A Shadow Eats the Light

You live in a cabin in the woods.

You left the world behind on purpose.

You lived a good life back in those days but as you grew older and more of your cherished loved ones passed on, you preferred nature to the big city.

You longed to meet your end among the trees rather than in a nursing home among other failing bodies you didn’t know.

Your only child died in a car accident. There are no grandchildren and never will be.

The forest has been kind, a balm to your aching heart.

The cabin has few amenities but everything you need is there.

A fire for cooking, with plenty of wood to forage.

A garden to tend.

You thank the land and whatever God will listen for the traps that give you meat, and you always say a little prayer for the animals you catch—their lives are not lost in vain for sustaining your own.

The knock at your door in the loneliest, darkest hour before the dawn—the witching hour!—startles you awake on high alert, adrenaline rushing through you, your heart hammering.

You think:

Maybe this is the end.

Is this the day I die?

Maybe I’m dead already and this is some spirit come to take me away.

You lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

You listen for the knock to come again, but it doesn’t.

You consider the unappealing idea of going to check, but you’re scared and decide to wait a bit longer.

Maybe the wind knocked a branch into the door.

A silly thought arises: a bear in a suit with a briefcase—a traveling salesbear!—knocking on your door, straightening his tie, shuffling his big bare feet.

Of course, he’s not wearing pants, like all the anthropomorphized animals in those old cartoons.

Just a jacket and a collared shirt and a tie.

You laugh out loud and the echo of your laughter mixes with the songs of the cicadas and the crickets and you feel a little better.

The knock comes again.

More insistent this time.

Three quick raps.

This isn’t a traveling salesbear or the wind bearing debris.

The twelve gauge leaning against the wall in the corner of the room is loaded.

You get up slowly, quietly, and walk softly over to grab it.

You click off the safety and point the barrel forward as you walk toward the door.

You don’t hear the porch creaking with shuffling feet or a swaying body.

You don’t hear the sound of breathing or muttering.

The visitor does not announce their purpose.

You stand there a long time, gun pointed at the door, not sure if you should call out or just wait.

Your windows are curtained.

You consider walking over and looking out, just to see.

The knock comes again—three quick raps!—and you almost fire the gun in surprise.

The absurd thought of an enraged traveling salesbear, bleeding from a bullet wound, charging at you through the remains of your blasted front door, assails you.

It’s all you can do not to guffaw like a fool and give yourself away.

You manage to hold your laugh to a quick snort as the gun twitches from the quivering of your traitor hands.

Your eyes roll again to the curtain.

If the thing on the other side of the door doesn’t kill you, the curiosity will.

You take your finger off the trigger, prop the gun on your shoulder, and work your way cautiously to the window.

You pull back the curtain just enough to see around the corner and peek out.

There is no one standing on the porch.

Then you hear the knock again.

Rap-rap-rap!

You jump back from the window and stare at the door, eyes wide, shaking all over.

The door shudders with the next hit.

BAM!

A steady pulse begins, like a giant drum pounding a beat for a slow dirge.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

You fall on your ass, pointing the gun at the door.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

Your quaking legs manage to obey your flight impulse just enough to scoot your body back into a corner.

BAM!

Crying, gibbering unintelligibly, your buttocks are raw with splinters from scraping the wooden floor in your thin nightwear.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

It won’t stop. Your mind inexplicably, and most unwelcome, conjures strange music to the rhythm of the beats, an ominous cacophony that swells inside your ears like ghastly waves haunting an accursed seashell.

BAM!

With each hit, screws come out a little more from the jamb, the hinges coming with them.

BAM!

Wood splinters inward in the middle of the door, and the bottom hinge flaps hard against itself with a metallic ting as screws skid across the floor.

BAM!

The door hangs askew.

The faint rays of a full moon creep through the gap.

A shadow eats the light.

BAM!

The door gives way, falls to the floor.

An indescribable creature materializes across the threshold, manifesting from nothing as if emerging from between worlds.

It doesn’t quite fit your perception of reality, but it’s undeniably there, oozing toward you, emanating a dry, shimmering chill at odds with the humid summer heat.

You fire the gun into the shadow—

BOOM!

working the pump action—

Chuck-chuck—BOOM!

until every shell is gone and your wringing ears can’t even hear the last, desolate click of the empty chamber.

It does no good.

You wanted to meet your end in the forest, among the trees, but not like this.

Not like this!

The shadow advances, drinking your screams.