When Night Time Dies
by Brian Grisham

Larren cautiously stepped inside his bedroom and sat down at the edge of the bed, remembering the horrible dream he had last night. It was strong ... evil. He felt the disturbing images float through his mind as if they were being pulled by
a current of toxic black water. A sour taste grew in the back of his throat. Finally he pulled back the covers and laid down. The sheets were cold against his legs, and it felt refreshing like he had spent all day working in the desert heat.

He reached outward, his ebony skin barely visible through the darkness, and set his digital alarm clock that was
on the night stand beside him. Through the thick blanket of night the red numbers gleamed down at him like fierce, little alien eyes.

His son, Tyler, who was six years old, was away visiting his grandparents. He had never really got to see them as often as he liked, but whenever he did his face would brighten with excitement. Larren knew Tyler missed his grandparents terribly ever since they had moved from Mississippi to Phoenix, Arizona. Sadly, after that their visits
became short and frequent.

Larren thought about his beautiful wife: her full tender lips on his face as she kissed him, her breath against his neck, and her luscious brown eyes that seemed to steal his soul whenever he would look inside them. He longed for her soft,
syrup-brown skin curled up against his body as they lay in bed- the very bed he was in now. Her aroma lingered in the sheets with him as if she had never left. His wife, who had been violently murdered outside their church parking lot, had died at twenty seven in a hospital with a ten inch knife sticking straight out of her back. Her throat was slit, and her face was severely battered and broken. Larren remembered the agonizing images from eight months ago, and her final breath which he would never feel upon his body again.

At thirty three he felt older than he actually was. Larren began to cry. The hideous images of the dream found its way back into his mind. He tried to shut them out but they forced their way inside anyway. He felt hot, tired and frustrated,
though he tried to remain patient, but was it worth it? That was the question that invaded his head like a venereal disease. Was it worth it? He did not know.

Larren closed his eyes, and his body began to sweat feverishly even with the air conditioner on. Its noise drummed through the room like a squadron of brutal soldiers. He could feel the warm summer night smother him through the window overhead as he rolled over in his bed, trying not to think about his wife, about his son and about the tormenting dream that haunted his mind. He wanted to escape them but he couldn’t. It was a part of him- a part much bigger than he had realized as if the memories of the past eight months were a part of his body that he could not sever- and if he
did then he would die slowly and painfully. He felt lonely, scared and forgotten. They were dark emotions, frightening even, but nonetheless they felt all the more sane. Larren continued to search for sleep and within the hour he found himself drifting away into the world of dreams.

“It’s all in your head,” a woman’s gentle voice whispered.

Larren rolled over on his back and moaned under his breath, unaware of the new presence. Delicate hands lightly caressed his dark face and chest. He moaned louder, swiping at the intruding hands then snorted and rolled over to his other side.

“My sweet,” said the voice. “I’ve returned for you...”

The woman then ran her hand down his ear. Larren slowly opened one eye, somewhat aware that some one else was in the room with him. His breath shortened immediately as if he were paralyzed in time and space and nothing else
was around him but the room’s never ending darkness. He felt like he was adrift, floating in space, but there were no stars to look upon nor to pin-point his destination. He was engulfed in emptiness. He heard nothing- not even the sound of night: The dogs down the street barking, crickets outside his window chirping nor the sounds of cars passing by with sleepy salesmen and devious teenagers. There was nothing, but only the woman and her sensual hands as they continued to stroke his face with light fingertips.

“I’ve returned for you,” the voice whispered again.

Larren opened his other eye and slowly craned his head up toward the visitor. As soon as he realized who she was his heart dropped into his stomach and his muscles clamped throughout his body as if to hold him down. His mouth opened wide and he let out a faint, distorted shriek. It was her... again.

Her white eyes shined like suns and her black braided hair hung off of her head and dangled inches from Larren’s face like big, thick spider legs, twitching on its plump, black body. Her lips were thick and blacker than her midnight skin and yet her naked body glowed frightfully bright so that Larren was able to catch every detail as it hovered above him in a ghostly drift.

“Oh, don’t pretend it’s your very first time,” the ghostly woman whispered then ran her thick, gray tongue from his chin up to his forehead.

Larren struggled but he was somehow pinned down by an unknown barrier; an invisible force that pressed down hard on his chest. He mouthed the word, help and the ghostly woman laughed wickedly. Her laughter drilled into his ears as
if a demented carpenter were drilling into his brain. The dry smell of burning bone violated his nostrils at the very thought.

“Mmm, I’m afraid nobody can help you, my love. You’re mine...” She whispered sharply then revealed her long sharp teeth dripping with saliva.

Larren opened his mouth to scream but it couldn’t escape his chest. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and blood gushed from his mouth, nose and ears and ran down his pillows and sheets and onto the floor. He was helpless...
powerless. He felt his guts boil deep inside him and the veins in his body stood out like blood-lusting leeches.

