Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Night. Karl. Walking in slow motion. Fog everywhere. In the distance, a large Victorian house looms, penetrating the miasma like in an old Hammer horror movie. The house will devour him, swallow him in one gulp. His heart is beating so hard it hurts his ribcage. He tries to stop walking, but the house’s magnetic grip keeps pulling him in.
I don’t want to go there. Please…someone…help…
His shoes start tripping him. Too big. He kicks them off, and continues onwards like a zombie. The house is getting bigger and bigger, his fear more acute. Trousers start slipping from his waist. He almost stumbles over them as they slide down his legs. Wiggles out of them. Followed by his underwear. The coat he’s wearing feels like a large gorilla straddling him. It pulls away from him like a leaf in autumn. To his embarrassment, he is now completely naked, but bizarrely getting smaller, thinner.
A child.
Help me…please…someone. But it’s not his deep, baritone voice he hears pleading. It’s a squeaky, pubescent echo of anxiety and panic.
Closer. The house comes closer. Its shadow reaching out to him. Threatening to grab.
Please…
His hand touches the door handle. He turns it. Involuntary. Door opens. A tidal wave of blood is unleashed like water into a sinking ship. Fills his mouth with the taste of iron and dry cotton. He’s gagging. Choking. Drowning.
The bloody tide pulls him inside. A body floats by. His mother. Naked. Dead. Her skin shredded. He reaches for the body. Pulls himself on to it. Like it’s a bloated surfboard. Holding on for dear life. Gripping her spongy breasts. His face rests in her face. The stench of her rot is nauseating. Her eyes are open. Overripe with horror.
Reflected in her pupils is a scene, like an old-time movie projector, flipping instantaneous movements of reel. Blurs slowing down towards an understanding of time and object.
He looks deeper and deeper into the eyes. Directly behind his mother, a man stands, naked, bloody knife in hand, laughing. He resembles a centaur but in pig form, draped in a butcher’s bloody apron. He mounts her, his corkscrew cock excited and rigid, ready for entry into her vortex.
Nooooooooooooooo! Karl is screaming, but no ears are listening.
Behind the man, lurking in shadows, two young girls point their fingers accusingly at Karl. Blood is dripping from the tops of the tiny fingers. The drops parachute towards the ground, hitting it in slow motion, forming the words, You let him murder us, you did nothing to stop him…
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
‘Karl! Karl, wake up!’
‘Huh…? What…?’ Karl blinked a few times. His mouth tasted like dusty glue. Brow damp with sweat. Chest heaving.
‘You were having a nightmare,’ Naomi said, her worried face hovering over his. ‘You screamed out a few times. You okay?’
‘Yes…’ He forced a grin. ‘No more cheese sandwiches before bed, ever again.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Nothing…just the usual crap, being chased through a forest by a strange-looking woman with a bloody axe in her hands. I think it was Lynne, looking more money from me.’ He eased out of bed. ‘Need to take a leak.’
In the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. Barely recognised the man staring back. Threw cold water on face, before checking hands. They were trembling.
Sneaking a peek out the bathroom door, he tiptoed across the landing to where his coat dangled from a coatstand. Shoved his hand in the inside pocket. Rummaged. Found the pills. Removed two from their enclosure, and tried popping them into his mouth. Missed. Watched in horror as they bounced onto and into the carpet.
‘Damn it!’ He fell to his knees, fingers fine-combing the plush carpeting.
‘Karl? You okay?’ Naomi called from the bedroom.
‘Yes…just a second.’ His fingers frantically searched. Bingo! One recovered. Where’s the other bastard?
‘Karl…?’
‘Coming…’ He swallowed the sole survivor and headed back to the bedroom.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Naomi said, concern traced across her brow as he eased back into bed.
‘Nothing a hug won’t cure.’
Naomi patted her side of the bed. ‘Come here, big lad.’
Karl slid over, curving into her, loving her womanly smells, the warmth of her breasts, the beat of her heart against his ear. But more than all these things combined, he loved her protection. He needed that more than anything else at this moment.
Silently, he prayed to a god he did not believe in, not to let him fall asleep.
Not to let the bogeyman get him…