The Things We Fear

When you’re six, being afraid of the dark was considered normal, expected even. Most people grow up and realise there’s nothing to be afraid of, so when you’re sixteen and still afraid of the dark? Not so normal.

Marcus knew, that at his age, it was considered weird to still fear the dark. But what people didn’t, couldn’t, understand was that it wasn’t the dark itself that he feared. It was the things that he knew lived and thrived in the darkness. Because there was so much more to be found in the darkness than most people would ever know about.

For most people; vampires, witches, and werewolves were nothing more than a fantasy. They were just scary stories parents told their children to convince them to behave. Or, these monsters were seen in horror movies that were so unrealistic and cliche that they were almost funny. But Marcus knew better, and for him, they were all very real. Very real and very frightening.

Marcus didn’t remember when, or why exactly, he had first become afraid of the dark. He mostly just assumed it was a normal childhood fear, just like most of the other children he knew. Nightlights were popular for a reason after all. Although he might not remember what had started his fear, he was more than aware of why it had stayed with him for so long. He knew why, even at sixteen years old, he was compelled to keep those tacky glow-in-the-dark stars on his bedroom ceiling, and why he always left his computer monitor on during the night to light up the small room.

Over the years he’d learned how to make his attempts to stay out of the dark look natural. Claiming that his eyes struggled in low lighting and that he had to keep the computer on in order to not mess up his video games. At least this way it made it less embarrassing than admitting to his seven-year-old brother that even as a sort of adult, he was still afraid of the dark.

Marcus doubted he would ever be okay with the dark. Not after that night. He could still feel the strange static on his neck when he thought about it. He remembered clearly the way his six-year-old self had crawled down the stairs in the middle of the night; thirsty and carrying his special teddy, which had a light-up tummy, to help guide his way through the house. It had been his first time sleeping over at his father’s house since his parents had split up, and he hadn’t known the house well enough to not need some sort of light to get around. Marcus could remember being wary of the dark at that point, scared of a monster jumping out and saying boo. Or more likely, being caught by his father and told off for being out of bed in the middle of the night.

When he had finally reached the kitchen, he had pulled the little bin over to the sink and propped it against the cabinet so he could reach the tap. He had climbed up on top of it and turned the water on when he had heard what sounded like strange whispers. He had stopped and started the tap a few times, trying to see if the strange noises were just the water running through the pipes. He hadn’t been expecting the sudden loud bang, and it had caused him to nearly drop the glass he had painstakingly been filling.

The noise seemed to have come from the basement. Now, at sixteen, Marcus would not be dumb enough to go and investigate the strange sounds coming from the basement. He would recognize the stupid horror movie cliche immediately. But, he had only been six. Six and stupid. Six and curious. Six and sleep deprived, or that was the excuse he always used. And so he had gone to look, with his teddy in one arm and the half-full glass of water in the other, he’d opened the basement door.

Marcus shook away the memory, it couldn’t hurt him now. Logically, he knew this to be true, but it didn’t stop the way his heart continued to pound the second the lights went out. Knowing that the memory was just that, a memory, didn’t stop the way his ears would strain, desperate to hear if there were any whispers in the darkness. It didn’t stop him from wondering if it was going to happen again. He couldn’t help his fears. In fact, they only seemed to be growing in strength as he grew older.

Marcus didn’t want to this about such things today of all days. Today, August 15th, was his sixteenth birthday, and he was celebrating it by being forced to spend time with the sperm donor. The man whose house he still refused to return to. Every year they would meet at the local diner. Marcus ordered a burger, chips and a shake, the man across from him the same. It was the only thing they had in common. Except for their unusual eyes. The sparkling blue with purple right around the edges. A sign of what they carried in their blood. The heritage he chose to deny.

Marcus spent the entire hour hoping the time would hurry up so he could get the actual enjoyable part of his birthday. He would spend the evening with his real family and best friend, Theo. It was the only highlight of his day. No matter how much he had protested over the years, his mother always made him reserve the morning for the man Marcus would have happily watched walk off the pier and drown.

He’d been about to turn thirteen when he had finally figured out why. His father, for all his flaws–and there were many, still paid child support. Despite his mom working part-time and his (step)dad being a deputy, that extra money helped keep them afloat. Therefore, despite hating it, Marcus had quit protesting. Every birthday, holiday, and special occasion, he begrudgingly agreed to spend time with the man.

The man, his biological father, was well-respected in their community. His mother didn’t know the truth, and remained happily oblivious, like many people in Breckon Heights, to the less-than-human status of their neighbours. She didn’t know her ex-husband was a magic user. Technically a witch, but the misogynistic prick would never allow himself to be called as such (naturally, this made Marcus do it more), the man preferring to call himself a warlock, or Reverend Cassius Domm to those not “in the know”. Marcus was not convinced that was the man’s true name. It sounded made up, and given the man’s ego, he would not be surprised. Witches supposedly lived for hundreds of years, this was probably just the most recent persona of his supposed father.

