl, converging at a point. They slowly start rising from the ground, forming a pair of feet, then shins, knees, on and on until a man stands before him.

The man is composed entirely of shadows, and is featureless, save for his eyes, which are red and scary. His arms are long and fluid, and tentacles protrude from his back, each slithering around with a mind of its own.
Then, all movement stops. Each tentacle hovers in mid-air, perfectly still. The man seems to be slanting his head to one side, as if curious.

Tom clings to the side of the counter, heart hammering against his chest, as if trying to escape. Paralysed by fear, all Tom does is watch, hoping that someone, anyone, would come and save him from this shadow man.

As if on cue, a sound can be heard –the sound of stone on glass. The shadow man turns, distracted. 

Seeing his chance, Tom tries to make a break for it, but is forcibly stopped when the tentacles become one and slam against him, pushing him back with enough force to break bone. Tom collapses to the floor, unable to breathe.

You're ours now, Tommy-boy, the shadow whispers, a whisper that comes from all around him and Tom simply groans in pain. The giant shadow splits into tentacles once more, and slowly wrap around him. Wherever the shadow comes in contact with him, Tom loses feeling.

Like a snake, the shadow begins to entomb him. His feet are the first to go, then his shins, knees, on and on until it reaches his chest.

By then, Tom is drowsy, the pain now a dull throb in the back of his head. The numbness is inviting, and Tom is ready to give in… He's been afraid of the monsters too long, now he would be one of them, and he wouldn't be scared of them anymore…

“You leave him alone!”

The voice is disembodied, but Tom recognises it vaguely. Tom tries calling out, but his mouth won't form the words, the shadows have wrapped around him, like linen around a mummy, and Tom just wants the numbness to take over, to be comfortable, to be one of them…

And then, like a bucket of ice-cold water, lights strikes him, shocking him back into reality. The shadows peel off him like layers of an onion, and Tom is left gasping on the floor as life returns to his lifeless body.

Tom opens his eyes to the grinning face of Bill, his next-door neighbour and nightly escapade partner.

“When you didn't answer,” he says, implying the stones he'd been throwing on the window to attract his attention, “I figured something was wrong.”

“Thank you,” Tom says, rubbing his face tiredly, exhausted from the ordeal. “Can you help me to bed? I don't think I'm ready to go out tonight.”

Bill nods, that stupid grin still on his face. He had moved into the house next door a few months ago, and they had been best friends ever since. “I'll get you to your room safe, don't worry. I've got a magic knife, look!” So saying he brandishes a knife which is pitch black, with a wooden handle.

“How'd you do that?” Tom asked, amazed and afraid of the knife in Bill’s hand. “I did some research on monsters and shadows, and they taught me how to turn a kitchen knife into a shadow knife, which are made to absorb shadows on contact.”

They walk out into the corridor, Tom feeling so much safer than he did a moment ago. He would have to make one of those shadow knives too; he could do it tomorrow, when his mother wasn't at home. “Do you want to come and play tomorrow?” Tom asks. “My mother won't be home.”

“Yes,” Bill says, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s!”

They reach his door and Tom walks in, unafraid. His mother is still fast asleep, and Tom curls into bed beside her, turning to wave goodbye to Bill, who smiles and leaves, closing the door.

“Where'd you go, honey?” His mother murmurs sleepily.

“Just the bathroom, mom.”

*

The next day, Tom wakes up early in the morning, feeling as tired as ever. As he gets out of bed, the doorbell rings, and he hurries to answer it knowing it would be Bill.

Once he let Bill in, Tom goes to fix himself breakfast. Bill follows him into the kitchen, whistling. He stops in his tracks as he sees the row of cereals that Tom insisted his mother buy. “You look like you've stocked up for a zombie apocalypse, Tom.”

Tom laughs, filling up a bowl with cereal and milk, and chowing it down. For some reason, he feels ravenously hungry.
Once done, he stacks the bowl in the sink, and then he leads Bill to the television, where they sit and watch cartoons for the rest of the morning.

In the afternoon, Tom raids the fridge for lunch, and finding none, he makes himself another bowl of cereal. Bill, however, refuses to eat, citing a heavy breakfast as the reason.

After lunch, Tom’s mother calls, and after checking up on him, informs him that she will be getting home late. She expected him to be asleep well before that, and he in turn replies that he would.

“And no TV after nine, Tom,” she warns him.

Once he hangs up, he returns to Bill, who hasn't moved from the couch in front of the television.

