Bedtime by Michael Whitehouse (easy novels to read txt) 📖

Its laboured breathing relaxed slightly and seemed to stare at me almost quizzically.

I waited still for a shift of weight which might have let me throw it to the ground.

Leaning down close to me, its wide, crumbling sneer puckered. Gathering its putrid saliva in its mouth and in what was left of its cheeks, it then showed utter contempt for the living, and the dead; it spat its festering fluid onto my face, the remnants dripping down onto me through a hole in its jaw.

I wanted to scream, to do anything to remove such a vile smear on my skin, but I dared move; the time was not right. Leaning in closer, it prodded and scratched at the wound in my shoulder, the pain sheering through my body. With all of my resistance, I remained motionless.

Then, it slowly and patiently slid two of its long, distended fingers into my mouth. The taste was overwhelming, rancid, rotten, dead. The arthritic clicking of its knuckles shook my resolve. As it arched its back in glee, it suddenly pushed its fingers deep down into my throat.

I gagged, an instinctive reaction.

Instead of being shocked, a garbled laugh emanated through its broken teeth as it thrust its fingers deeper into my mouth. I felt its cold, hard flesh scraping against the inside of my throat pleading without words for it to stop.

In our darkest of moments, we sometimes find our true strength. I rolled to my side using its weight against it and finally, managed to break free. I fell onto the floor. Its long reach grasping at my feet, I kicked and screamed and at last was free. It stared at me, only for a moment. Rising up on top of the bed, its brittle bones cracking under its own force, it now towered tall and gaunt ready to pounce.

Since I was a child I had been a victim. It had terrorised me, taken my innocence, attacked Mary and broken my life.

I would not stand for it any more.

Sometimes the most dangerous prey is the one who can out think you, the one that lulls you into a false sense of dominance or superiority, the one who has conquered any fear of you with a sense of anger and betrayal. It had fallen into my trap, one conceived by logic, reason, and an understanding of the world through the eyes of a scientific mind.

Fire cleanses all.

As it groaned, shrieked, cracked and contorted, readying itself to pounce, in one swift motion I removed a blanket from the floor revealing a bucket filled with gasoline which I had bought in that short time of preparation. I threw it as hard as I could, the liquid splashing all over that horror and the bed.

It grinned at me, mocking my very existence, making light of my pain and the agony it had caused.

From my pocket I pulled out a lighter, lit it and through it onto that wretched thing. It writhed and screamed in agony, parts of its flesh crumbling away, searing into nothing in front of my very eyes; I almost felt sorry for it.

Let it burn.

The fire got out of hand, thankfully a neighbour heard the screams and saw the smoke, calling the fire brigade. I remember nothing of how I escaped.

I spent several hours in hospital being treated for light smoke inhalation and painful burns to my hands. It still hurts as I type, but as with many superficial wounds, they will heal. Perhaps there will be a few scars, but I can live with that.

The police arrested me shortly afterwards, believing me a murderer. They suspect that I killed someone in that fire and find it entirely suspicious that I have a deep wound in my shoulder, and scratches over my body. I've been told not to stray far in case they wish to ask me further questions, but they can ask away, I doubt they'll believe my answers. They found no remains, nor any evidence that someone else was there, bar a strange outline of a figure etched deep into the bed and wall. It looked as though whatever had been there attempted an escape, but I do not think it accomplished this.

A weight has now been lifted from my shoulders, one which I now realise was always there, since I was a child in fact. I believe that thing had an affect on me even from distance, and now that it is gone, I feel whole again.

I am devastated that I've lost Mary, and my house can be written off as I'll probably be charged with arson after they realise I started the fire, which means I can kiss goodbye to any insurance claim.

My hands ache, as does my shoulder, but my spirit does not. I am writing this from a hotel room, it's small and unassuming, but it will suit my purpose. Tonight I intend to sleep and dream, as I did as a child, before that wretch invaded my life.

I believe that it was my rationality which saved me, my logical thought which allowed me to destroy such an evil, but I will never escape the conclusion that there is much more to life beyond the veil, out there in the darkness. It is a world I have seen, and do not care to revisit, but tonight I will rest and tomorrow I will build my life again with the confidence that my unwelcome guest is gone forever. I can feel it, I know it!

It will take time for me to adjust and perhaps my mind will play a trick or two a long the way, it is difficult to abandon the paranoia of a lifetime. I must learn to accept my safety once again. I refuse to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my days, but I will always be cautious, as I was when I was in the hospital this morning lying on a bed in a quiet ward, I thought I felt the bed shake for the briefest of moments, but I know that it was just my imagination.

I am glad I have written down my experiences, it has illuminated much about myself to me, and most importantly should anyone ever, God forbid, find themselves in a similar situation, then maybe you will know what to do.

Now, it is bedtime and I must rest for I have never known a weariness such as this.

Good night, and sleep tight...

 

 THE END

 

Was it Real?: A Word from the Author

Hello intrepid reader,

Thank you again for reading 'Bedtime', I really do hope you enjoyed it. I receive many emails, private messages and Facebook posts every week from readers and I make sure that I read every single one. It has become apparent that many of these revolve around one question: 'Was it real?'

Did this story actually happen? 

Some may feel that in exploring this question it breaks the illusion, but I have been concerned by some of those messages. Some which seem to take the story at face value. While making readers feel the 'reality' of a story - its characters and events - is the true aim of every writer, I feel that sharing the truth behind 'Bedtime' may serve three purposes: 1) It will make answering queries a little easier by cutting down on replying to the same question. 2) It will hopefully act as a word of caution to those who think the story is literally real, and 3) It may be of some interest to you, as I find it interesting in myself.

So, where do I begin? 

The first two chapters are based on experiences I had as a child. That strange elongated room exists. The bed shook at night, I slept on the top bunk, and I could hear someone moving around underneath me. Each night the shaking would grow in intensity when I made it clear I was awake.  Almost all of the events were ones which I experienced, including my mother being away and that night waking up to a terrifying creature in my bed, sticking out of the wall.

I did indeed move into another room in the house, and continued to have a number of strange experiences, some of which I shared in this story and others I did not. 

Where fact ends and fiction begins, we did not move. In fact, my parents still live in that same house. I wanted something to end the story with, and the words 'they lasted ten days, we moved on the eleventh' just seemed to fall onto the page.

I still shudder when I think of it, but I am trained in the sciences and hold everything in doubt. Seeing is not believing. To me, I am perfectly willing to accept a more mundane explanation such as sleep paralysis or another form of sleep disorder. That being said, the events were so real, so lucid, so profound, that the memories still whole dread for me.

I then asked two questions of myself: 'What if it was real?' and 'What if it came back?'. That serviced the rest of the story which is entirely fictional. Although there is some element of truth in there. A feeling of foreboding which left me with many sleepless nights following on from finally breaking my silence about those events.

I hope this answers the question of 'is it real?'. 

Again, thank you everyone for reading and enjoying my stories. I hope to share my sleepless nights with you. An unfortunate by-product of when I write.

Take care, and keep reading,

Mike

 

P.S. Shameless Self Promotion. If you like my work please subscribe to me on Bookrix, and like my Facebook fanpage: http://www.facebook.com/ghastlytalespresents where you'll will read many more stories, including information about the soon to be published expanded version of 'Bedtime'.  

Imprint

Text: Michael Whitehouse
Images: Michael Whitehouse
Editing: Michael Whitehouse
Publication Date: 04-19-2013

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