After yet another sleepless night, I sat at my kitchen table, palm ingrained into my left cheek, eyes heavy and bloodshot. The refrigerator entered its 5th hour of nonstop mechanical whirring, its call already tuned out of my sleep deprived brain. The only sound that made it past that barrier was the occasional ticking of my mouse wheel, scrolling through more Craigslist classifieds, in search of a job. I was up for the entire previous night, doing almost the exact same thing, in my as of yet fruitless search for employment.
I'm not conventionally skilled, as in, I lack any talents that would befit any job above schlepping boxes in a warehouse, or cooking baskets of fried food. However, I do have a certain specialty - I can write. And as far as I was concerned, sitting at that table for what I think was the eighth consecutive hour, writing was the only job path that I was going to embark on, at least until I ran out of money to pay for food, or for the rent at my little apartment.
But the night ended early, much to my appeasement. I had found a listing, asking for a decently experienced writer to assist around a small studio that professionally writes for clients, and while it wasn't overly lucrative, it was still enough to pay bills. And so, after a few days of sent works, negotiations, and lots of paperwork, I was employed with "Peregrine Writing", based out of Harrisburg.
It was tiny - A little corner-store sitting at the end of a block in muggy north Harrisburg. The windows were just a bit grimy, tinted in green and brown along with the rest of the city. Warm light surrounded the entrance, the orange and reds of the fluorescent bulbs making it just a bit more welcoming than the peeling white paint of the front door tried to make it. The inside wasn't any different, with stacks of papers littering a few scattered round tables, and a bookshelf against the wall to the right being the only defining features of the interior, besides the big red door that led to my new boss's office.
His name is Tom Peregrine, a man of few words, as I soon found out by the rough 2 minutes we spent in his office, before sending me on my way with my first assignment. He explained to me in just a few sentences what I was to do - Go to the Barnes Estate, a mansion located a few miles north of the office, and gather basic information regarding the Biography of Mr. Arnold Barnes. He told me that I wasn't experienced enough to actually write parts of it, and that all I would do is go through a small notebook he gave me and use it to get a basic outline of what Mr. Barnes wanted his Biography to look like.
And so I complied. I took the book, placed it in my car's glove compartment, and started the drive up to the estate. Aside from the directions Mr. Peregrine gave me, the only thing we talked about was Mr. Barnes himself. I questioned the history of the studio, and after being told that it was small, and mainly catered to companies, I questioned why a supposedly wealthy man like Mr. Barnes would come to us for a biography, and why the outline couldn't be finished via email. Mr. Peregrine admitted to me that he had no clue, and he himself wondered why a person of such stature would reach out to a local studio for such a sensitive piece of work, and chalked up lack of email communication to Mr. Barnes' impending death.
I stopped questioning it, at least, until I came upon his home. It was bigger than a normal home you'd see in Harrisburg, but it wasn't quite a manor, or even a mansion - And it was decrepit. The windows weren't broken, but blackened, no light escaping from inside of the house. The paint peeled in all directions, water stains dotting the bare wood in places that the paint had rotted completely off. The front patio had no railing, what remained of it rotted in stumps on the rim of the platform leading to the front door. The architecture was Gothic, but any long spires or turrets had long fallen or rotted away with the old wood. The shingles on the roof sat in disrepair, and what looked like an impact crater among the shingles served as an explanation for the blunt spire on top of the home.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing, as I thought of descriptions that I'd been given of the estate - This wasn't an estate, at least it wasn't anymore, and I couldn't imagine a wealthy man being caught dead in this house. Yet, I soldiered on, stepping out of my car, feeling the bite of summer heat on my neck as I briefly left the shade of my car and entered into the shade of the patio, and eventually, the house. The door creaked and heaved like the wood under my feet, and the rays of sun that entered for what seemed like the first time in decades illuminated the flow of dust from the ceiling of the main hall.
The outside of the house's appearance betrayed the interior's. It was old, and dusty, but it was in order. Things looked relatively clean, if unused, and a scent of must rose up every time my feet stepped on the red carpet. I had to hold back several sneezes, as I opened my mouth to call or for Mr. Barnes. "Mr. Barnes? It's me, from Peregrine Writing - I'm here to talk to you about your Biography!" I shouted, one foot on the first step of a long, vertical staircase. I waited for a few seconds, listening intently, the only sound reverberating from the house being the waft of hot air from a nearby window.
