Dead Weight

The way I see it there are two ways in which a story can be true. One way concerns itself with facts (did the events actually happen?) while the other concerns itself with meaning (what is the point of it all?) I’ll leave it to tedious minds to argue semantics, and in the meantime, I’ll lay out a sequence of events which have—and continue—to terrify me. Even now to merely recall the events is enough to fill me with clawing anxiety. What follows is the true account of a Wednesday night in which I enjoyed the clutches of solitude after a long day’s work.

It was a cold December outside my weathered bungalow, and after a meager dinner of rice and beans, I reclined on the chaise in my living room. The portable fireplace danced with fake flames and steeped the dark room in an orange hue. I lay motionless, suspended in silence as I’d done for the last ten years, and allowed myself to sink into the cavernous hollow of my soul, listening to the echo of my thoughts. Bliss. Opposite the chaise was a wall in which one would normally position a television, but since I had no use for one the wall lay bare. Bare except for a spider that had taken up residence in a hole in the sheetrock. It was a hole I’d made a couple of years prior but never bothered patching. Someone else might’ve killed the spider, but I’d taken a liking to it. It was entertaining to say the very least. It was a beautiful black color with brown stripes and was a fascinating thing. I’d made a habit of watching it as it gracefully moved its tiny legs this way and that, spinning an intricate web of marvelous design.

The spider was unusually active and as I gazed on intently, I never noticed that at some point or another I drifted off to sleep. Such was the spider’s enchantment. I’ve since forgotten what I dreamt about, whether the spider or some other pleasant thing, but I was startled by intense rapping at the front door. My arms and legs shot up with a jolt and I spilled onto the floor like a basket of laundry. I spun around and hid behind the chaise, glaring wide-eyed at the door. Rare as company was at the bungalow, I usually wouldn’t duck for cover at the sound of someone knocking. But this wasn’t your usual knocking. In fact, it wasn’t knocking or rapping at all as I have wrongly described it. It was banging. Frenzied banging, as if it were the police searching for a fugitive. I had the frightened feeling that the door might come off its hinges.

Who the fuck is that?

The bombardment coupled with my crouched position brings to mind soldiers in trench warfare, but there was no gallant bravery here. My heart pounded in unison with the door, and it took everything in me to breathe slowly to calm myself, for I was sure that my rattling breaths would be heard and my location found. I don’t know how long I cowered there—a few minutes or a few hours—but I forced myself to sit completely still until I was sure the disruption was gone. Eventually, I made my way around the chaise, crawling across the living room on my belly, never moving more than a centimeter at a time. I finally reached the door. Slowly raised myself. Looked through the peephole. Peeked through the window. I inched the door open and slipped quietly onto the porch. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but the clear December night. A white moon on a black curtain. A northern gust sweeping leaves up the road like an invisible broom.

I was a melting pot of emotion as I locked the door and walked briskly to the safety of my room. I was spooked, confused, and indignant. The feelings fought each other for their own time in the light, rambled incessantly, tapered into murmuring, and finally succumbed to silence. Some might wonder why I would remain in the house after such an ordeal, but the house—lonely and pitiful as it was—with the spider and its familiar trappings was everything I knew, and everything I loved. When I finally managed sleep, it is no surprise that I dreamt terribly. A string of nightmares each more terrible than the next. The worst one found me trapped in a cave frantically searching for an exit before my flickering flashlight gave out. As I lurched around a curve, I was slammed into and shot off my feet. I collided with the sharp jagged wall and collapsed like dead weight. I agonized and moaned on the wet stone, pulsating with a pounding headache—

boom

boom

Boom

BOOM! —

Back in my room, I was launched off the mattress like one of those exploding chairs. There it was again! The terrible banging at my front door. The ferocious, maniacal banging only this time it was completely unhinged. Empty picture frames came off walls and beer cans tumbled from countertops. Windows rattled in casings and the foundation of the house shook. I scuttled to a corner of the room and let out a terrible cry as the banging grew louder and more violent. I could hear guttural groans and the door creaking and straining to remain in place and then the unmistakable sound of cracking wood as the doorjamb splintered and the clink of nails and locks as they hit the floor, and in a desperate fit of fear and flight, I scrambled to my feet and burst through the bedroom window and ran.
And ran. And ran.