THE DEVIL’S IN THE DETAILS

by Dorian J. Sinnott

Halloween had always been my favorite holiday. Every year when the leaves started to change and the air became cool and crisp, that sense of nostalgia would roll in. I remember those dark nights of my childhood, meeting up with friends in their busy neighborhoods and Trick-or-Treating. Laughing under street lights and trading candy. It was only when the local cops made their rounds, ushering us all home that we’d leave. The blanket of curfew in our town was always so strict. And, looking back as an adult, it seems to have gotten even earlier than my days.

As the years went on, I spent my time celebrating Halloween with classmates in college at rundown pizza joints in the city. The magic of my small hometown was lost amongst the city lights. There never seemed to be a curfew. And, quite frankly, there never seemed to be children. They’d all take to the wealthy, upper-crust neighborhoods on the east side. 

The nights usually ended with a movie—John Carpenter’s Halloween, the classic. Watched only in the glow of the orange fairy lights strung around my dorm. Jack o’ Lanterns were forbidden on campus—the whole, “catching fire” thing. It just never felt the same as I remembered growing up. And I began to wonder if I’d outgrown the holiday… much like I felt I had Christmas. 

It wasn’t until I graduated with my Bachelor’s and returned home the following summer that I began to feel that spark again.

###

Coming back to a small town after spending four years in the heart of the city was definitely culture shock. I’d forgotten how mundane life was. Everything had a schedule, everything was planned, and everything closed by 9pm. My college mindset still kept me up all hours of the night, drinking coffee and watching the sunrise. Only this time, they were over the distant mountains, not the parks and penthouses.

Yet, out of all the changes I had to adjust to, the one I just couldn’t accept, was that my creative motivation was draining. Since a young age, I’d always been a writer. The love for the craft began as early as Kindergarten, when every Friday, my teacher would have us write short stories on index cards that she’d laminate and staple together into “books”. We’d share our stories during snack time. The feeling of holding that little “book” in my hand—a finished product of my creation—kept me inspired. And so, I never gave up.

Majoring in Fiction Writing at one of the top universities for the craft in the country, I’d gotten so much feedback in my seminars and workshops. We were always writing. Always creating. But now, with no one to share my work with and critique, I felt that motivation diminishing. And for the first time in over four years, not one piece of mine was queried out to magazines or journals that summer.

I was convinced the small town took away that magic the same way the big city took Halloween.

###

It was nearing the end of July when I saw the ad in the paper that one of the bookstores would be hosting a Q&A event with a local author. I’d seen him around social media over the years. He went to my high school, briefly, and was the sort of guy who added everyone who was in the town (and neighboring towns) just to rack up his follower and like count. Personally, I’d never met him, but I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to experience what I had in college that I’d loved so much. And, just maybe, pitch an idea.

The night of his Q&A was dreary. Rain fell hard throughout the day and into evening. And the municipal parking lots were so far away. I was soaked by the time I made it in the doorway. The bookstore was on the corner of Main Street, bold on the outside, but tucked away on the inside. Everything was so dim—and the pouring rain offered no late evening light. The front of the store was all books. Most of them old and tattered. Had it not been for the coffee counter in the back, I was certain the smell of mildew would have been overpowering.

To what was my surprise, however, was how empty the shop had been. The only ones there aside from me were the barista and… the author. He was seated in the center of the shop on one of their lounge couches, sipping coffee and staring at us with a smile. I made my way over slowly, about to say something, but the author spoke first.

“Noah, right?”

He ushered me to take a seat on the couch across from him. I’ll admit, I was taken aback by the fact he knew my name. I hadn’t been in this town in at least four years—let alone never met the guy.

“Uh, yeah…” I responded. “How did you—”

“Facebook.” He took another sip of coffee. “We’ve interacted a few times on there. Usually on my writing posts.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” I chuckled lightly.

He extended his hand to me. “Jake Bechtold. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

I smiled and accepted his shake. “Of course.”

For the first time having met him in person, I got a good look at Jake. While he was only my age, he was already showing signs of balding—hair thinned out and receding. He almost resembled my father in that matter. He was also short in stature and certainly on the heavier side. But, the one feature I just couldn’t get out of my mind were his eyes. The right was clouded over, almost nonexistent in its milky glaze. And the left just never looked forward. I found myself staring, and quickly averted my gaze, clearing my throat.