I called out again. "Mr. Barnes?" before receiving a response. "Come upstairs, I'm in my bedroom. I can't stand, so you'll have to come to me." The voice called out, raspy and weathered. The voice almost whispered at me, from across the house, weak and tired in its inflection. I gripped the book a bit tighter as I walked upstairs, the wood moaning and creaking with every foot fall. There were many questions, and I almost dreaded asking my way all through them - This house made me uncomfortable.
I finally arrived upstairs, and stood in the main upstairs hallway. I almost called out again, to know which of the many doors that dotted the side walls contained his bedroom, before getting my answer in the form of a weak cough that emanated from the largest door at the end of the hallway. It was red, different from each of the doors that were painted a pale, greenish grey.
I opened the door, and was immediately hit in the fact with a breeze of heat. A large window was open, facing away from the front of the house, on the wall directly ahead of me. Mr. Barnes was laying in bed, a thick blanket covering him from his feet to his stomach. His upper body, thin and sickly, clothed with a periwinkle button up shirt. His breathing was audibly raspy, almost trembling as he inhaled. The bed sat in front of the window, the breeze blowing onto his form in the blanket. The two walls to the left and right were bare, painted a bright, pearly white. Only one shelf was nailed to the wall, about a foot the left of Mr. Barnes' bed. The shelf had nothing but a lighter and a few boxes of matches.
He propped himself up by his elbow, extending his hand out to me. I gripped it, feeling his bony fingers faintly grip mine as we shook hands. He sighed, resting back down on his back almost immediately after our handshake. He looked oddly grim as he began to speak. "Sit. There's a chair in the corner of the room, pull it up next to my bed and we can begin". A wooden chair sat in the corner of the room, painted red, leaned backrest-first against the wall. I gripped it, shifting it from it's odd position and rested it on the bare wooden floor next to the bed, before sitting down upon it.
He sighed once again, as I opened my book, thumbing through the first few pages to find where the questions began. He shook his head, bringing one hand to the book without looking at it, placing it over mine. "Stop. I want to talk about something different before we answer any questions" he said, gently bringing the hand back to rest on his chest. Confused, I closed the book, slipping a finger from between the pages, placing it back on my lap. "What would that be, Mr. Barnes?" I questioned.
"I'm going to tell you a story. It's why I'm... This. It's why I haven't left this house in so long". He explained, looking down at his hand, as it rose and fell with each feeble breath. I nodded, listening intently. I was genuinely interested at what he had to say. I noticed that as he said this, and as he had said everything else, he didn't look me in the eyes. Even as he shook my hand, greeting me for the first time, he still hadn't met my gaze, not even with a wayward glance, just keeping his eyes to the ceiling.
"Almost 70 years, here in Harrisburg. I didn't live here, I didn't even live close to here - I lived in the neighborhoods down by the town hall. And back during those days, the most entertaining thing for us kids to do was to make up legends". he said, before bringing his hand up and coughing into his fist. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes, but what would this have to do with your biography? Do you want this to be a central theme?" I questioned. He finished coughing with a long wheeze, his hand back on his chest once again. "No, I don't. I want you to listen." He said, coldly. I nodded, understanding.
"Anyway - One of the legends that we used to tell was about a homeless man - a bum that you could occasionally find rooting through trash, or through a dumpster. It was just the one man, too. We all called him dusty, because his old checkerboard suit was always covered in dirt and dust. He scared the death out of me and all the other kids, even if he wouldn't ever get near our neighborhoods, despite what other kids said about him looking at them through windows, or snatching up their cousin's friend down the block." He breathed in, almost launching into a hacking fit again, his hand balled up against his lips, but it led to nothing. He sighed.
"So this guy - Did he actually hurt anyone? Was he just crazy?" I asked, flipping the notebook to the back, grabbing a pen from my shirt pocket. I braced it against the paper, before he continued. "No, he never hurt anybody. It was just kids being kids. As far as I know, at least." He said, almost cracking a smile, his gaze wandering around the ceiling. "But this man, what I remember him for, and what I don't think anybody else noticed, was that he seemed... Tired."
