Too much caffeine.
That's what it is, too much caffeine.
I'm lying in bed waiting for sleep to take me. But it doesn't
want me tonight. Something else does.
As I'm about to fall into the abyss of sleep, a breathy voice
whispers something incoherent in my ear. I sit up suddenly, my
heart about to burst from my chest.
Layers of shadows comprise the darkness of my bedroom. I see
nothing out of the ordinary, but somebody . . . or something,
could be hiding between the shadows.
This tiny guesthouse I occupy is acres away from the main house.
We are connected only by a thin path between thick woods. The
next house is miles down the darkened road.
An escaped lunatic has taken refuge in this seclusion.
I try to calm myself. If a lunatic were hiding here or in another
part of the house, I would have seen or heard him by now.
An overactive imagination.
That's what it is, an overactive imagination.
Pulling the covers to my chin, I curl over my pillow. An icy
finger touches my shoulder.
I leap out of bed and switch on the lamp. Quickly, I scan every
corner of the room.
Nothing.
It is well hidden.
I calm myself. There is nothing hiding here.
Too much caffeine.
That's what it is, too much caffeine.
I cannot return to bed. I enter the den and watch television.
Late night talk shows comfort me.
A crawling sensation trickles up my arm.
I lift my arm to my face.
A spider crawls innocently toward my elbow. Instinctively,
I squash it.
I feel guilty.
I wash my arm in the kitchen sink and return to the couch.
The sensation of crawling covers my body. I swipe at my arms,
legs and head.
Nothing.
The icy cold finger touches the back of my neck.
I leap off the couch and look frantically around.
Nothing.
A car door slams in the distance. Adrenaline pumps through
my body.
An overactive imagination.
That's what it is, an overactive imagination.
A thin shadow runs along the wall and vanishes into my bedroom.
I follow it.
I flip on the light switch. The bulb burns out with a pop.
Darkness engulfs me.
I hear scratching. Scratching on wood.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
It's coming from my closet.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
I step back and turn on the hall light. It illuminates a small
portion of my room, but enough to see what I need.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
I reach for the baseball bat I keep under my bed.
Something brushes my palm.
My other shaking hand lifts the bed sheet to investigate.
Only a dust ball.
The scratching continues.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
I clutch the bat.
The scratching grows louder as I approach the door.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
I raise the bat and reach for the doorknob.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
I throw open the door.
Nothing.
I turn on the light.
Nothing.
I dig furiously through my clothes and boxes.
Nothing.
I hear a mumbled whisper behind me.
I spin around, my baseball bat poised for action.
Nothing.
Too much caffeine.
That's what it is, too much caffeine.
I just need to get back into bed and clear my head.
In the dark and silence I lay and wait.
When the sun shines through my bedroom window, relief rushes
through my body.
The caffeine has worn off. My imagination has calmed.
I bask in the safety of daylight and think of the day ahead.
The scratching returns.
Sktt . . . skttt . . . sktttt . . .
"Fear Itself" published in Heretic Hollow, Spring 1998.
©1995