The Light Saga & Other Short Stories

Tom enjoyed walking home from work during spring and summer, and the route he usually took cut through an especially leafy area of his neighbourhood. It was after seven when he finished his day’s tasks at the furniture warehouse where he was the Manager, but it was still light outside when he finally locked up and left. The light very quickly turned into twilight, and it was full night by the time Tom had reached the remotest part of the park.

It was a public park that connected the residential section to the industrial area, giving the local residents easy access to the business section. The park was a sprawling landscaped plot, dotted with elm, pine, oak and maple trees with a few palm trees scattered throughout. The grass was regularly mowed to keep it short and neat, and a path had been inlaid throughout the lawn in a circuitous but picturesque route.

Tom was midway down the path, eager to get home to a warm meal, when he felt something brush up against his left arm. He wiped his hand absently across his arm, thinking that he must have walked too close to a branch and perhaps dislodged some leaves, not even stopping to investigate further. The park was extremely safe, thus he felt no trepidation whatsoever. That was until he once again felt something touch him lightly and unmistakably on his elbow. This time, he knew he wasn’t imagining it.

He jumped in fright and gasped, for it was nearly pitch black by now and the only illumination was coming from a crescent moon. As such, the lunar light was not particular radiant, thus most of the area remained intensely shadowed and gloomy.

Tom had stopped in his tracks and looked around in terror. His forehead had broken out in a cold sweat; his palms were uncomfortably moist while he struggled to swallow as a consequence of a suddenly parched throat. He was convinced he had felt something or someone touch his arm, but he could observe nobody near him in the areas that were adequately lit. He also didn’t hear anything that would alert him to the presence of another person. Not having seen or heard anyone or anything after having stood motionless for about two tense minutes, Tom started walking again. However, he now picked up his pace, his eyes spread to their utmost limit in a vain effort to be able to see more in the enveloping blackness.

“You’re a true moron for having decided to walk home this late!” he silently berated himself. Hardly had he gone another ten paces when he distinctly heard the harsh sound of heavy breathing right next to his ear. A foul, repulsive smell wrapped itself around his head in seconds. He yelled out loud and fell back up against a tree.

“Who’s there?” Tom shouted. “Hey! This isn’t funny, okay? Show yourself!” he demanded. Only the night’s silence replied, and even though Tom was once again absolutely certain that he had not imagined the breathing, he felt like a fool. He was a man who always maintained his composure, renowned for never becoming perturbed about anything, thus he was angered at his loss of control. He searched his jacket pocket for his cell phone and hurriedly dialled his wife’s number. After three rings, Bernadette answered.

“Hi, babe,” he said, desperately trying to get his voice under control and not give any indication that he was distressed.

“Are you on your way home, love?” Bernadette asked while Tom could hear the TV in the background. Bernadette loved to watch reruns of “The X Files”, and Tom was fairly certain he was hearing the very distinct theme music of the cult series.

“Yeah, babe,” Tom said. “I should be there in about fifteen minutes. I guess you’re watching your show again, huh? You know how it tends to give you nightmares,” he said in a weak attempt at making small talk.

“Sure I do, but you know how much I love sci-fi horrors,” Bernadette responded and giggled.

“Bernie, are the twins already asleep?” Tom asked to prevent her from asking him why he was calling her. He hoped she didn’t hear the tremor in his voice.

“Of course they are, babe. You know I put them to bed as soon as it’s six,” Bernadette replied, starting to sound suspicious. Tom immediately realised he had erred in asking her about their five-year-old twins, so he changed tact.

“Listen, baby,” he hastily said, “I’m not really hungry tonight, so don’t bother to keep any food warm for me. I think I’ll call it an early night and get into bed as soon as I can. I need to be at work again tomorrow morning at five, seeing that we’re getting a delivery of new wardrobes first thing at the start of business,” he explained.

While he was talking to Bernadette, his eyes kept darting all over in a futile attempt to locate the source of what had spooked him. He was still absolutely convinced that there was another presence somewhere nearby, but he refused to be intimidated. He felt that by calling Bernadette, it might deter whoever was out there from doing whatever it was they were planning to do to him. Unfortunately, his eyes failed dismally to see much in the nearly impenetrable murk.

“Tom, I don’t know why you’re working so hard at that warehouse,” Bernadette complained, abruptly forcing him to remember what the last thing was he had said. “Isn’t that why you have employees, so that you don’t have to do everything yourself?” she continued.

Tom had barely managed to gather his thoughts and was about to reply, when he clearly felt an ice cold hand grab him by his throat. Five freezing fingers wrapped themselves firmly around his neck, constricting his breathing as they applied inescapable pressure. He froze in sudden shock, nearly losing his hold on his cell phone, but just as unexpectedly as the hand had closed around his throat, it let go of him.

“What the fuck!” Tom hollered loudly, stunning Bernadette on the other end of the line.

“Tom!” she shouted, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” she demanded in full-blown panic.

“Bernie!” Tom bellowed, now in complete terror, “Call the police! Someone just attacked me!” he roared into the phone.

