Quarantine Nightmare

They say with age comes wisdom. I'm not too sure about that anymore. I'm nearly eighty, and I have learned one of the most important lessons of my long life. The lesson was to be careful what you wish for because it might not be what you want. The nightmare that comes along with it may be more than you can ever bear.

Since my wife passed, I pushed everyone away. I didn't need anyone feeling sorry for me. I just wanted to live out the rest of my life, my way and alone. Then six months ago, I had a mild stroke, which put a damper on my hermit lifestyle.

The stroke brought an impairment to the left side of my body, and the people at the V.A. hospital had to set me up with a visiting nurse. The three visits a week seemed to be three times too many. She was a cute, bubbly thing, and I hated her. Well, not her, just the intrusion she brought into my life. The wheelchair, walker, and power lift recliner they thrust upon me also led to my utter bitterness. I will admit that after the stroke, I became a real asshole. I made sure that as long as I was miserable, everyone around me would be too.

Before long, I had become the mean old S.O.B. from apartment 4A, and I liked it. People now avoided me. If it wasn't for the nurse popping in for her tri-weekly checkups, I was left alone. Except for the damn stroke, life was almost the way I wanted it.

The next thing you know, the COVID 19 outbreak hit the States hard. All the big cities shut down and mine along with it. I never thought much about it until I got a call from my nurse. She told me that the mandated quarantine meant she would have to do phone check-ins instead of in person. I've got to say; I liked what I was hearing. I thought this new quarantine life suited me just fine.

Three weeks into what I thought a beautiful life of isolation, my nightmare struck. I just got off the phone with my nurse when my rude neighbor started blaring his music again. Like a sick game, I swear he did it to make me have to walk over and bang on the shared kitchen wall. At least two to three times a day, he will crank it up, I‘d pound on the wall, and he will then turn it down. After giving the wall a good bang, I headed back to my living room and my comfortable chair for a little Jeopardy on the television. When I hit the floor, I knew I was in serious trouble.

My weak left leg gave out, and I fell hard. On the way down, I struck my head on the side table. Instantly I saw stars, then felt the blood. I laid there for a moment and mentally assessed my condition. I remember, at that point, chuckling to myself because I had watched the commercial with the woman who had fallen and couldn't get up just that morning. How ironic.

I tried to get up and failed. Then I tried again, one, two, and three more times. I couldn't understand why it wasn't working. That was when I noticed my left arm wasn't moving. I'd had another stroke. The gash in my head started throbbing harder and harder as the panic swept in.

I needed to take control of the situation. I told myself that if I could survive a year in Vietnam, I could get myself off this floor. The first thing I needed to do was roll over onto my back. I then firmly planted my right hand on the floor and pushed as hard as possible. With what little grip I could get with my slipper-covered foot, I was finally able to get over. Then I blacked out.

When I opened my eyes again, it took a moment to orient myself to where I was. I lifted my head a little to look around, and the pain from the wound on my forehead made the room spin. The time on the microwave clock read 9:20. I had been out for over two hours. The room was dark since I never got a chance to turn on any lights. The only lumination I was getting was from the yellowing streetlight seeping in through the front window and the green glow of the microwave clock.

I spent the next few minutes figuring out just how limited I was. With my left leg and arm out of commission, I didn't have enough strength to move my body across the carpeted floor. Every time I tried to sit up, I would get so dizzy and nearly lose conciseness. The same thing happened when I tried yelling out for help. I was truly screwed.

After a while, I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes, the clock read a little after 3 am. A noise had woken me. I held my breath for a moment and listened hard but heard nothing. Maybe it was just the wind outside. I looked around the apartment slowly to avoid getting my head aching again. When I gazed upon the hallway that led back to my bedroom, I paused. I thought I saw something move. Gingerly I called out, asking if someone was there. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. But still, I couldn't look away.

The next time I woke, the apartment was lit by daylight. Rock music was pouring through the wall in the kitchen. Its beat was keeping pace with the pounding in my head. The growling in my stomach and the sandpaper texture on my tongue worried me. I haven't eaten or drank anything in over fourteen hours.

After about thirty minutes or so, the music stopped. I remember muttering that it was about time. Knowing it would hurt, I took a deep breath and tried to call out. I was hoping my neighbor would hear. My dry throat wouldn't let much sound out. Just as I took in another big breath to try again, I swear someone whispered my name. I asked if there was anyone there while looking around. Nothing! I told myself then to keep it together.

A couple of miserable hours later, I found myself staring at my walker. It was sitting about four feet away from my outstretched hand. If I could reach it, maybe I could get myself back up. When I tried to push my body forward with my one strong arm and leg, the strain put too much pressure on my head. I had to stop, or else I would pass out.

I then got the idea that if I could roll over once, I could do it again. It would put me a little closer to the walker. Just as I was about to try, I heard someone whisper, "give up." There was no mistaking it that time. Once again, I called out, asking who was there. The reply of "Me!" sent shivers down my spine. The voice came from the hallway leading to my bedroom—the same place I saw something move the night before.

I asked this intruder to show himself, and I got no answer. Over the next few minutes, I repeatedly tried and failed to make contact. I then gave up. I figured I must be losing my mind. I have been on the floor for almost twenty-four hours, dehydrated and suffering from a concussion.

Despite using my better judgment, I tried to roll over as planned. I got about halfway there when the neighbor started up his music. Then the dizziness hit, and I blacked out again.