“So your book… Traditional? Or did you go the self-publishing or print-on-demand route?”

Jake grinned. “All traditional. I’d thought about self-publishing… more control, you know? But then I thought about all the marketing and money you gotta put into it, and… Nah. Just wasn’t for me.”

I was impressed. While I’d had my fair share of fiction published in literary magazines and journals, I’d yet to query anything of novel length work. The closest I’d ever gotten was a novella I’d knocked out during National Novel Writing month my first year of college. And that, I printed off some copies for family with a print-on-demand press. Nothing major.

“Wow. That’s… that’s amazing, Jake. Most people our age barely complete their novel projects, let along get one picked up by a publisher. Who’s your agent?”

Jake laughed. “Agent? I’m my own agent, as far as I’m concerned. I wasn’t going to waste my time querying out and waiting for representation. I had faith you know.” He tapped the cover of the book resting on the table between us. “Sometimes, you just gotta live dangerously. Bite the bullet.”

I stared down at the cover. “May I?”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

I took the book into my hands, the title, Silent Winter, staring back at me. I gently brushed my fingertips against the dust jacket. It definitely was a professional job—and the logo on the spine told me right away it was through an imprint of one of the Big Five publishing houses. Nearly impossible to acquire a deal with without an agent. I fingered through the cream pages, getting a feel of their thick texture. I only glanced up and back to Jake when he spoke again.

“You’re a writer, too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” I found a weak laugh. “Just got my BA in Fiction Writing, actually.”

“You’re published, too, right?”

“I mean, some smaller stuff in magazines, yeah. Nothing major like a novel. At least, not yet anyway.”

Jake smiled. “You’re working on one though, right? What was it called again… White Memory?”

“Working title, yes. But…”

Again, I wasn’t certain how he had known all of this. He said we’d followed each other on Facebook and we’d conversed a few times. But, I rarely spoke on my novel and my own writing. If anything, it was a status here or there when one of my short stories released. Just a link to the e-book as a failed attempt to plug my work. 

“You don’t have anything to worry about. You’ve got experience, credentials…” Though I knew he wasn’t physically able to, I knew he was looking at me. “You’re like me. You have desire. And when you want something that bad, you’ll get it.”

I stayed with Jake, talking writing and drinking coffee, until the shop closed just before 9pm. The awkwardness of the night vanished quickly once we got on the topic of our stories, my experiences in college, and the publishing process. Overall, Jake was a down-to-earth guy. And so, I brought up my offer, pitch, if you will, about looking to form a writing group in the town.

“I think it would be great, you know? Bringing together like-minded people who want to share their work and grow. Hey! If they’re interested in publishing, we can go about teaching the ropes of that, too. You with the novels and me with the short prose.”

Jake loved the idea. He confessed that he’d had similar ideas for months, but never had anyone who was interested in co-running it with him. No, he said no one who was experienced enough to run it with him. He said he knew a lot of teenagers in the town who would love to take it on, and a few others our age. 

“We’ll talk,” was the last he said on the matter as we stepped outside into the gray.

I pulled the collar of my jacket up higher as Jake lit a cigarette. Just as we were about to head our separate ways, I stopped, digging in my pocket for my wallet.

“Oh! I almost forgot. Silent Winter? I want to get a copy.”

Jake shook his head. “Don’t pay me. Here.” He extended the copy he had with him. “Consider it a gift. Writer to writer.”

I didn’t question him, not knowing what to say. I just took the book in surprise. “Thank you…”

As he crushed his cigarette butt into one of the puddles, he nodded his head to me in farewell and began to make his way to the crosswalk. Tucking his book under my jacket so it wouldn’t get wet in the rain, I called out one last time.

“Jake! You never did tell me how you landed that book deal.”

He turned his head back to me, and I could see his wide smile reflecting in the car lights. “Like I said, if you want something that bad, you’ll get it. Sometimes, it costs you. Other times, well… there are things in this world we just can’t explain.”

###

Jake kept his promise about founding a writing program with me on Friday nights. We started off small, but as summer faded into autumn, we found our numbers were rising. Teens and young adults not only from our town got wind of our group, but from neighboring towns, as well. At first, we met in the bookshop, reading our stories and poems under the dim lights, devouring more caffeine than we ever could need. But once we outgrew the store, we moved to the library. And from there, Jake’s place.