This piqued my curiosity. "Tired?" I asked, jotting down a quarter page of notes in my book. He nodded, breathing in a labored breath before continuing. "Yes, tired. He walked in a way that wasn't normal, he kind of... sauntered, about the place, unsure of his footing. He never opened his eyes all the way. He looked pale as a ghost even during the summer, with the sun over our heads. The poor man was just... tired. All his life." He said, his eyes squinting. I noticed that tears began to pool around the crook of his eyes as he spoke, generating more curiosity on my part.
"Are you okay, Mr. Barnes?" I asked. He shook his head, sniffing, bringing his hand up to wipe both of his eyes. He still refused to look at me as he continued. "No, I'm okay. Just listen to me." he said. He breathed in all the way, wheezing harder than he had before. "One day, I made a bad decision. I decided to tail dusty. I wanted to see where he went, I wanted to see if he slept. I didn't think he did, he looked like a phantom, everywhere he went." My brow furrowed as I heard this, realizing that this was obviously a sensitive subject for him. I braced my mind, writing more notes in the book. "Mr. Barnes, you don't have to talk about this if you-" I said, before being cut off. He waved his hand again, sniffing. "No - No, just listen to me. Please." he pleaded.
"One day, he looked especially down. He barely looked conscious." He said, his breathing speeding up just a tad, his words getting more labored as he went on. "I followed him, as the sun went down. He walked under a bridge, and wandered down a gravelly waterway, just about a half mile deep towards a creek nestled in the woods. Nobody else was there, it was just me and him for such a long way. Finally, as he crossed into a clearing in the edge of the woods, he turned towards a little tent under a dead tree." I stared him in the eyes as he spoke, even if his now bloodshot gaze stared into the ceiling. His left eye finally gave way, a single tear dripping down his cheekbone.
"Dusty opened up the tent, and laid down. He seemed like... He seemed like he didn't want to go to sleep! It was the oddest thing! He sat there, and started to weep. He wept and wept, hitting himself in the head with his palm. He rocked back and forth, yelling at himself, but that all faded, as he got sleepier and sleepier. He started to grow still, started losing the fight against his need to rest!" he said, more tears dripping down from each eye. He abandoned any attempt at brushing them away, as they grazed his lips and neck and dripped into small puddles beneath him on the bedsheet. I started to feel uncomfortable, the scribbling of pen ending even before this.
"And... And I walked to him. I don't know why, I just - I just didn't understand why he was acting like this. And I asked him. I asked him why he was hurting himself? Why he was trying not to sleep? He woke up when he saw me. He got scared. But it didn't last. He couldn't keep himself awake. He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, and he knew I would be there to see it. So, as he started to fade, he reached into a box beside him, and pulled a revolver from it." He said, his words trembling as they left his mouth. Tears now wet the bedsheet underneath his head, and I could see his hands shaking as they rested on his heaving chest.
"He shot himself in the head. I remember it, so vividly - He was gone. But as he slumped down, I noticed that -" He said, having a hard time speaking. He started to have trouble continuing, so I spoke. "Mr Barnes, you really don't have to talk about this, if it's this-" I was cut off once again. "Would you LISTEN to me, boy!" he said, his gaze meeting me for the first time, his eyes wide and bloodshot red. I closed my mouth, and sat there, guilty. I let him gather his wits.
"The air grew dark. The inside of the tent was black. It seemed like the darkness swallowed me whole, that I was in the tent, or... or the sky had disappeared. I could still see the bottom of the tent, and I could see the edges, but everything else was so dark." He described, bringing a shaking hand up to wipe his nose, before continuing. "And in the dark, in the corner of the tent, where Dusty was slumped over, I saw him. I saw this... this monster. I could just see his eyes, and they were so angry. They were furious. He hated me. I could tell, just by how he looked at me."
I started to get scared. The man was clearly insane, I didn't know how I could handle the situation without making him hostile. I let him continue, looking at him with wide eyes. "He tried to walk away from me. The monster tried to leave the tent, but it seemed like he was tethered to me. And so, he gave up trying to leave the darkness, and slowly fell towards me. He got closer and closer, I fell to the ground because I was so scared, and soon, he disappeared. His form fell over me and swallowed me whole, like the rest of the darkness had. But after that, the darkness disappeared. I was out in the creek, Dusty had shot himself, and the tent was covered in blood. The sky was back, and I was normal. So I ran home, as fast as I could."
