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The Storm

A Haunting Study of Trauma and Healing

By DJ MosherPublished 2 years ago 12 min read
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Rain. Days and days of rain.

As if that weren’t enough, the skies had faded over the course of the week from a dull and foreboding gray to a menacing black with only a few small patches of anything remotely promising of the future. With what I was going through at that time, it seemed fitting, and it suited me just fine. Since the old plant closed down, I had been spending most of my days locked away in my study, never turning on the lights or so much as opening the blinds. Of course, I would answer the door to the occasional guilt-trip checking in of neighbors, or to accept a package or meal delivery, but those interactions, even in my best of emotional states, remained little more than an automatic call and response. Not to say I don’t have any friends, and not to imply that I don’t enjoy the occasional social outing. Truly, it is hard to explain myself, and it holds little relevance to the subject at hand. What holds the most importance is the darkness to which I had become accustomed to the point of absolute comfort. In the fleeting moments where the sun peeked through the windows in spite of my heavy curtains and pulled shades, I would wear a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes. Many of my brief visitors would wonder what it was that I was working on so intently in that small room, shielded so carefully from any intrusion, both metaphorically and quite literally, and I rarely had anything substantial to tell.

“I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” I would say softly through a cracked door, “and with the plant shutting down, I really can’t think of a better time to revisit old nightmares.”

Old nightmares. I would always say it with the most sarcastic smile; the kind one wears when something is too true for their own acceptance.

And so, I sat day and night at my desk, a multi-thousand dollar, beautifully crafted thing that was constantly in stark contrast to my old and decaying apartment, and I stared. Sometimes at a computer screen, other times at a cell phone, and on my particularly artistic nights, at a notebook and pen. Nothing ever came. Not a single word. Bottles of whiskey began to litter the desk drawers and eventually the floor. Stale smoke of cigarettes and cannabis hung in the air, accentuated rather than masked by the constantly burning candles and incense.

Then the rain began.

The first two days I felt a long-awaited excitement. Surely, in this darkness I had found my refuge in, the Earth shattering storms would provide a morbid inspiration. Certainly, if I cracked the windows just enough to feel the power of the rain, thunder and lightning, soon a horror story of Poe proportions would fly from my brain to my hands, and onto the page. By day three, I realized nothing, and nobody, would be coming to me. The newscaster on my antique radio strongly urged citizens to stay inside in all but the worst of emergencies. Stores and schools shut down, with the latter coordinating with churches to provide shelter for those who had none until the storm let up, at which point the poor souls would again become the responsibility of a silent God. Though my artistic skills would receive no improvements, I learned quickly on day four that our world’s romanticizing of the dark and macabre would be quickly lost for any person unfortunate enough to live through its realities.

I live in a large building in one of twelve units, just off a small but busy street, just a small walk from several large neighborhoods. Though my own background is not important, this geographical ramble is to demonstrate just how originally unphased I was by the man outside of my window. He wasn’t particularly menacing, nor was he too close for comfort. At first glance, I thought maybe he had stopped to tie his shoe, or to get his bearings. After all, walking home in a storm of this magnitude would not be easy on the eyes or the clothing. I think, maybe subconsciously, I did start to feel his presence after a few hours. I had only noticed him because I closed the window when the wind picked up and the risk of damaging my electronics became too large of a reality. As was my habit at the time, I closed the blinds and drew the curtains immediately after. What inspired me to check again was a feeling that was entirely new to me at this period of my life. My dark comfort ever so slightly gave way to a sense of unease. A light, barely readable, but impending sense of doom. Neither a helping of my vices or a half-hot meal did anything to ease the strange feeling, so I finally turned in my chair and peaked through the curtains, hoping to draw some relief from the pitch black skies and unrelenting storm. That is when I saw him, really saw him, for the first time.

The man looked thin and tall. Just slightly too tall, I noticed. His proportions were just… wrong. He wore some kind of trench coat that almost reached his ankles, not buttoned up, but tied just around the chest. He had a slight hunch that only began where his shoulders met his neck, and water dripped so steadily from his long, tattered hair and his lanky body in a way that briefly entranced me. I still wasn’t worried at that point, and that has created in me going forward a deep sympathy for the characters we love to yell at in the movies. If only they had run out of the house instead of going looking for the ghosts, if only they had charged at the killer with a coordinated fury, they would have survived. We humans love to think that we would sense impending doom or danger, that we would be prepared to protect ourselves and our loved ones. The dark, sad truth is that we would never see it coming. And so, as I would any other night, I drifted off to sleep, with my head on the keyboard of my poor, underused laptop.

When I awoke, fully unaware of the time on the fifth day of pure darkness, I did not immediately look out the window, but I did feel a biting sense of dread. There were many excuses for a man to stand in the rain in a densely populated area. Maybe he was waiting for somebody. Maybe he was confused and did not realize he was miles from the nearest bus stop. Maybe he was an amateur storm chaser who couldn’t afford the necessary equipment, or even a simple umbrella. That part did not spark any kind of fear in me. What shook me out of my blanket of dark comfort with a dash of dread and spun me into a moment of terror was much simpler. In the darkness and rain that had persisted for almost a full week, I could not plainly see so much as a single window on the house across the street from me. Most days, save for when the lightning flashed, I couldn’t see my own mailbox. Why then, in this elemental storm, in this absolute sheet of blackness, could I so clearly make out the features of this lone man braving the storm?

