text: LISTEN TO THE DARK By Sherry Miller Sherice set the receiver in the cradle. She played roughly with her hands, wringing an invisible sponge. Go away, persistent ghost. Please. Stop haunting me, she wanted to scream. Hiding her face in her crossed arms on the kitchen table, she cried. Mind phantoms came only in the dark. At night. When it was the blackest. Phantasms from childhood looming over her bed. Always trying to grab her. Take her away. Probably to somewhere really scary. But right now, during the day, the monster was staring her down. At four o’clock in the afternoon. She unlocked her fingers. And replayed the phone call in her head. Such harsh words from Aunt Bess. She almost didn’t answer it an hour ago. But the brr-inng brr-inng wouldn’t give up. A deep breath had helped her cope. “Hi Bess. How was the funeral?” she mustered. “Why weren’t you there? He was your Uncle and you couldn’t even say goodbye?” “I didn’t feel well. Ooh, stomach’s still a little ah- “Can’t even talk to you, Sherice. You’ve always been stubborn, too - “- achey. Took some anti-acids, though.” “- independent. Right now, I need to, don’t know. I’m too - “I didn’t mean to let - “ - disappointed in you...” “- you down.” Sherice couldn’t get the sound of her Aunt’s hysterical sobbing out of her mind. “So disappointed.” And then...bang! Slam! On the other end. That spoke louder than her Aunt’s stinging words. Uncle Bo died last week. His funeral was today. His lights off forever. Laid in a casket. Ironic, wasn’t it? His funeral was today. But she couldn’t...just couldn’t go. Not after what he did. She was only seven years old. Sherice looked up, glared at the clock. 5:15 p.m. Slipping into evening. Too soon. Just then ...Fear, the ghost, decided to float in. Striking at her from a distance. Her keen ears always ready for this, she detected the faintest rumble. A storm. Almost here. Of course. Why not? Sherice glanced out the window. The sky lit up, showing tree shadows shaking wildly, furiously fighting off the stark whiteness around them. The blackness won. It always did. The next instant...Boom-mmmm rolled around the room, hung stubbornly to the ceiling, the walls in the kitchen, and thrummed-thrummed on Sherice’s eardrums. Like ice rubbing across her skin, she shivered, folded her arms around herself. Not now. Please. No storm. I can’t take it. Droplets formed, dripped down her nose and into her eyes, salty and stinging, her blond bangs brown and wet plastering against her forehead. Tears pooled in her eyelids. She tried to blink away the ensuing horror show. Outside, gusts, possibly forty miles per hour now...whining, squealing. She felt cold air slap at her. “Go away. Leave me alone,” she shrieked, hurrying to the window, ajar just two inches, slamming it shut. Smoky clouds roiled like water boiling in a pot out there. Going in mad circles. Churning. Faster and faster. How long would this storm last? One hour. Maybe two. No matter. She couldn’t take it. Not even for a minute. Every time one happened, she was certain she would die. LISTEN TO THE DARK - Miller 2 Maybe open the garage door. Get in the Impala. Drive away. Into the storm. Away from the storm. Whatever. Just don’t be closed in like this, Sherice thought. It was getting darker and darker. Can’t be stuck crushed by four walls when the brunt of the storm really hit. She was safer out there, wasn’t she? In open air. Where she could run. Hide. A knot formed in her chest and twisted. Self-conversing wasn’t helping. Soon it was hard to breathe. She gasped. She stared at the tiffany light over the butcher block table. All pink and blue and sage green. Grasping at a lonely cord tethered overhead. It swung ever so slightly. Its motion startled her. Did she imagine it? Lights flickered throughout the house. And the fridge made a moaning sound. As if it knew how she felt. At least there was some solace in an appliance here and there. A fridge that had a seemingly human reaction to black, white, black, white, on, off, on, off. A flash. Intense. Jagged in the sky. Like teeth about to bite. Stark. White hot. Chomping. Crack! Ahhhhh, ehhh. A scream flew out from deep within her knotted chest. Spit out her mouth. The thin membrane on her lips tingled. Aghhhhhhhh. Again. Her muscles tightened. Her eyes grew wide. Terror, yes terror inside. Eating at her. The storm...almost at her doorstep now. And...the lights flickering. On, off. On, off. Bright lines streaked like a wall breaking up, crackling, crashing to the ground. Sherice shook, began to count. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Thunder so loud, she covered her ears. Her lamps and Tiffany flickered again. “Don’t! Don’t go out! Electricity, stay on!” Okay, breathe. Like the Psychologist said. It’s not your fault you’re like this, Sherice. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Become one with the storm. Just hope the lights don’t go out. Because it will be dark. Real dark. It hit her. My God! What was she thinking? Fifteen flashlights positioned throughout her 1700 square foot home and none of them in her hand. The big one. That’s right. The sportsman LED lantern was in the pantry. Though light it gave off was eerie, it filled an entire room. At least 100 hours of the 200 left. She’d grab that one. More rumbling met her ears as she swung open the squeaky wooden door. It needed fixing desperately. Later. She forgot to snap on the light switch on the outside wall. Because the Tiffany did a good job blanching the small space. Only a minute. Only a minute in this stuffy place. Where was it? She scoured the shelves. There. She fixated on the grass-green base of the flashlight hiding among cereal boxes and Oatmeal. And her favorite chocolate chunk granola bars. Comfort food. Then...flash! One-one thousand. Explosive! Like a bomb hit. The wood floor vibrated under her slippers. Flick-flick. The lights. On. Off. On. Off! It felt as if the house shifted. The pantry door shuddered, swung, slammed shut. On! Off! Off! “No. No. No. Oh my God!” Sherice screamed as inky stillness swallowed her. She spun around. Faint orbs of gray undulated. Her eyes wouldn’t adjust. She thrust her arms out, feeling for the knob, anything. Pain lodged in her chest. The sound she heard couldn’t have been her own. It sounded like...like...a movie theater. Blood-curdling screams. Horror. The casket opens. The monster sits up. Jumps. Crusty fingers reaching...squeezing...around her neck. Words shouted. In the pantry? In her brain? “The boogeyman’s going to get you! Ooh-ooh, the boogeyman’s in there. He’s gonna get you!” Uncle Bo’s voice. Clear. Gruff. Giggling. She was seven years old. LISTEN TO THE DARK - Miller 3 “Let me out!” Her eyes darted about. Her arms flailed. Fighting. Punching. Someone was in here with her. Was going to kill her. Stab her. The boogey man. “Let me out!” Sherice crumpled to the floor. In the past. And now...here. In the present. Where was the lantern? It fell. On the floor. She fumbled around. Finally feeling the hard square base, she pressed the button in. Dim. Its safe light was dimming. So much for 100 hours left. But then... miraculously...the lights...On! Though she was locked in the pantry by a faulty door, light filtered in through the cracks. With all her might, she shoved at the door. It opened. Sherice touched her throat. Dozens of sharp pinpricks. She opened her mouth, forcing out “I screamed too hard. I can’t talk.” It sounded raw, scratchy. She swallowed. It was like a ball stuck in her throat. But...light. Everywhere. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-one thousand. Five-one thousand. Sherice smiled. The storm was bowling ball sounds now. Her family spent so much time at the bowling alley, it was comfortable to hear. The wind fell to a whisper. Sherice was suddenly hungry and tired. She poured a glass of Pinot Grigio, eyeing the shades of gray through the window. Night. And more darkness. She ate a piece of toast buttered with Nutella. More comfort food. She showered downstairs, soaping up, trying to wash all the terror away. She rinsed the glass, setting it upside down to dry. She slipped into her jammies draped over the rod in the downstairs shower. She walked out of the kitchen, turned, hesitated. Now...upstairs. To bed. Time for her usual ritual. Worse because it was the night of Bo’s funeral. Worse because Aunt Bess was hopping mad. Okay, here goes. Just do it. One by one. Then it won’t seem so bad. Sherice approached the bottom of the staircase. She pushed up on the toggle. The Tiffany went off. The toggle next to it slicked easily. The kitchen light. Off. Next, she ran up the stairs. Quick! In case the invisible monster was chasing her. At the top of the stairs, she flicked the next switch. The stair light? Out. She turned, dared peek into the darkness. Squinting. No one there. Right? She dashed to the space between the bathroom and bedroom. Bathroom switch. Up and...Out. She rushed to her bed, flipped on the nightlight. How she needed that. Ever since she was seven. She couldn’t sleep otherwise. One last one. The bedroom. Sherice touched the switch, waited a moment. She had to time it precisely. Give herself time to run. She pushed down. Hard. Bedroom. Out. On! The light came back on. By itself! Sherice froze. A voice. Deep. Swirling around her. A man’s. Distinct. Uncle Bo’s. “I’m sorry.” So weird. And strange. But a calm swept over her. Of course she’d keep the nightlight on. Always. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.