He lived in a rundown apartment just at the edge of the village. Just like most of the rest of town, there was no parking nearby, so everything was a trek. His apartment was on the first floor, and shared a large wrap-around porch with his neighbor upstairs. Most of the time, she was on the porch, rocking in her chair, talking to dead air. 

“The kids all think she’s a witch,” Jake would say. “She’s actually quite harmless. Sweet, if you get to know her.”

For the few months we had been together, we all worked on small pieces from prompts and brought in our work-in-progress chapters and stories for critique. It was when October finally came that Jake proposed the idea of a scary story contest. The first contest that we’d be running as a group.

“Here’s the deal. You all have 30 days to write your piece. It can be a poem, it can be a story… whatever. Just make sure it’s the scariest thing you can think of.”

The group, of course, became all chatter. Everyone was excited about testing the waters with a chilling tale—dark fiction, uncanny, true horror. 

“We’ll all meet on Halloween, here. Have a little party, you know? Noah and I will read all the pieces, by candlelight. At the end of the night, we vote for the scariest one. Deal?”

“And what do we get if we win?” one of the members, Tim, always questioning everything, asked.

I could see that smile on Jake’s face again. The one I’d seen the day we first met, when I asked him about his book deal.

“A ribbon, a certificate, praise in our group,” he said. “And, my publisher agreed to look at one of your manuscripts.”

###

I could care less about the ribbon and certificate. I’d earned enough of those growing up and playing sports and winning local writing competitions and art shows. The thought of Jake’s publisher, one of the Big Five, looking at my work? It wasn’t imaginable.

And so, I spent the rest of the month penning the end of my manuscript, and working on what I thought to be the scariest story I could put together. But, I kept reminding myself, scary was more than just over the top monsters or gore. Yeah, those things were scary… but true fear came after the story was finished. The sense of everything being normal and fine, but, something off. Just slightly. The uncanny. The unknown. That’s what true fear was. The things we couldn’t quite explain. 

I stayed up late into the early hours of morning, drafting my piece over and over again, polishing it. And then, on the morning on Halloween, I printed it. Nameless. Ready to be read by candlelight.

###

I spent most of the day on Halloween anxious. I just wanted, more than anything, to have my story win. To have the opportunity to bypass any agent queries, any representation. To just be able to stick my manuscript on the desk of the acquiring editors and hope for a miracle.

My friend Angela, who I’d been close with since middle school, kept assuring me that my piece was probably near perfect, and that the only real threat I had was Jake. Angela had been the first one to join the group, when I was desperately looking for members upon its announcement, and I knew she was a strong writer. We had spent most of our days in high school passing off our pieces in the hallways, reading and critiquing each other. And while I knew I had grown from years of refinement in my college courses, she surely had, as well.

It wasn’t Jake I was worried about. It was her.

We spent the late afternoon getting our costumes ready, helping each other with makeup and being sure that everything fit just right. Angela insisted that we go together as a themed costume—Little Red and the Big Bad Wolf. She braided her hair overnight so that it fell in wavy curls for the party, keeping her hood down to show them off. And, just like her purse was usually overflowing with useful nonsense, so was her picnic basket. She packed cookies, candy, our printed stories, and a lighter—just in case Jake’s candles wouldn’t light with matches. As for my costume, my mother had stayed up late sewing faux fur into an old flannel shirt, giving off the authentic werewolf feel. She’d even taken the time to sew together and stuff a tail, and make furred gloves with claws. My mom always had the best made Halloween costumes over the years—and I couldn’t wait to come home from the party to show her how well it looked on me.

Just as the sun began to set, Angela and I gathered our things and headed for Jake’s apartment. 

###

It wasn’t until that night that I think I ever realized just how small the apartment was. With our whole group gathered on his couch, chairs, and the floor, it seemed even tinier between all the bowls of popcorn, chips, and candy. And the handful of opened pizza boxes and soda bottles.

“Do you get Trick or Treaters here at all?” Angela asked Jake once we were all settled.

“Here? Nah. This is just beyond the street lamps. Most parents take their kids into the village itself for Trick or Treating. There’s a lot more going on. More light. Over here, we’re pretty much forgotten,” he said, then motioned to me. “Noah, how about we get those candles ready?”

