Okezika Igweani

Devils' hour

It rattled me awake — the loud ding-dong of the archaic grandma clock in the parlour. It was here: the Devil’s Hour. That period when the veil between the living and the other world thins. Now marked the most sinister hour of night. All night stalkers came into consciousness at this time — myself included. You see, all nocturnals — from occultists to birds of prey, and don’t forget the spooky beings — all come out at this hour to play. They all have one thing in common: their love for the dark. Me? I'm an anomaly. Why? Because I’m noctiphobic. I loathe everything affiliated with the night — gloomy areas, dimly lit spaces, murky spots, and everything in between. You might ask, then why aren’t you drowning in sleep? I don’t have an answer. For as long as I can remember, this has been my life. Long before I could reach a door handle or eat by myself, I’ve woken up at 3:00 AM sharp, carefully scrutinizing my surroundings, ensuring everywhere is well-lit and secure. Then, almost immediately, I would crash into unconsciousness — not from sleepiness, but from exhaustion... exhaustion born of fear. As the webs of sleep untangled from my mind, my surroundings slowly zoomed into focus. Everywhere was dark. The neighborhood was as silent as the color black. I gazed on as amorphous shadows danced on the walls, each one a potential threat. The nightlight flickered, making the shadows twist into eerie forms. Uncontrollable shivers swept through me. The door was ajar. It gave me a decisive view of the outside — log-like, drenched... Wait — that door is open?! It was rarely ever opened — the ominous, dust-covered storage room I abhorred. Its very existence fed my fears, even more so because it stood directly adjacent to mine. Most nights, I would hear the chirping and buzzing of bugs thriving inside. Other nights, it was silent — so silent that it felt like Abyss itself had made it its lair. Still, the door was never open. My parents made sure of that to abate my irrational fears. Yet, tonight — of all nights — it was open. I squinted to see into the room. My gaze landed briefly on a shadow near the window — a shapeless figure, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon. The entire room looked like a yawning black void, swallowing the weak moonbeam. The figure moved. I froze. My surroundings seemed to hold their breath too, waiting. It moved again — and a choking whimper escaped me. It felt as though its blackness was trying to suck out my very soul. A cold night wind blew, raising the translucent curtains like flags caught in a storm. A chilling, groaning sound followed. I shut my eyes and gripped the duvet in a nail-splintering clutch. The continuous creaks of the floorboards didn't help — every creak made my heart somersault. Fear seeped deeper into my bones. It was a dread so deep, I wished I could dissolve into the mattress. As the final chimes of the clock faded, the entire house suddenly became radiant with light. Finally — LIGHT, CALM, LIFE! I screamed silently. Slowly, miniature ebbs of courage seeped into my soul. With a newfound bravery, I dared to glance once again at the menacing room. And there it was — reality, coming in buckets of ice-cold calm: The cause of my breakdown... was a pair of trousers. A pair of trousers hanging off the window frame. And there — sprawled on the floor — was my brother Jerome, the likely source of the beastly groan that had almost given me a heart attack. I had completely forgotten that he had opened the storage room earlier that evening in search of an old green flower vase for his class project. Everything seemed settled now. I stared in awe at the warm golden glow of the electric bulb overhead. I had once heard that the electric bulb was a form of hypnosis, lulling even babies to sleep. As I stared into it, I felt its soothing light gently salve me back into the realms of sleep.