“So,” Tom says.

“You wanna know about the knife,” Bill says, turning away from the TV.

Tom nods excitedly. For weeks now, the shadows have scared him. Now, he finally has a chance to scare them back, maybe even make them go away for good.

“Okay,” Bill says, and Tom mutes the TV. “It’s quite simple, really. There’s a spell that can make an ordinary kitchen knife into a shadow knife. The spell is more like a ritual, and can only performed when the sun is setting, otherwise it will fail. You’ll need the following items…”

*

Tom stares at the knife, his eyes wide with awe. The knife handle is the same as it’s always been; wooden, slightly chipped and worn, but the blade is black, like volcanic glass. “And this will kill the shadows?” Tom asks, doubtfully, realising that he has never actually seen the blade work.

“Yes, it will,” Bill says, exasperated. “Now, I have to get home, so tell me how it goes tomorrow, okay?” Tom nods in reply, clutching the knife carefully to his chest. Bill sees himself out, and Tom locks the door when he’s gone, then heads up to his room, where he proceeds to put the knife under his pillow where the monsters couldn’t get to it.

Now all he has to do is wait.

The window is closed, the curtain drawn, and the door is shut. All the lights in the house have been switched off. The clock chimes nine.

Tom waits, and waits, and waits, and waits.

The clock chimes again, and Tom awakens with a start, eyes wide and alert. It’s dark outside; Tom doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep. He slides his hand underneath the pillow and his fingers curl around the worn, wooden handle of the blade, offering him comfort. He glances at the clock -it's midnight again.

He draws out the blade, and in the blackness of his room, the blade appears blacker, like a hole in the darkness, and Tom can hear an almost audible hiss as the shadows recoil in fear of the knife.

Tom smiles gleefully as he gently probes the knife into the darkness, and nearly laughs out loud when the shadows seem to be sucked in by the knife.

He hops off the bed, slashing wildly at half-formed humanoid figures, as the shadows struggle to form a body to fight back. Tom runs about his room, swinging his knife, watching in awe as the shadows vanish at the touch of his blade.

Ssssstop, pleassssse, sssssstop. The hiss rises from all around him, but Tom doesn’t, and why should he? The monsters have scared him for weeks now, even when he begged and pleaded.

It wassss her, the shadows hiss, as if reading his mind. Sssshe made ussss do it. Pleassssse, sssstop.

That gives Tom pause. Still swirling the knife around, he returns to his bed, then asks, “Who’re you talking about?”

The shadows collect at the foot of his bed, forming the man-shaped thing that had assaulted him the previous day in the bathroom.

It is her, the man-shadow hisses, his mouth a slightly less black void than his entire body. The Crone that makes us do it. She feeds off it; it keeps her alive. Do not hurt us with your weapon, but her –otherwise it’ll never stop.

The man hisses louder than before, then explodes in a burst of shadow. Tom stand on his bed as his bedroom door opens slowly, letting a soft rectangle of light into the room.

The Crone stands at the doorway, her body nearly as featureless as the shadow monsters, her eyes just as red and scary. She seems to be wearing a tattered robe, also made of shadow, and two stick-like appendages protrude from her body –hands.

Her lips split, revealing dagger-like teeth, and she says only one word: Tom.

Tom leaps off the bed, knife to one side. At the appearance of the knife, the Crone becomes afraid, her smile turning sour. She retreats away from his door, and Tom chases her into the corridor.

In the corridor, they face off once more, with the Crone staring at him with those red, red eyes, and her mouth a hard line. Tom, she repeats, and his name is followed by a hiss as she continues to talk, albeit in a language he doesn’t comprehend.

She begins to walk backward slowly, and Tom knew that he couldn’t let her reach his mother’s room; she had probably gotten home and fallen asleep –the Crone would surely use her as leverage.

Three steps to the room.

Two steps.

One.

The Crone’s stick-like hand comes in contact with the door handle, and Tom launches at her, trusting in the power of his knife.
But the Crone is fast, and she dives into the room. The knife buries itself nearly halfway into the doorframe, and Tom begins to pull on it, hoping to get it unstuck, but with no luck.

With surprising ferocity, Tom is tackled by the Crone, whose arms may’ve appeared stick-like, but in truth seemed to be made concrete. He's slammed against the staircase railings, which knocks the wind out of him. He pushes back, and the Crone seems surprised he can still move; she probably expected that one blow to knock him out. She tumbles through the door, and Tom tugs at the knife, which comes out of the doorframe, making him hit himself in the head due to the force. He doesn't let it faze him, although for a second he's dazed.