Angela gathered all the printed out and handwritten stories and poems from the group while Jake and I went to the kitchen. By now, I’d removed my gloves and my wolf head mask so that I could properly see, and safely use the matchbook. Jake handed me a candle before striking a match and lighting his own.

“You nervous?” he asked.

“Nervous? What for?”

“For winning,” he said, surely looking at me.

“I mean, yeah, aren’t we all?” I said. “Everyone gets a little antsy when it comes to something like a prize being on the line. But at the end of the day, it’s just about having fun.”

“But is it really?”

I glanced over to Jake, his now-lit candle flickering in the dim kitchen light. I was without words, caught up in the dancing flame and how it barely reflected in his milky right eye. There was definitely a reflection there, but it seemed so distant. Lost in that white void.

“You’re like me, Noah. You want something bad enough, you get it in the end. I’ve told you this. Sometimes, you gotta pay for it. Other times—”

“I know,” I said. “Other times, there are things in this world you can’t explain.”

“ ‘Atta boy.” Jake offered the matchbook to me. “The question is, just how bad do you want it? And just what are you willing to pay?”

I struck the match, looking into the flame. It seemed so tranquil at first, but with each of my breaths, I could see it become violent at the end of the stick. I thought about how badly I wanted that opportunity. No. How badly I needed that opportunity. Jake was right. We were a lot alike. And if he was able to do it, a writer with no credentialed background, surely I could. Right?

All I could see through the flickering candlelight were his eyes. Twisted and disfigured. Vision likely hindered to the point I was unsure how well he’d be able to read the stories—in the light, let alone in muted darkness. But, I told myself, writers didn’t need their eyes to see. They needed their hands. Their voices. Their minds. Words lived in the head, after all. The eyes had nothing to do with that.

As I went to light the candle, I felt something hot against my fingertip. At first, I ignored it, but only for a moment. The searing pain quickly snapped me away from my thoughts and I looked down at the match to realize the flame had spread down the stick. Right to my finger. I quickly lit my candle and blew the match out, handing it to Jake as the burning sensation overtook my hand.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah… just burned myself is all,” I said. “I guess I took too long.”

Jake set his candle down and got me a cold, wet washcloth to hold against my wound, and a Band-Aid. I looked down at my already blistering and bloodied burn as I bandaged it, cursing myself for being so clumsy. My nerves pulsed under the bandage, mixed with the pain that still overtook my fingertip. 

“You okay to still do this?” Jake asked as I held my candle closer.

“It’s just a little burn,” I said. “I’ve been ready for this all month.”

###

The stories we wrote were all anonymous to the group. Only Jake and I knew who penned what—for the sake of awarding the prize at the end. I kept my stack of stories close, since beyond the flickering candlelight, there was nothing but darkness. I couldn’t even make out the faces of the rest of the group, though I knew they were sitting right before me. It was so strange, how in the faint light, you could almost fall under a sort of trance. Nothing in the room seemed real, and my focus only became on the flame and the paper before me.

Jake and I took turns reading. The stories ranged from Creepypasta inspired killers to poems that seemed like old curses. A few had twists that came out of nowhere—thrown in for the sake of trying to give that eerie feeling, but failing miserably. Others, I felt just tried too hard. But it was when Jake read his story that I actually got a sense of competition. And that, perhaps, his writing was far better than I had anticipated.

“There are some things we can’t explain in this world,” he began, “and others, well, we have to pay a price…”

He read of a writer who was down on his luck, seeking his big break. He was young, determined, desperate. I just kept my gaze on my candle, listening to his story, taking in every word. The writer in his story kept facing rejection. Pieces passed up by agent after agent, until he just couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted his work to be shared, to be heard, so badly. To the point he would do anything to achieve it. And so, he took matters into his own hands. He willed himself away, to a place between realms—between time itself. And there, he forged a deal with an entity, some dark spirit, for the deal of a lifetime. He got his book deal, he got a hefty advance, and the praise? Well, that just came naturally. The only price? His eyes.

“A writer doesn’t need eyes, after all,” Jake continued. “Words live in the heart, the mind, the soul. On lips.”

The flame of my candle flickered dim and I breathed heavy. 

“Besides, eyes aren’t worth keeping when the shadows stare back at you.”