Marcus called the man many things. Sperm Donor. Witch. Devil given human form. Marcus was aware magic and the devil weren’t actually connected, but again, it annoyed the man, and thus Marcus used it more. For all the things he did call Cassius, he refused to ever call him dad. That title was reserved for the man who had stepped up and raised him. Reserved for the man who had seen a single mom and her heartbroken kid and decided to be a shining light in the dark. Dad would always be the title kept for Mathew Gall. Deputy officer at Breckon Height police station and the man who had tried to help him get over his fear of the dark.

It hadn’t worked, but at least he had tried. His dad had cared enough to help him, not scorn Marcus and call him weak. His dad, Matthew, was the best person Marcus knew, and even if they weren’t biologically related, if given the choice, Marcus would have switched his dad for the man in a heartbeat. Marcus happily rejected his supposed powers in favour of a mundane life.

Birthdays used to be the best. He had spent them with his then-best friend James and his family. The mornings had still for the sperm donor, but the afternoons had been all about running through the woods that surrounded their town. Playing. Making up fairy tales. At least back then, he had thought they’d been fairy tales. Silly games made of fantasy and make-believe.

Looking back, he maybe should have questioned why James’ sister Anne always wanted to be a werewolf rather than a princess, but he’d wanted to be a sea snake as a child, so Marcus hadn’t thought to question it at the time. Everything usually made more sense in hindsight. When he’d found out his best friend was a werewolf, he hadn’t even had time to react. His family had closed ranks. Said he couldn’t come over anymore. Couldn’t see his best friend.

It had hurt, but secretly, in his heart of hearts, Marcus had been a little relieved. It didn’t make him the bad guy if James walked away first. He wasn’t some judgemental douchebag who hated anything non-human if James’ family were the ones to push him away. He’d barely been processing it before he had been friendless. He’d been unknowingly involved with the pack. When he had tried to look around for someone to cling to, he had realised how all his friends had been James’ friends.

Marcus had realised how, without James as the buffer, people didn’t really like the loud kid who had no filter and jumped about the room. Cassius had tried to say it was his magic manifesting, his mother had got him a prescription for ADHD. he’d take the pills over whatever the man had wanted to teach him.

He sometimes wondered if the wolves had waited, if he had been able to get over the shock, would he have been fine with it? He liked to think he wasn’t a bigot. But since learning the supernatural was real, and his sperm donor wasn’t just some crazy wannabe priest, Marcus had discovered a whole slew of supernatural creatures living in their little town. For a population of just over 15,000, he suspected at least half were not human. Or not entirely.

He was glad his dad, as a deputy, knew what was going on here. When he had confessed to being afraid of the vampires down the street snacking on him in his sleep, instead of telling his son he was crazy and imagining things, his dad had lined his room with black salt. When he had been afraid the missing bodies from the morgue were likely because of ghouls, his dad had given him a protection pouch and shown him how to fire a gun. His dad was a lot like Marcus, or maybe he should say he was a lot like his dad. The man didn’t dislike the supernatural, he just held a respectful level of wariness. Marcus felt the same.

Wary. if he saw them in the daytime, he didn’t overly care about them being there. There was something about daylight that made the entire world less scary. It made Marcus feel capable and brave. If a vampire, shifter or witch decided to attack him, he could handle it. But in the dark. In the dark, it was as though his mind shut down. Logic fled and he was left with only instinct.

Those neighbour vampires he had had coffee with, suddenly seemed a lot more sinister. Those shapeshifters he once called friend, their claws seemed to elongate in the low light. Those witches (warlocks) who he ignored as easily as the rest of Cassius’ coven, he couldn’t help wondering if he would be the next sacrifice.

There was something about the dark. Something which twisted Marcus’ mind and how he saw the world. He was trying to combat it. Trying to be brave. But there were terrible things hiding in the dark. The supernatural was one thing, but it was the infernal beasts he feared. The things that thrived in the shadows and feasted on more than just your body.

He would never forget what he experienced in the basement that night. The first time the things he feared in the dark had become a reality. When he had realised, despite childish hero worship, his “father” was not a good man. Marcus could still feel the chill of a bone running over his skin. The scent of death and rot on his tongue. Could still hear the whispers coming from the mirror. The way it had become a dark tunnel trying to suck all life and light into it.

Marcus would always remember the look on the woman’s face, blood dripping down an altar as it was sucked through the air and into that portal. The way she had been too tired to scream, but her eyes begged him to help. Remember how he had dropped his teddy and ran to her. Stopped by an unseen force. Remember how his father had appeared from among the shadows, looking pleased with the scene before him.

Marcus did not think he would ever, ever forget seeing what it looked like when the light went out in someone’s eyes. When the life within someone was swallowed by the darkness of death.

What Marcus feared most, however, wasn’t just what was in the dark. He feared his father’s words from that night.

“Some of us belong in the dark.” And even at six years old, he had known the man had not been talking about himself.