I nodded my head, still nervous about Mr. Barnes. "So - So, this monster. Why do you call it him?" I asked. "Because he's tall. He's massive. He's strong." he said, his voice trembling with fear. "How do you know he's strong?" I asked, playing along with his delusions. "Because that night, at home, when I fell asleep, I woke up, but... but I wasn't really awake. I could see around me, I knew what was happening, I just couldn't move. I saw him, standing in the corner of my room. It was too dark to see, it was just a big hulking black mass with those angry, furious eyes. He slid against the wall, out of my door, and into the rest of the house. And I listened to him... I listened to him kill everyone. My mother, my father, and my sister. He murdered every single one of them." He said, now yelling as loud as he could muster.
I flinched at his shouting, not used to any voice of his that wasn't weak with sickness. "I only saw my sister, but I knew he had done it to everyone. He broke them - Snapped them in half, broke their skulls, destroyed their bodies. Blood covered the walls, covered the ceiling, covered the window. The door was smashed open to my parent's room, and I could see the blood on the walls just from the hallway. I ran - I ran away from the house, I ignored my friends looking at me from the sidewalk, I ignored every passerby - I ran into the woods. I fell asleep, eventually, in the rain, under a tree, a lot like Dusty." he said, reaching a hand up once again to clean his nose, shaking almost too much just to do it without hitting himself.
"I found out, ever since then, every time I sleep, he visits me. It's too dark to see his body, except for those eyes. He hurts me, beats me, cuts me, burns me, he does everything he can to me. He tortures me, he wants me to know how much he hates me." He continued. "But, Mr. Barnes... why does he hate you?" I cautiously asked, trying not to set him off.
"Because I was trapping him. So was Dusty. I think... I think if dusty were to die alone, he would escape, and he would be able to do what he did to my family, to anybody that he wants." Mr. Barnes said. He brought his hand up to his mouth, launching into a coughing fit again, this time so bad that he lost control of his arm, stretching them out to his side, his entire body spasming with every hack. He stopped after a while, choking on his own breath. His eyes fluttered, as he began speaking again. "And if I were to die, alone, I think... I think he would escape. Just like with Dusty." He said, his voice almost a wisp among the hot air.
I felt a surge of adrenaline - I didn't believe him, but it scared me. It shocked me with the bluntness of his statement. I stood up from the chair, the journal and pen falling to the floor. "Mr. Barnes, I'm going to leave now. I'm sorry. I'll - I'll call somebody, my boss, to speak to you. I can't do this." I said, turning towards the door. "Wait!" Mr. Barnes said, mustering all of his strength to grab me. "I can... I can feel it coming, please don't leave me. Please don't let me..." he said, his voice erupting into another coughing fit. I felt his fingers wrap around my wrist, and started to gently pull my hand away.
"Please, just let me leave Mr. Barnes." I said, my hand free from his grasp. Mr. Barnes didn't respond, his eyes fluttering once again. He sighed a deep, deep breath, his chest falling, before laying still. I looked at his body, before muttering to myself. "Did he -" I said, before pulling out my phone to dial an ambulance. I pressed in the 3 numbers, the glow of the screen in my eyes as I clicked "Make call". I looked back up, only to be met with near pitch black.
The room was dark, the only form in the room visible was the outline of the window and the corpse of Mr. Barnes. I dropped the phone, my hands shaking, my breathing rapidly speeding up. I couldn't believe what was happening to me - My eyes widened in fear, my body petrified, as I looked at the corner of the room, above the bed.
A pitch black, shimmering form stood towering over the the bed, almost to the ceiling. It was to dark to see what it was, the only guiding factor being two, large, glowing crimson red eyes. They stared out at me from the darkness, meeting my gaze. I could almost physically feel the radiance of pure hatred coming from those eyes. They looked down at me with pure rage, as the form started drawing closer.
It wasn't like Mr. Barnes' described it. The form didn't try to leave. It accepted that it was latched on to me, and that it couldn't escape. Instead, it spent its only corporeal time staring directly into my eyes, burning hot anger seeping from the abyss into me. Soon, it was gone. The sun returned, and I could see the house. Mr. Barnes' laid on the bed, limp, lifeless, colorless.
I walked my way down the steps, got into my car, and drove back to my apartment. I've been laying in my room, on the floor, for 3 days now. I can feel the need for sleep beginning to grab at me, I can feel it starting to overtake me. I won't last for much longer, I need to sleep - And I fear nothing more.
Submitted June 20, 2017 at 07:40PM by Gibusmann http://ift.tt/2rz98hF nosleep
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