There was nothing but silence in the room. I wasn’t sure if the group was bored by Jake’s story—if it went over their heads—or if they were taken back by true fear that they couldn’t respond. Yet, from the corner of my eye, in the candlelight, I saw Jake turn to me. For the last story of the night. Mine.

I held the candle close, my hand trembling as I began. I didn’t want to give away the anxiousness in my voice—spoiling the fact that this was, indeed, my story. After all, I wanted this. And blowing my cover wasn’t an option.

I told the story of an estranged family, living out on an old farm far away from civilization. The children, newly adopted, spent their days in the fields, performing daily chores and learning the ways of life. It read very southern gothic—like something from the mind of Sam Shepard—nothing like I normally wrote. I carefully read my words, describing the fields and the dark shadows the roamed between the wheat, and the post at the far end of the property where no grass around it grew. I was waiting to instill that final bit of dread at the end, giving away that the family had been adopting out children from various orphanages over the years for work, and then, if they weren’t what they had hoped for, disposing them in the mass grave out by the post. Not monsters. Not ghosts. Just the unnatural fear that something was slightly off. Slightly wrong. Enough to keep the mind stuck on those small elements, even long after the story had finished.

As I neared the end of the piece, I glanced up looking out into the sea of shadows before me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see the faces of the group, let alone their silhouettes. It was nearing 10pm now, and darkness had overtaken every corner and crevice of the apartment. But, yet, there was one figure that I could make out. Standing, against the back wall.

They were nothing more than silhouette, an endless black void amidst the shadows. From what I could see, they were wearing an overcoat and a wide brimmed hat. And, they just stood there. Unmoving. I glanced back down at my paper and continued reading, being sure to keep looking up every few words to see if the figure was still there. And he was. Silent.

My candle flickered again, and I reached the final paragraph of my story. My mind worked hard at trying to comprehend the figure, while still processing the words on the page. Why was this the only person I could see in the room? Was the candlelight somehow making the back wall lit just enough that I could see whoever was standing there, but not those sitting before me? No, I told myself, because then, why couldn’t I see the lamp or the bookshelves silhouetted, as well? And it’s dark. That was what kept coming back to the forefront of my mind. There was no way anyone could be seen in a room of shadows. They’d have to be darker than pitch. Black-on-black. A void. It just wasn’t possible.

I looked back down at the paper in my hands, voice clearly quivering as I read the final sentence aloud. “But sometimes, I stay up late and think about them… the shadows, the ghosts, and the monster… and all that lays beneath that old, splinted post.”

There was a symphony of clapping coming from before me, and it broke me away from staring at that figure against the wall. I mustered a smile as Jake flicked the light switch, flooding the apartment in light. Immediately, I returned my gaze to where it had been standing. But there was nothing there. Not even a coatrack. Just the bare and empty dirty wall. 

I blew my candle out, tracing the faces and costumes of the group before me. No one was even wearing anything similar to what I had seen—had one of them chosen to stand during my piece. I shook it off after a moment, accepting that it most likely was from the lack of light and the fact we were sitting around in the dark reading scary stories. Surely, my mind had been wandering. Jake was the one to finally pull me back to reality, breaking my thoughts of shadows.

“So, it’s time to vote. We’re just going to do this by a raise of hands, and you can only vote once, so make it count.”

“Can we vote for our own?” Tim asked, his hockey mask now pulled up and resting atop his head. “You know, so we have a better chance of winning?”

“Vote for whoever you want, so long as you just cast one vote,” Jake replied, clearly annoyed with Tim’s questioning. 

I looked out at the group again, ready to count up the hands that would be raised for each story title. My heart was pounding again, riddled with the same anxiety I had earlier. And Angela had been right—Jake’s story was the one that brought the most fear to me. He was, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, an amazing writer.

“Headless Hollow... Jack the Killer… Curse of Deadwood Lake…”

Jake read the titles and I watched as only a few hands moved—Tim’s immediately flying up for Headless Hollow, the only vote for his knock-off and cheaply written twist piece. It was only when Jake reached the final two titles that the hands began to show in numbers.

“The Devil’s in the Details…”

That was Jake’s piece. Those, details I’m sure being the contract the writer in the story had signed with the entity. Or, the publisher. There were quite a few hands raised, and I tallied them up—a landslide compared to the other titles. Now, it was only mine left.

“And finally, Where the Grass Won’t Grow.”

