The Gloaming

There’s freedom in darkness—and in that darkness comes silence. But with silence come the voices, whether they be feather-light kisses or the lullabies of a scorned lover. Silence is lonely, but I’ve never felt alone, not even when I took my first steps off the small porch of my home in Louisiana.

Darkness fell—and all hell broke loose.

Mama always said to be inside before twilight; the streetlights were a sure sign. That steady cadence like war drums echoed through the air. Whispers from the wilds over on Wonderland and Peach Street could be heard from miles away. Every story has two parts. I learned that the hard way. Still, I didn’t truly absorb the lesson until it was too late. Or so it seemed...

I guess I’ll start with my side—the one where unavoidable truths eat away at the edges of a chaotic mind, passionless and stagnated. I lie awake most nights, restless and aching. Not physically. Mentally. A labyrinth of tears. Of grief. Bitter death on the tongue.

The hour was 7:19.

The shadow passed. The joke, unheard of. The usurper was caught clothed in white lilies, born of a sheep’s demise on Elm Street. Irrefutable evidence. A love gone sour.

I’m sorry for everything—and not enough. Feel better, and so will this nightmare pass.

Is this what the night owl does? Watch and listen?

Barn owls are silent predators. All pale-skinned and lanky. Yet, majestically beautiful. Maybe that’s why I went out that night—the moment of my untimely demise. Or, should I say, the moment I was truly reborn.

A few hours before midnight.

“Clementine, oh my sweet Clementine. Jeweled dagger of a senseless feud. Lamented frailty of compassion. Intolerable kindness.”

Justin thought of himself as a poet. Said the hobby was good for his career. I often wondered what I ever saw in him—just muscle. The subtle kind. No brains. I guess I found him tolerable because my mother liked him. Now that I think about it, she could have him. He was a self-involved, narcissistic douchebag.

“Justin, what are you doing here? You know it’s dangerous to be out this close to nightfall.”

My voice came out sharp—defensive. Appropriate, considering I knew exactly why he was there. To “win me back.” He’d made that promise months ago. Justin had needs, and he told me I wasn’t fulfilling them. So his actions were justified, he said. I wasn’t showing any “proper southern hospitality.” I tuned him out after that. Real charmer, huh? (Note the sarcasm.)

I noticed Father’s shotgun on the table, collecting dust and cobwebs. He’d been gone for years, but Mama never found the will to move it. She’d always said, “You see that? That’s special to him. Passed down from his father. He wouldn’t just leave it. He had to be taken. He’ll be back—I know it. He’s the type to return.”

The wilds didn’t take him. He was a drunk with a heavy addiction, probably rotting in some ditch—at least, that’s what Grandma always said.

The memory left a bitter taste in my mouth, slowly overridden by Justin’s irritating voice.

That’s when I got the idea. It wasn’t reasonable. But my temper had never been reasonable. I picked up my father’s shotgun. I was done. Tired of Justin’s harassment—because that’s what it was. Every day that week, like clockwork. I was angry. Hackles raised. A lioness asserting her dominance.

I wasn’t going to listen to him blame me for his cheating anymore.

This was it. The moment everything changed.

I still remember the barn owl watching. Its glassy eyes almost... pitying. Maybe it knew before I did—that black stain on my soul. Or maybe the absence of one.

My first mistake? Stepping off Mama’s porch.

My toes met the cold, wet earth—murky with the unresolved tension of days before. I recoiled, not realizing we were already being watched. The time for dangerous things had arrived.

I lifted my father’s shotgun. My palms were sweaty, but my trigger finger was steady. I echoed my father’s voice: “When you pick up a gun, be ready to shoot.”

The wind howled. Trees withered in quiet indifference. Then came the war drums—and the thrum of my heartbeat. A distant memory of life.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—Clem, put the gun down. We can talk about this.”

Justin’s use of my nickname only pissed me off more.

Then... silence. Crickets halted their late-night song. A sudden stillness, like the earth itself was holding its breath. My nerve endings screamed: Get out. Now.

The air grew thick with desolation. A sinister energy rippled through the ground.

Then, it happened.

Justin’s body hit the ground with a sickening thud. His heart—torn from his chest—still beat, as if begging for forgiveness.

I couldn’t scream. Nothing came out.

And then I saw it.

Its glowing yellow eyes. Its distorted, mangled body. Twisted by half-truths. Soulless. Emotionless.

I stumbled, vision blurring, scrambling back toward the porch.

I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t she use the shotgun?

It was empty. Just like I felt. I never intended to hurt Justin. Just scare him.

I saw the ground before I hit it. It welcomed the impact. The creature was on me—agile limbs tearing into me. Marking me. A promise:

Death. Because that’s the only way this ends.

It grew tired.

Darkness consumed me.

I awoke in a clean, sterile room. Bound. Bruised.

A woman walked in—her heels echoing like the last of Justin’s screams.

Her lab coat: white. Pure. Everything I wasn’t.

She introduced herself as Stefani. Her voice trembled. Her manicured hands shook—a symbol of her cleanliness.

I asked her what happened.

She told me I killed someone. Said I’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia and PTSD.

She didn’t have to tell me who I killed.

Flashes still come. Justin’s face. My bloody hands. Screams. Darkness.

There’s calmness in darkness. Freedom, too. Maybe it is, as they say, the calm before the storm.

Some said the stress caused my breakdown. The depression. The bloodline.

I hear whispers now and then:

“You know her father was sick. His father too. And his before him. Poor thing. It was bound to happen—taken in and swaddled in disease. Mental illness. You know it’s dangerous at night. That’s when the mind wanders. And the wilds come too.”

I remember now—Justin and I were engaged. Expecting our first child.

I place my palm on my belly.

I only hope the wilds don’t take her too.

I look at the mirror across from my bed. It's dirty—with deceit. With lies from that night.

Glowing eyes. A sinister smirk in the reflection.

I look away.

If only I had the strength to do what my father did before me.

I think back to that shotgun.

If only.

I feel a flutter in my abdomen. Strong. Daring.

Tears stream down my cheeks—anguish and apology.

She’s strong, like her father.

We were going to name her Anna.