Later that night, Sam stewed about Mrs. Steers, her
husband, the odd book, the disappearing bookshop, and this whole hocus-pocus
story. He couldn't decide if she had
lost her mind after Albert died. Or if
she liked to be creative and tell stories.
After all, she is a writer. Her
imagination must run wild. No matter,
Sam kept thinking of the photograph of them in London and the newspaper. The whole story rolled around in his
head. He had to get to sleep.
The clock read 10:30.
The air filter whirled. Sam
couldn't stand sleeping in silence. Outside,
the street lamps glowed softly, lighting the room above the green
curtains. Soft, gentle, glowing light
from outside. Sam focused on it until he
drifted off to sleep.
Sam was awakened by a rustling from the closet. What was that? It sounded like something fell to the
floor. Maybe a shirt off a hanger.
Strange he could hear it above the whirling air
filter. Sam looked over at the ajar
closet door. He had concealed the
newspaper with the fingerprint on the closet shelf, putting it there for
safe-keeping, afraid something might happen to it.
Is the closet door opening? Shaking his head, he snuggled under the
covers, thinking nothing of the noise. The light must be playing a
trick. It must be the light. Maybe the trees were moving in the wind
casting weird shadows. It's nothing, a
trick of the light.
He closed his eyes. The closet door flew open. The brass knob banged against the wall. Sam jumped, but then found he couldn't move,
feeling tied to the bed.
Slowly from the closet's darkness, a cloaked menacing
shape emerged. It flowed out from the
darkness of the closet. The shape had a
slight glow to it, brightening the bedroom.
The mass shifted into a figure.
Sam could now make out a hooded head.
The dark figure floated in a hooded cape which rippled behind it from a
nonexistent wind. Flowing gracefully…
billowing…
Darkness filled the hood where a face should be. Even
though there was no face, Sam felt it focus on him the moment it fully emerged
from the closet. Moving slowly at first…
then faster. Its cape rippled behind it.
Laying flat on his back in bed, Sam stared wide-eyed
as it moved closer towards the bed.
Slowly, a right hand, then an arm, emerged from the darkness of the cape's
sleeve. It held something silver and shiny. A long sharp carving knife.
The dark figure moved towards Sam ready to stab. Sam panicked and tried to move, but couldn't. His heart raced. He felt his whole body tense up. It was as if he were frozen. He tried to yell out, but no sound came. It felt like he had no voice.
I must be glued to the sheets. Why can't I move? He was the intended victim of this dark evil
figure. He just knew it. It flowed closer.
I have to yell… Scream… Anything. Sam could feel his heart
racing. Sweat rolled down his face. Surely
Mom heard the bang of the doorknob against the wall... She might run in at any moment… The shape moved closer.
Gotta move… Must scream… Sam tried but couldn't. The dark figure now loomed over him, but his
voice was frozen. Looking down at him,
somewhere in the darkness of the hood must be eyes, locked on him. Preparing to kill its victim. The knife was ready to cut. Sam could see a bony hand around the knife's
handle. It reflected the glow from
streetlamp light outside on the sidewalk.
The dark figure raised its hand.
The knife was ready to come down.
I need to scream! His eyes were wide open, watching the
knife. The dark figure lurched. The shining blade dropped quickly towards his
stomach. Sam's mind began swirling.
I'm going to die… Nooooooooooooo…
Sam sat up like a shot. It was morning. His sheets were twisted around him; his
pillows flung on the floor. The blankets
had been tossed off the bed's end. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Tasting blood in his mouth, Sam got up and
looked in the mirror that hung over his dresser. He had bit his lip.
I've had that dream. Does that mean I really met Jack?
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