It was a minor victory. Only by two hands—Angela, and a quiet girl, Kaylee, I’m certain. But somehow, I had managed to pull through and take the victory that night with the scariest story of the bunch. Angela took a picture of me holding up my ribbon and certificate, and we all got another handful of candy in before heading out for the night.

It was 11pm on the dot, and I wanted to catch my mother before she turned in to sleep. My costume, at least, I thought, looked great. And I wanted to show her how well it fit and looked on me. That, and, of course, I wanted to show her my finger. Where the flame had burned me still stung, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t more serious than I thought. 

We all said our farewells, congratulating one another once again before going our separate ways. I thanked Angela for helping me get ready and told her I’d see her in the morning to plan for a shopping weekend. I was the last one on the porch, with Jake, and I couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Not bad,” he said, lighting one of his cigarettes. “I like what you did there. Not too over the top, you know? You took the more, horrors of real life and played with that. I guess that does make for a scarier story than something supernatural, you know?”

“Yeah, but the supernatural can be just as terrifying. Your story… well…”

Jake smirked. “Ah, that old thing? That was more for the kids of the group. You know they jump whenever anyone mentions a boogieman.”

“That’s true…”

Jake patted my shoulder. “You deserved it.”

I nodded, not sure if I wholeheartedly agreed or not. But, I thanked him again for the party. I wasn’t going to lie, it was probably the first Halloween I’d had since childhood where I got to dress up and hang out with a bunch of people over food and scary stories. Far better than the lonely nights in my dorm after coming back from the run-down pizza joint. 

“We’ll discuss the details about getting your manuscript to my editor over the weekend,” he said. “If you don’t want the offer, you don’t have to take it up. You know that. But, if you do… well. Just sleep on it.”

I chuckled. “You know I want it.”

Jake stared back with a small smirk of his own. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

He picked up the jack-o-lanterns he had lining the steps, blowing them out one by one. I headed back to my car, down the dark streets of town, eager to get home and not only show my mother my complete costume, but also to get some rest. It was, after all, a very long day.

###

I pulled into my driveway at 11:37pm—later than I had hoped, but I knew my mother would still be awake. She always stayed up until about midnight reading. And sometimes, even later if she knew my younger brother or I would be out. Yet, as soon as I stepped through the front door and into the living room, I was met with nothing but silence.

All the lights were out, casting deep shadows through the room and up the stairwell leading to my bedroom. I knew that even if my mother had turned in to bed, she always at least kept the light on for us. Maybe this time, I told myself, she forgot. Or the bulb burned out. But, even the silent stillness felt off. Normally, if I came home after everyone else had turned in for the night, the dog would start barking—aware that someone was in the house after bedtime. But tonight, there wasn’t one peep. The only thing that my mind did register, however, was the faint flickering of the hall nightlight my mother had installed years before. It was mainly there to serve as extra lighting if someone had to get up and use the bathroom in the late night. So no one would trip over the dog’s toys he carelessly left scattered. I stared at it, watching each of its feeble flashes in the dark hallway. How much it reminded me of the candle in my hand from earlier that night. Memorizing. Trance-like.

I headed upstairs to get changed for the rest of the night, but made sure to take a few pictures of my costume beforehand. I realized I never really got any. Angela and I had been too busy getting our stories together and the cookies she made packed before the party. I took a few selfies and posted them to Facebook, timestamped 11:45pm. The only other status that caught my eye as I was turning my phone off for the night was Jake’s. Just a simple, “thank you to all who made this a great Halloween!” I liked it, and changed before turning in to bed.

###

Sleep that night was nearly impossible to find. I kept tossing and turning underneath the covers, caught up on the shadows that overtook the room. They were dark in the corners, endless. But, the set of shadows that I just couldn’t keep my eyes off of were the ones by my closet—at the far end of the room. They’d gathered to form a figure. Tall. In an overcoat and wide brimmed hat. The same figure that was at Jake’s apartment.

Was it my mind? I was sure that’s all it was. It was late, and I’d been overthinking. There were too many scary stories floating around in my mind, and too much sugar still in my system. I closed my eyes, trying my hardest to find sleep, but it just wouldn’t come. And so, again I found my mind wandering. Looking in corners. Only, this time, the figure seemed closer. Moving ever so slightly towards the foot of my bed.

Sleep on it. 