The Crone gets up from the ground, but Tom is faster, getting into the room and pulling her legs out from under her, forcing her to fall on the bed. His mother isn’t in the room –that meant she isn’t back from work yet, which is good.

Tom jumps onto the bed, stabbing her in the leg. The Crone lets out a high-pitched keen, which continues as he stabs her other leg. Where he stabs, shadow rods form, holding her in place. He stabs her in each bony wrist.

He then stabs her in the throat, once.

Twice. Three times.

Four.

The sound becomes a wet gurgle, and then nothing. Tom gets off the bed, wiping the knife clean of whatever it is that the Crone is made of. He makes his way into the bathroom, and proceeds to clean the knife again, watching as blood trails away from the knife, a dark, almost black blood.

He looks up into the mirror, comforted by the image of himself looking back at him. His head just peeks over the counter, showing long, black hair which fell down to cover his eyes, which are a pale green. His face is smeared with the blood of the Crone, and the dark circles under his eyes are ever present. He rubs them in a futile attempt to make them go away, and when he opens his eyes, it’s still there, along with the shadows behind him.

And the shadows do not move.

*

A car pulls into the driveway, and Henry, Tom’s father, gets out, completely exhausted. The case had taken a lot out of him, but it had been closed. Now all he wants to do is get home and spend some quality time with his family.

As he approaches the house, he notices all the blinds are drawn, with the windows all closed.

With his heartbeat increasing, and a ball of dread forming in his stomach, Henry rings the bell, and then knocks on the door. When no one replies, he calls out, “Tom?”

*

Tom hears the man call out, and he clutches his knife until his knuckles turn white. Bill sits beside him, hand on his shoulder, warning him to be careful. The curtains all over the house are drawn, and the house is in a perpetual state of semi-darkness. Stashing the knife under the cushions of the sofa, Tom goes to open the door. A wave of relief washes over him as he sees his dad, who seems to feel a similar way. He picks up Tom off the ground hugging him tightly, then puts him down saying, “Why're all the lights off? Where's your mother? Are you alone at home?”

“Mom’s upstairs,” Tom says. “I'm not alone, though. Billy’s with me.”

“Who’s Billy?” His dad asks, looking around the half-dark, empty room. “A friend from school?”

Billy stands beside him, nudging his shoulder urgently. “He's my friend,” Tom says, and takes a step back, watching as the shadows wrap around his father’s feet, caressing him, as if welcoming him back.

“He isn't your father, Tom,” Billy whispers in his ear, fingers clenching his shoulder.

As his father-who-isn't-his-father slowly creaks his way up the stairs, the shadows coil around him, moving upwards.

Tom rushes to the couch and grabs the knife, the wooden handle reassuring him, comforting him. It gives him strength.

Tom follows him up the stairs, avoiding the extra creaky stair. He wouldn't have much time to act –once the shadow came into contact with the Crone, it would be harder to destroy.

*

Henry reaches the first floor landing, immediately growing wary. There are dark stains on the rug, and the door to the bedroom is shut. In all his life being married, he doesn't remember even once when Lisa shut the door –he would always do it.

He sees a hole in the side, which looks suspiciously like a knife mark, and he immediately unholsters his gun, the weight of it in his hands offering him a sense of control. “Lisa?” Henry calls out uneasily.

He slowly pushes the door open, and it swings inward without a sound, and Henry walks in.
Lisa lies in bed, her face frozen in a look of shock. The bed-sheets are soaked in her blood, her throat a mangled mess of blood and bone. She’s been stabbed, and repeatedly. A wordless scream escapes from Henry’s mouth as he loses control of himself.

Then he feels the knife sink into his back.

Henry turns, tears streaming down his face, wondering who was senselessly destroying his family.

Tom stands at the doorway, looking at him with those green, green eyes. His hair is down, almost covering them, but he can see those eyes. Dark circles under them, with a small smile playing on his face.

No, Henry thinks. Not him, not my son. No. No, no, no. Henry’s vision begins to darken around the edges, and in his mind he can see Lisa screaming in agony, screaming at him for leaving her, for not protecting her.

Henry drops to his knees, trying weakly to grab the knife from his back, trying to dull the pain, to focus.

As he blacks out, Henry can only watch in horror as the darkness seems to form the shape of a boy behind Tom, with dark, red eyes and a smile revealing rows and rows of teeth.