When I opened my eyes this time, It was nearly 4:00 am. My mouth was so dry that when I yawned, my lip split open, making me cry out in pain. Behind me, I heard someone laugh. I looked towards the hallway and the source of my mocker. This time, standing in the middle of the opening, was a large shadow in the shape of a man. What little bit of light there was couldn't penetrate its darkness. I then cried out in shock and told the shadow figure it wasn't real. He just laughed again. I squeezed my eyes shut. Doing this had reminded me of my childhood and the fear of the dark that came with it. All I needed now was a blanket to pull over my head.

It is not the first time I have seen these shadow people. I recalled during an intense firefight in Nam, seeing shadow people milling around the battlefield. And again, I saw shadow people in the M.A.S.H. unit where I received treatment on wounds sustained in that same battle. When I informed my superiors of what I witnessed, they accused me of bucking for a section eight. I learned right away to keep these sightings to myself.

Throughout the rest of my lifetime, I continued seeing these shadow people. I researched them and read that shadow people would come and claim the souls of the dying in some cultures and religions. It wasn't hard to believe this because whenever I saw the shadow people, the dead or dying were close at hand. Somehow I was cursed with the ability to witness them.

When I finally worked up enough courage to open my eyes again, the shadow was gone. I repeatedly told myself to keep it together. I just needed to stick to my plan and reach the walker. When I turned to gauge the short distance required to achieve it, all hope drained my body. The worse fear I have ever had felt flooded over me. My walker now layed up against the wall on the opposite side of the room. It looked like someone threw it there. Standing a few feet from it was two shadow men. My eyes squeezed closed again.

Rock music and sunlight woke me from a dreamless sleep. The clock read 10:46. I tried to calculate how long I had been lying here, but the music and my throbbing temples made it impossible to think. I looked over, and the walker was still lying by the far wall. It wasn't a dream what happened last night. It was a nightmare. After a bit, the music stopped. A moment later, I heard the neighbor pound on my kitchen wall. I then muttered, "Sorry, I can't play your stupid game today; I'm too busy dying here." The disembodied laughter that followed didn't surprise me this time.

I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker. My thirst was immense, and I found it hard to stay awake. It was a struggle not to believe that here on this floor was where it was all going to end. The anger this time set in when I heard laughter. I just knew the appearance of the shadow people last night was not bolding well for me. I demanded the intruders to get out of my home. The laughing stopped. I laid there in silence for the next hour, trying not to fall asleep. I was afraid if I did, I might not wake back up. Soon enough, I lost that battle and drifted off.

When I woke up to the sound of music playing, I smiled at knowing I was still alive. It was getting hard to focus on the microwave clock, but I could make out the time of 7:38. By the light in the room, I knew it was evening. When the music stopped, I wondered how long it had been playing before I had woken. Looking around the room, I didn't see any signs of my unwanted guess. Maybe they went away, I thought, but I knew I wasn't going to be that lucky.

I kept pinching my leg to keep me from falling asleep, but I again drifted off. This time when I opened my eyes, the apartment was dark. When I looked over at the clock, the numbers were too blurry to make out. "You're there, aren't you?" I asked. I wasn’t surprised again when I heard a quiet "yes." I could then make out the shadow men standing in my living room. This time there were five of them.

I pleaded to the shadow men to leave me alone, but one of them merely said, "no." I then asked what they wanted, and in a loud whisper, a different one replied, "You!". Even though I feared the answer, I asked what they wanted from me. All together, in one voice, the shadow men loudly replied, "TO DIE!" I started to cry then, but the dehydration would not give up any tears. "It's not my time to die, not yet!" I begged. As my consciousness started to slip away, I heard one whisper, "Soon."

When I awoke, I was afraid to open my eyes. Nothing hurt anymore, and I knew that wasn't good. I again could hear the music from next door but couldn't focus on it. When I finally did open my eyes, the light was almost too much to handle. When my vision cleared some, I was taken back by what I could see. Standing around me were over a dozen shadow men, just as black as they looked in the darkness of night. I blinked over and over, but my tormenters remained.

Many thoughts and questions ran in every direction through my mind, but only one word came out of my mouth. "When?" The secondes tick by with no reply. The music stopped then. We all just stared at one another, unmoving. The trance-like state I was in broke when my neighbor pounded on the kitchen wall, and I heard him yell out something. I was unable to grasp what was said. I wanted to call back with all my might, but I knew anything I could say would fall short.

The shadow men started to fidget like they were getting excited about something. Then one of the shadow men uttered "Now" and took a step towards me. I could only think of one more question to ask, "Why are you doing this?" Standing directly over me now, it gave its answer, "We are Death!"

I watched wide-eyed as this Reaper started to reach down with his hand to give me what I figured was the touch of death. Suddenly a bright light flashed, forcing my eyes to squeeze tightly shut. I could feel myself slipping into unconsciousness. Just before the blackness took over entirely, I heard a voice that I hadn't heard for quite some time say, "Not yet!" The words had belonged to that of my wife.

I woke up a week later in the V.A. hospital. They told me my neighbor called the fire department to check on me after my lack of responses to his loud music and poundings on the shared wall. During her daily visits to the hospital, my bubbly nurse kept reminding me how close I came to dying. The shadow people invading my nightmares told me more often than that. After a few weeks of healing and rehab, I was finally allowed to go home.

When I first got back to my apartment building, I when straight to my neighbor's door. To thank him for what he did for me, I gave him two gifts. The high-end noise-canceling headphones put a big smile on his face, and the key to my apartment put a tearful smile on mine.

At least three to four times a week, the neighbor will stop by for a game of cards or some Jeopardy on the T.V., and I even let him drive me to my rehab appointments. He is like family now, and I feel blessed to have him in my life. We will talk once in a while about those days on the floor, but I still don't mention the shadow people. I haven't seen them since then but know someday they will be back. Until that day comes, I will pray every night to my wife, thanking her for what she did for me.