I heard Jake’s words in my head, thinking about the potential book deal. About forwarding my manuscript to his editor. About this opportunity that I know I’d most likely never get again. Sleep on it.

I couldn’t just sleep on it. Not when I couldn’t find sleep. I’d been wide awake, heart pounding against my chest from what I wasn’t sure was fear or nerves. Excitement? I didn’t know.

Do you want it?

Of course I did. I’d said it myself on Jake’s porch. There was nothing I wanted more. I closed my eyes, attempting to find sleep one final time as the clock ticked away the hours into early morning. But, even when I would get comfortable, I still felt like something was watching. Keeping me from slumber.

 I opened my eyes to see nothing but endless blackness before me. A void deeper than the shadows themselves. And that stench… It smelled of thick sulfur, emanating from the darkness. It was unbearable. Glancing up, I saw nothing but two dim flickers of what must have been eyes, staring down at me. Hidden deep within that void. Like frail candles, fighting the wind. I swallowed hard, shutting my eyes tightly before reopening them. Trying to will away the entity I knew was standing before my bed. A trick of the mind. A trick of the light, or, lack thereof. But it wouldn’t leave. No matter how many times I opened my eyes and shut them, it was still standing there. Menacing. And that smile… Through the darkness, I knew I could see it. That wide, toothy grin. 

Do you want it?

More than anything…

###

I awoke late the next morning, almost noon, after finally having been able to fall asleep. I wasn’t sure when it was that I managed to finally drift off, but even with the rest, I still felt tired. Worn out from the night before. My mother was doing the dishes when I entered the kitchen groggily, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Had a long night partying, huh?” she asked. “What time did you get home anyway? I waited up late for you.”

“A little after 11:30,” I said. “I thought you were going to be awake, but…”

My mother stopped her washing and looked at me. “11:30? You were not home at 11:30.”

I was confused. Surely I had been. The clock at Jake’s house said it was 11pm when we all decided to head home for the night—and the clock in my car was always accurate. 

“We left Jake’s at 11. I mean, I hung around to talk for a few, but I got here a little after 11:30… like I said.”

“Noah,” my mother’s voice was stern and sincere. “I waited up until nearly 1am for you. The baseball game went into overtime—it must have ended around 12:30. Your father went to bed as soon as it was over, but I stayed up waiting. You never came home.”

Had what my mother said been true, at the time I walked in, I would have found the living room shrouded in light. The television would have been on and blaring, my father getting worked up by his team’s, most likely, eventual loss. My brother would have been asleep on the couch, dog beside him, and my mother reading. With the lamp beside the front door on. That light she always left on each and every night we were out late. The one that was off when I came home the night before. At 11:30pm.

“But I did!” I told her. “I even went upstairs and took photos… posted them to Facebook. Look, they have a time stamp.”

I opened my phone and showed her the photo’s stamp: October 31st, 11:43pm. It was clearly me, in my werewolf costume, taken in my bedroom. My mother said that, maybe my time on the phone was off and reflecting that, but then I showed her the post to Facebook. Twelve hours before.

“11:45,” I told her. “You can’t tell me Facebook’s time is off, too.”

My mother looked pale. I could tell that she was being honest about the game—probably even telling me to look up the final score and see for myself what time it ended. But, how could it have been that I walked into a quiet and dark house at the time she said was the height of the game. All light up.

“Everything was dark,” I told her. “Everything… well… except the nightlight.”

She looked concerned.

“The one in the hall. I came home and that was flickering… but that was it. The dog didn’t even bark. I just figured you all went to bed.”

“Noah…” My mother’s voice was quiet. “That nightlight in the hall hasn’t had a bulb in it in almost 3 months…”

She proceeded to show me the bulb-less light, and I felt a sick twisting in the pit of my stomach. We both were telling the truth, weren’t we? I knew what time I’d come home… 

“I left at 11pm,” I said again. “I wanted to be home before you were asleep. To show you my costume. And, well…” I held up my finger, still wrapped in the Band-Aid. “I burned myself last night on one of the matches we were using to light the candles for our scary story contest. It was pretty bad. I wanted you to look at it.”

I peeled the bandage off and held my hand out to her. My mother took it gently and looked, but more in question than concern.

“It must not have been that bad,” she said. “I can’t even see a mark.”