Once again the ghostly woman shrieked with laughter; her face hideous and mesmerizing. He wanted to scream with all his lungs could allow, anything to drown the woman’s steel piercing laughter. He wished it to happen... wished it
with every strength he had left inside him. Then he awoke.

Larren shouted in terror as he bolted up from his bed. He looked about the darkened room: the sheets drenched with sweat tossed askew, one pillow on the floor and the other by the foot of the bed. The dresser- the headboard- the
carpet. He looked at the door. It was closed and locked. He let out another terrifying scream just because he was finally able to. He held his chest with both hands, feeling the rhythmic movement of his racing heartbeat, the rising of his lungs and the contour of his chest muscles and ribcage. Another nightmare.

He flicked on the bedroom light and looked down at his bed again. He thought how amazing everything looked under a different light. His sheets were white with a blue flower motif as were the pillowcases. The blanket was a solid blue
which matched the sheets. His wife had picked them out the day they moved here. He eyed the bedroom again; the white walls, the brown carpet, the oak dresser and night stand. Then he thought about the nightmare again. There was more to it this time. The details seemed more realistic as did the pain. The blood was new as well. In his previous nightmares there was only the feeling of helplessness as if his soul was trapped in his own body, wanting desperately to break free.

His breathing had calmed but his body still trembled. He felt the wicked presence lurk around him, and he laughed under his breath at the very thought but his smile quickly faltered. Larren eyed the bed as if it were some evil power
invading his home or even polluting his soul. He slept in it for Christ sakes, but nevertheless the corruption felt more true and more real than anything in his life. He shuddered.

Larren spent the rest of the night in the kitchen with a pot of coffee in front of him. He wasn’t looking forward to work and was growing weary of the endless disputes and discussions he was printing in the paper. As an outgoing and
popular reporter in the Phoenix Sun he had his own commentary on city, state and federal issues such as health
care, the homeless, abortion and inner city youth, but was he really speaking his mind or was he printing what the people wanted to hear? He didn’t know any longer, and he didn’t think he even cared. Everything in his life felt stale and colorless and he feared he would never leave this deepening depression. The nightmares were like an exclamation
point to all of his problems. Was he thinking rationally? He wasn’t even sure. Perhaps it had been best that he sent his son to his wife’s parents for a while, maybe then he could try to straighten out his life... at least part of it.

“Damn it,” Larren muttered under his breath. He sighed deeply then took a sip of his coffee. It was cold and sour but he swallowed it anyway. Later, Larren showered, dressed and headed for work. He wasn’t looking forward to returning home, but as he did that evening he could only think about sleep as if it were the only savior to his problems, and yet at the same time it was his worst enemy. He wanted to lay back, close his eyes and fall endlessly into the black
depth of sleep but he knew that the nightmare would accompany him. It was as if the hideous woman wanted to share his dreams and take control of his nightmares and drive him into insanity.

Larren stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. He gazed at the empty coffee pot. Right then he felt like that pot was his only friend. The light sparkled off of it like a crystal ball and he imagined an old, haggard gypsy sitting in
front of it, grinning anxiously, ready to foretell his grim future.

Exhausted, Larren brewed up a fresh pot and sat down at the kitchen table. Within minutes the aroma of French vanilla escaped into the air. He then pulled out a frozen dinner of Salisbury steak, rice, corn and a little square of brownie for dessert, nuked it and poured himself a fresh, steaming cup of coffee. His stomach growled fiercely.

After finishing his dinner and five cups of black coffee, Larren went into the living room and turned on the television. The only thing he could find interesting was the nine o’clock news, so he left it at that. He sat back on the couch and let his brain go numb for a couple of hours. After one-thirty, Larren felt his eyes scream for sleep. He forced his eyes open for another thirty minutes but it was no use... he had to go to bed.

“I need more coffee,” he said out loud.

Larren staggered out of the living room and into the hallway. There he noticed something on the carpet against the wall. He bent down and picked it up. It was a children’s story book that belonged to his son who had left it there
before leaving for his grandparents. He thought it was strange that he didn’t notice it there before.

As Larren casually flipped through the book he walked toward the kitchen. Inside the book there were elaborate cartoon pictures of trees, animals, the sun and moon and various other things but he noticed how the moon’s eyes were oddly white as if they weren’t completely finished. He turned the pages until he reached the end. Then in the
corner of his eye he caught sight of the bed. He stopped and turned toward it. The bed called out for him. He tried to resist and attempted to take another step toward the kitchen, but he couldn’t. He yawned deeply and took another look at the bed. The room was the same as he had left it the night before. The sheets and pillows were tangled
together. He then found himself approaching the bedroom. The sheets were moving like fingers, gesturing for him to come closer... closer. Larren couldn’t feel his feet on the floor as he obeyed the bed.