With shaky hands, I drew the curtains softly. I lifted the blinds just enough to peer through and recoiled with a scream. A concerned face stared back at me, one covered in unkempt facial hair, with deep dark circles beneath the eyes and a persisting redness in what should have been the whites of the eyes themselves. His breath fogged up the glass on my side of the window. Terror made my heart pound louder than any noise I had heard in months, immediately followed by a raspy laughter. The face that struck such terror into my bones was my own reflection. As I backed away to ponder on the humor of my situation, something caught my eye. The man was still there. Was he a little closer now? It almost looked like he had stepped off of the sidewalk into the middle of the road. No, I told myself. Whatever trick of the light that was allowing me to see this man at all was clearly playing with my senses in a way that I could not quite process at that moment. If the man was there at all, I had to admit to myself. Months of isolation combined with the substances I used throughout the day could cause hallucinations, if not worse. Did I care to fix it? No, not then. But, I at least understood it. And so I settled into my chair again and took a healthy sip from a bottle of whiskey. Soon, I was asleep again.

The man gently shook my shoulder and I sat up in terror. He was still dripping water, and it pooled on an uneven spot of my wood floors. He smiled at me with uneven teeth, his matted hair obscuring much of his face. His head nearly touched my ceiling. He smelled of rain with a faint hint of gasoline. I was frozen with terror, though I did not sense that he had intent to harm me. If that were the case, I’m not sure it would have even been one of my considerations at that time. He spoke, and his voice was soft, in stark contrast to his imposing frame.

“Look at you. I know. I know, and it’s okay,” he said. His words sounded genuine, but forced, as if he had rehearsed this sentence over and over in the mirror, knowing he wanted to provide comfort and stability, but having no experience doing so. I reached instinctively for my cell phone to call the police, and that’s when I awoke with the force of a crashing train.

I was drenched in sweat and heavily panting. I turned swiftly and vomited into the trash can by my desk. It had been years since I had a nightmare, though it still didn’t feel unusual. I had been wrought with night terrors for most of my young life. I turned with a mad rush of energy and flung open the curtains, lifting the blinds as well in a motion too fluid for my grogginess and level of intoxication, and saw only a pitch black, empty street being pounded by rain. I sat there in front of the window and steadied my breath, closing my eyes and almost nodding off again. Suddenly, a loud knock sounded on my wall and the loudest, most forceful crack of thunder shook my entire building. I jumped nearly out of my skin as the power went out. Of course, the knock must have been the old bones of an old house, a prelude to the godly thunder. Now, I let true, uninterrupted darkness wash over me, and my nerves fell slowly back into their right places. Then the lighting struck.

The lightning brightened the entire world. It looked as if somebody had reminded the angels themselves that it was supposed to be morning. That’s when I saw the man again. This time, he was in my yard. He was more than close enough to see me looking out the window. The grass caught fire and a tree fell, landing just behind the man. He smiled as if to signify that he was unharmed, then slowly raised his spindly arm and waved at me. The look on his face shifted into an uneasy sympathy. To this day, I’m not sure how I knew, I’m not sure if some divine force was looking after me or if human intuition was programmed eons ago to sense the supernatural, but I knew in my very soul that if I acknowledged him, if I offered a wave back or a mumbled hello, it would be the last thing I did. At that moment, time and space slowed.

The man looked at the ground and shook his head. Slowly; so painfully, horrifyingly slowly, he walked towards my window. I felt grief and regret emanating from him. I smelled the rain and gasoline from my feverish nightmare. I thought I must be dreaming, and I pinched my skin and threw things from my desk to startle me awake. Still, he approached. In my panic, I looked down to the uneven part of my floor and saw a pool of black water. I will never be able to overstate the chills that rocked my body at that moment. I closed my eyes and begged to awaken, begged for a knock on the door from a disingenuous neighbor or friendly delivery person. I thought of my past loves, my dearly departed friends and family, my own failings and fears. And I realized with an impossible calm that my fears were so many. Then, in spite of all my begging and desperate prayers, I felt a presence, swiftly followed by a shallow breath on the back of my neck. I didn’t dare turn and face him, I couldn’t even consider speaking. He whispered to me.

“I know. I know, and it’s okay. Look at you, child. You’ve done enough. You can rest now.”

My eyes felt heavy and I slumped forward onto my desk, ready for another sleep. A deep, uninterrupted sleep that would finally heal these scars, finally repair my wounded soul and mangled body. Tears rolled freely down my cheeks, but I felt absolute peace. I was ready to rest. At the most impossible of moments, at the very end of my rope, a tiny light flashed in my office. At the far end of my desk, my phone had lit up. Despite my trance, even with all the weight of my impending doom, I recognized the name on the screen. Automatically, without a thought, I picked it up and answered. I didn’t scream or cry, and my voice came through as soft as that of the monster behind me.

“Hello,” I half whispered.

“Hey, I know it’s early. I just… I was thinking of you. I hope you’re okay.”

I paused for a long moment. I felt the man’s breath grow heavier on my neck. I felt the weight of everything at once, and then nothing at all. His hands softly moved up my back and gently closed around my neck.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m… Uh…”

He began to squeeze. My throat closed slightly and my voice sounded choked up.

“Actually, I’m… I’m sad. I’m really sad.”

The rain stopped.

The office was empty.

The sun shyly peeked through the clouds.

“I know,” my friend said softly, in a way that sounded almost rehearsed in front of the mirror.

“I know, and it’s okay.”

Horror
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About the Creator

DJ Mosher

Ex-punk, aspiring freelance writer.

Commission me here! https://www.fiverr.com/users/djmosher/seller_dashboard

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