Writing for Fun
November 2016
Spooky - Anne Wilson
It was the middle of the night again. It had to be. In his half-conscious, sleepy state he could feel his heart pounding more rapidly and the sweat starting to seep through him so that it dampened the bed sheets and made him feel uncomfortable. He awoke fully with a start, feeling sick with anxiety as he did so. The room was pitch black and he blinked rapidly several times as he reached with a fumbling hand for the clock on the table beside him, knocking over the empty bottles in the effort and automatically whetting his lips in reaction to doing so. He willed it to read a later hour, bringing with it some small hope of optimism in his bleak life. But it didn’t. His hand froze beside the switch but a crippling fear prevented him from turning it on. The dark – although frightening – was less so than the reality the light brought with it.
A figure loomed towards him – indistinct but with a voice he recognised from the other nights.
The Voice was kindly – gentle even – but had now begun to sound weary with resignation.
‘You know why I’ve come,’ it said.
He cowered back in the bed. ‘I’m not ready yet.’
‘It’s not your choice to make,’ The Voice replied. ‘I’ve been very patient. You know I have. I come here every night and you always send me away.’
‘I need more time,’ he protested from his bed.
‘Time is running out,’ The Voice cautioned. ‘The car’s outside waiting for you.’
‘I can’t get in that car,’ he whispered. ‘You know I can’t get into that car!’
‘You will and you must,’ The Voice cajoled gently.
‘It was a mistake,’ he bleated, ‘and I’ve paid for it. You know I’ve paid for it. It was so cold and I was such a long time sitting outside with nothing happening. It was the middle of the night before anyone came out and I was tired and bored. What else was there to do?’ He shifted in the bed, moistening his parched lips. ‘Why didn’t anyone else need me?’ he wheedled. ‘It could have all been so different.’
‘All mistakes must be accounted for with an identical punishment,’ The Voice reasoned. ‘A life for a life, if you prefer. If you come out to the car with me you’ll find everything you need in it. Everything you want,’ he added enticingly.
The man in the bed glanced down at the empty bottles, carelessly knocked to the floor – the slivered glass glistening in the dark.
‘Everything?’ he asked hoarsely.
The Voice was reassuring. ‘Everything,’ it said. ‘Come with me.’
The mini cab stood outside in the night air, neglected and dirty. The Voice opened the door for him – the reluctant traveller slumping down in the driver’s seat and devouring the bottles which had carefully been placed beside him, gulping the contents greedily at first and then slowly savouring their warmth as the liquid hit his stomach. It was a frosty night, as it had been on the night of the fatal pick-up and an almost identical time to the revellers rolling out the club, patronising him and demanding a lift home – their upper class voices grating on him and their obvious affluence riling him. The drink on an empty stomach had dulled his brain and he had not been concentrating. He knew it and had lived with it ever since.
‘Who are you?’ he shouted out to The Voice – emboldened now by the drink. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘My name is Justice,’ The Voice said calmly. ‘And I knew you would come with me eventually.’
The driver turned on the ignition, edging forward slowly and then putting his foot down hard on the accelerator so that the car’s speed gained momentum. Nothing happened for a few moments, but then he suddenly saw a flashing light from out of nowhere heading towards him. His brakes screeched and he was conscious of the car spinning. Then oblivion overtook him.
The Voice took out his notebook and scored through the latest name on his list. There would be others to visit tomorrow night and the next night and the night after that. Justice was nearly done.