At last he was back into his bedroom. He dropped the book onto the night stand and eyed the bed dreamily. The sheets opened up, inviting him to enter, and he did. He dropped into the bed in slow motion, enjoying the soft, springy comfort as he landed on the welcoming mattress. He no longer had control. He closed his eyes as the blankets
hugged themselves over him. The room was dark, the house was silent, and Larren fell deep into sleep.

“Larren...,” whispered a woman’s voice. “Laaaarren.”

Larren stirred in the bed.

“Larren- wake up.”

Larren rolled over then slowly opened his eyes as he recognized the voice calling for him.

“Oh, Larren. You remember me don’t ya?” cried a second woman’s voice.

Larren rubbed his eyes and tried to focus through the darkness but still couldn’t see who was sitting across the room. He then turned on the lamp that was on the night stand and saw two women sitting in a chair- one in the other’s lap.
They were both naked.

“Wha...,” muttered Larren.

“Welcome back to the living, my love,” taunted the lighter-skinned woman who sat on top.

Larren looked at her closely and horribly realized that she was his dead wife. He drew in a quick breath, unable to take his eyes away from the two of them. He quickly recognized the second woman as the ghostly witch in his nightmares
except this time she looked more real; not an apparition like before but a real solid human being, but for her eyes- her eyes were white and empty as was his dead wife’s. Was this a nightmare? He didn’t know, though it had to be.

“Tanya,” he uttered.

“Mmm, yes my dead husband...”

“Tanya...,” he said again then closed his mouth. He felt dizzy and confused.

“Larren, we’re all dead here. Come play with us. Come stay with us,” whispered the other woman then both of them giggled playfully as they held each other in their arms.

Larren blinked then heard himself ask, “Who are you?”

Tanya’s smile died and her eyes narrowed. The other woman ran her long fingers down Tanya’s thigh and kissed her deeply. Tanya moaned with passion. Larren watched them in disbelief as a voice whispered seductively all around him, “Play with us... stay with us.”

Larren peered around the room then looked back at his dead wife and cried, “Why are you doing this? Remember our son, Tyler? Don’t you remember him?”

Tanya’s eyes flashed at him, and she hissed, “I don’t want Tyler. I want - you.” then both women laughed hideously as they began to rot in front of him.

Worms exploded from Tanya’s face and squirmed down her body onto the carpet. Their faces were unrecognizable flesh. Larren screamed out, reaching for Tanya. Their bodies squirmed with fast feeding maggots as they fell to the floor and decayed into the darkness. He screamed again, calling out his wife’s name then suddenly found himself
back in bed, fully dressed and staring into the ghastly face of the hideous woman floating above him. His terrified scream turned into an inaudible choke as if the wind was suddenly knocked out of him. He tried to scream- he tried to close his eyes but he could do neither but only stare into the flashing eyes of the floating woman: the witch- the
succubus. Her braided hair hung down to his petrified face and her tongue lashed from her overwhelmingly huge mouth.

“I don’t want Tyler, I want you! I want you!” Screamed the woman.

Larren tried to fight the succubus’s power but her hold over him was too great. His eyes rolled up to the back of his head, then once again blood ran from his mouth and eyes as he went into convulsions. The woman threw her hands up and the blood vessels in his head exploded everywhere. Then parts of her moved down onto Larren like thick black straws and began to suck up his blood and flesh. Small energy bolts flashed between them and around the invading entity. Larren’s chest opened up like wrapping paper and his cooked organs spilled out onto the floor. The succubus’s
body grew fat from the blood.

“You’re mine now,” she hissed. “You’re mine.”

The succubus swiftly floated out of the window overhead and vanished into the city night. Larren’s body then quickly rotted away, leaving his blood-stained skeleton behind in the bed which he and his wife had once together slept. The
bed’s cover then slowly moved up and swallowed what was left of Larren.......and then he woke up, screaming.

© Brian Grisham

Brian Grisham been publishing poetry and short stories since 1996. The poetry I've published are: "After Sunset"- The Poetry Guild, (published 1996), "The White Flames" and "The Blood On My Hands"- Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum, (winter 1997, fall 1997), "Death Is My Battlefield"- Poet's Fantasy Magazine, (summer 1997), "The Tresspasser"- The International Library Of Poetry, (1999), and he has a poem called, "Vile Passion" which will be out sometime in May and is also being published by The International Library Of Poetry. The short stories he's published are: "Caffeinated Fangs" and "The Child Of Dementia"- The House Of Pain, (April 1999, October 1999). Brian Grisham won the Editor's Choice award by The International Library Of Poetry for outstanding achievement in poetry, and was nominated for the poet of the year for 1999.

Visit Brian's website: www.covenroses.com

June 2000 HofP