“Oh, God! Tom, where are you?” Bernie managed to ask before Tom stopped listening to her, lowering the phone from his ear and staring in horror into the night. He was incapable of making any sound, for a dark form had started to materialise in front of him. Speech became a literal impossibility.

The form leisurely and menacingly took shape, turning from black, nebulous wisps into the outline of a human figure. Icy waves of cold and dread streamed off it like fingers of death reaching for Tom. His cell phone had gone dead, and he realised he was rooted to the spot in one of the darkest areas of the park where the trees were thickest. Ironically, it was also simply mere metres away from the exit. Tom could see the gate invitingly close just beyond the now fully-formed spectre, frustrating in its inaccessible proximity. He finally discerned that the shape was that of a woman’s. He was startled when he realised that he recognised the phantom, and cringed back from her as she floated sedately towards him.

“Hell, no! This can’t be happening,” he whispered in disbelief. “This isn’t real! No way!” he insisted.

His eyes were drawn to the ground where the apparition had come to a stop, and again he tried to bolt. Strangely, he couldn’t. Underneath the hovering ghoul there was the distinct shape of a mound, like that of a grave, but it was ragged and the earth was raw, as if the grave had recently been covered over, and hurriedly, too.

“No, no. This is not possible,” he uttered in denial, shaking his head from side to side for emphasis. “I’m imaging this. This is not real!” he screamed in horror as the woman glided closer him.

His gaping eyes were hypnotically drawn to the red ligature marks around her pale neck. Her auburn hair floated softly and serenely around her face although there was not the hint of a breeze in the air. Her eyes were twin mirrors of ebony accusation, staring into Tom’s soul and making his heart pound painfully against his chest. The spirit lifted her hands to push her hair out of her face, and Tom couldn’t avoid seeing the broken nails and skin, signs of a struggle. He knew all too intimately what that struggle had been about.

“You can’t hurt me,” he suddenly hissed at the woman. “You’re dead and buried in that grave there! I’m not afraid of you because you can’t touch me, bitch,” he spat confidently at her. In reply, the ghost treated him to a bloody smile, showing him her torn lips and broken teeth. On seeing those shattered teeth, Tom subconsciously rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. They bore tiny, nearly invisible marks of scarring.

In a movement faster than the blink of an eye, and in a blur of sight, the woman fastened an ice cold hand on Tom’s throat and said sibilantly, “See.”

As if a projector had inexplicably been switched on, images were suddenly displayed on the screen of the black night in front of Tom. Although he tried to close his eyes and refuse to look at the scenes being played out in front of him, he was incapable of doing so. He was no longer in control, and he had no option but to look upon and relive that unholy night.

Shaanah was strolling alone through the park, unaware that she was walking into an ambush. Tom had left an hour before her and was lying in wait for her in the park. Shaanah had never suspected that he had lusted after her from the first time she had joined the company a month ago, for he had been careful not to raise her or anyone else’s suspicions.

Shaanah lived a street away from the park exit and enjoyed the nightly exercise of walking home after work. Just before she neared the park’s gate, in an area where the trees grew particularly thick, Tom attacked her. The struggle was intense and violent, for Shaanah fought like a woman with everything to lose. It was only after Tom punched her in her mouth, smashing some of her teeth and tearing her lips, that she succumbed. He went wild then when he saw her so compliant and unresisting, unaware that he had knocked her out and mistaking her docility for consent, for approval even. When he finally regained his senses, he was horrified to see that he had strangled her in his unbridled passion.

Shaanah was dead, and Tom acted purely by instinct. He scooped out the soft earth under a grove of pine trees until he had created a shallow grave, then he dragged Shaanah’s corpse into the hole, covering it with earth and pine needles. He knew the scent of the pine needles would help camouflage the eventual stench of decomposition.

He told Bernadette a story about having taken a bad tumble to account for his dirty clothes and broken knuckles. Then he had forgotten Shaanah and the incident as if it had never happened. The police had no leads, as no one had seen Shaanah leave work that day. Tom had a firm alibi of having left work nearly an hour before Shaanah, and he had told Bernadette he would go for a jog. Nobody ever suspected him because of his sterling reputation as a wonderful husband and respectable citizen.

The images ended as abruptly as they had started. Then the ghost commanded: “Taste.”

Tom clutched his chest as his heart painfully convulsed once, twice … and then stopped. He toppled forward squarely across the hidden grave, lifeless and face up. His features were frozen in an ugly rictus of terror, his sightless eyes protruding vilely from their sockets.

The ghostly apparition stared longingly, achingly into the night towards the street where her home was, then slowly dissipated as if being blown apart by invisible winds.

Shaanah’s mother listened with a heavy heart to Brent, her twelve-year-old grandson, end his evening prayer the same way he had done for the past four years since his mother had disappeared without a trace.

“Dear Lord, grant mercy to my mother’s soul, and let Your justice prevail. Amen.”

Outside the house, an errant waft of wind whistled softly against the windows, and what sounded like a forlorn sigh escaped forever into the omniscient darkness…