I looked at my finger in disbelief, but, she was right. The blister and blood that was forming the night before, that burned unbearably, was gone. Skin repaired. Smooth. As if nothing had ever happened. 

“I don’t…” I began. And I couldn’t finish. 

I didn’t know what to say at that point. Nothing made sense. 

My mother tried to make light of the situation. “You weren’t doing any rituals last night, were you?” She laughed. “Maybe you got stuck in a time warp or something… another dimension.”

A place between realms—between time itself. 

“Oh, that reminds me. Jake called early this morning,” my mother said.

“Jake…?”

“He said something about one of your stories and an editor? Did you get something published again?”

“Uh, well, not yet,” I said. “I think he was working to see if my manuscript could get picked up by his publisher… if, I wanted to accept the offer.”

My mother looked thrilled. “Really? That’s amazing, honey! I know how much you’ve been wanting to get your longer works out there. Fingers crossed, okay?”

I didn’t say anything in response. I headed back to my bedroom and called Jake.

###

“Hey, Noah! Yeah, my editor read your manuscript—at least the partial—and she loved it. Says it’s definitely a fresh new voice they would love to share. She wants to know when you’re free to chat, you know, go over all the details.”

“Jake…” I was quiet. “How did she get my manuscript? I’ve been asleep, I haven’t—”

“You said yourself last night that it’s all you’ve wanted. I mean, I know I told you to sleep on it, but… you sounded so sure. I had your file saved, you know, back when you sent it to me earlier this month for my opinion? I just sent it over myself, to get the ball rolling. And, hey, they loved it!”

I was quiet. This news should have been exciting. A dream come true. But for some reason, it instilled fear in me. That fear of something unexplainable. 

“I just gotta know, so I can get back with her… if you accept,” Jake said. “Is this something you want?”

Silence. Deep in thought. 

“Yes…,” I said softly, but certain. “More than anything.”

The contract was simple, just the standard stuff. And the advance was decent—a good $15k before royalties. It was just a quick discussion and meeting with the editor, a simple sign off on paperwork.

“The devil’s in the details,” was all I remember her saying to me as she slid my contract across the desk to me.

I owed so much to Jake for his help in getting my career off the ground, but, I’d noticed that after my book had launched and hit shelves, I barely saw him anymore.

“Sorry, Noah. I’m busy… you know how the writer life is. Always gotta work on something fresh and new.”

With his lack of participation, our group slowly dismantled, too. Teenagers graduating and moving away to college, others losing interest in writing altogether. 

And so, my Q&A, much like his, was spent alone—on a dreary and rainy evening in the mid-summer. But, even with the lack of support from the locals, just being able to hold that finished product in my hand—that beautiful dust jacket with White Memory displayed proudly across the cover was enough. I had done it. I’d finally done it.

###

I still stayed up late into the early hours of morning, drinking coffee and writing. New stories this time, ones not so light. Not so kind. I’ve become convinced that the shadows have persuaded me otherwise. To tell their stories, of the deep dark. The uncertain. The unknown. 

And the sleep never comes. On the off days that I try and catch up on my rest, I still feel those flickering embers of eyes burning from the corner of my room. The corner where the darkness collects into endless voids. Haunting. It never stops watching and it never leaves me be. I’d tried so many home remedies to attempt to sleep. Cutting back on the coffee, making sure I’m in bed at a decent hour, aroma therapy… But nothing seems to quell the inner dread in the pit of my stomach. The feeling that everything is normal, but yet, still slightly off. And I’ve run out of ideas. Both for the mind and for stories. The words just won’t come anymore. I’m convinced, it’s because the eyes have simply seen too much.

But, what would you be willing to pay? Is there any price too much when there’s something that you want more than anything? Jake was right. He and I were alike. We were passionate. And we knew what we wanted, regardless of the cost. No matter how unexplainable it was to the rest of the world. After all, a writer is nothing without his words. They were as precious as air itself. They lived in the heart, the mind, the soul…

And without them, the darkness would just get thicker. Deeper. 

I lit a candle on my desk, watching as the flame mimicked the burning eyes of the figure before me. Lost in that trance I had been that Halloween night. Surrounded by members of our old group. Desperate.What would you be willing to pay?

Words were all I needed now. Off lips and tongues and fingers. Pages.

Besides, eyes aren’t worth keeping when the shadows stare back at you.