Itsy

By Misty Gersley

 

Chapter One:

Rain, Rain, Go Away

 

He was a fresh, new, twelve year old when it had happened.

 

It was in truth, a dark and stormy night.  James watched lightening etch the dark sky from the safety of his own bed, covers pulled tight around every inch of him but his eyes.  Persistent rain beat against the glazed glass of his windows, but he made sure (just like he did every night) that they were shut up real tight and locked, and he’d even double checked for good measure, so that nothing was going to make its way into his room tonight, not even a few drops of rain.

 

Another flash crackled, followed by a booming crash and yet another, and another.  Gamma had told him, a long time ago, how to gauge the distance of a storm, and so at the onset of each flash, James counted One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi until the thunder barked in his head.  The storm had started out far enough away to be little less than camera flashes followed by an old man-ish guttural, throat clearing,  but now, James couldn’t finish one missi- before the deafening clap came.

 

 

 

Despite his usual bouts of insomnia, tonight his body had settled into a quiet and worn state, and James welcomed this summer storm as a bit of entertainment to break up the monotony of the summer’s endless nights of tossing and turning.

 

The storm boomed right over his head, and he mouthed words of gratitude for walls keeping him and Gamma safe from the howling, shaking torrents of wind.  The big oak outside his window stood battered, but not beaten, errant leaves taken to the ground with the wind and rain.  He could hear sticks falling down too, and afterward, in the morning, he would have to collect a few good ones and wrap them together to make a few play swords ( He would give Billy, his friend down the block, the little one to assure James would win their little wars), or maybe a makeshift raft for his GI Joes.  He wasn’t sure, and his mind delighted with the debate.

 

Gamma had told him no radio, and most definitely no TV during the “a’lectric” storms, but James went against his better judgment and flipped the switch on his small clock radio near his bed, a quick retreat of his hand beneath the blanket when the deed was done.

 

WXPI 96.9 always played the best music, and the few words spoken by the hosts this time of night were words meant for grown-up ears, and James always found it amusing to test his limits.  So he listened.  And he didn’t understand what was so funny about some of the stuff, but they talked a lot about pussy and penis, arming him with new and interesting things to say when taunting Billy.

 

Paul Simon was playing, “Wednesday Morning 3 A.M.”,

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence…

 

James sang along, soft and humming the tune, mimicking the words in his head.  Within moments, or at least before the last verse of the song was over, he fell into a lazy night-dream.  The music played on, followed by another song and yet another, each drowning out the ferocious storm that ravaged the earth and sky. In the slippery time before actual sleep comes to the mind, James played underneath the Oak tree, soaking up the sun, and whittling strange, interesting creatures out of its wood with an old pocket knife he’d found in Piggly-Wiggly parking lot last year.

 

It was the neat kind, with a picture engraved in the front of a deer standing in front beautiful woods.  James had the best ability to change his dreams, flip-flopping things and people and places; he had read about it in some science book at the library – they’d coined it lucid dreaming.  He’d then gone right to the reference section, and looked that up too, as he’d no idea what that phrase meant for real, and had memorized it and its many definitions: Lucid (adjective) – able to think and act clearly.  He took that to mean he could understand that he was dreaming, and think clear enough to have control over the events that took place from within the confines of his mind.  It was a cool ability.

 

So, right now the knife in his hand was shiny, polished steel, its handle carved with an intricate hunting scene from someplace up north, some Yankee hunter stalking some Yankee deer.  The blade was sharp (he used the diamond knife sharpener from the kitchen) and well oiled, and it cut through that tough wood like a hot knife through butter.

 

He carved and hummed to himself “Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend” and with ease constructed (a tiny army of wooden spiders?) Wait.  He thought was making army men, carving a sturdy leg attached to a stout boot…

 

Kristin’s screams carried through the walls and into James’ bones.  They interrupted his dream in a strange, gurgling vortex and brought him soaring back into the darkness of his room, heart beating through his chest with heavy thumps.  His brain whirred and clicked back into the present, and his eyes cleared. 

 

Another bad dream.  

 

He exited his bed, ignoring the latest song purring on his radio, Another One Bites the Dust and navigated through the mess of his room and outer hall to the door cracked entrance of Kristin’s room.  Her screaming had stopped, but he could detect her raspy fear-shocked breath, compounded with an uncomfortable gurgling perhaps caused by the remnants of her sudden tears.

 

He opened the door, quiet and mouse like, not wanting to disturb her sleep that she’d fallen back into.  He hated that she got night terrors and that he could do nothing for her but hold her tight like a big brother should.  He wished he’d the power to be in her mind, as well, and make the monsters go away.

 

The hinges squeaked, but slight, and his eyes adjusted to the light levels in her room, the pale purple painted walls soaking up what ambient light there was coming from the open window at the left side of her room. It took him moments to comprehend the open window and the storm, and how the two didn’t go together. Squinting his eyes, he investigated Kristin’s form from his quiet stance in the door frame.

 

She lay on her bed, and something dark moved on top of her. Spiny, stick like appendages ransacked her flesh, slicing and sucking with surgical precision.  He sucked on his breath, stomach flutters threatening to unleash bile, and closed his eyes, willing himself to realign himself with reality…  this can’t be happening this cant be happening, cant be happening……  isn’t real isn’t real…

 

He opened his eyes, slow and fearful, but the image before him hadn’t changed.  Something monstrous stood inches from her, form writhing with shadows of substance, razor legs scooting around, covering her.  She was being devoured. The fresh, bed sheets were soaked red with her blood.  Somehow her lungs still managed to work and her heart continued to beat.

 

The creature that covered her took no notice of him. He must be dreaming… caught in a dream and can’t wake up, can’t change it.  Just like the spider-things I was carving before…

 

A wave of nausea came over him, and James vomited up viscous green bile, making the scene less dreamy and more reality. His mind gave up, then, and pulled him from consciousness, allowing his body to hit the floor, the thud not disturbing the spider-monster’s feast.

 

 

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