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Waning

I asked my Papaw why he was still afraid of the dark. This is what he told me.

By Darby HarmonPublished 4 years ago 10 min read
2

A little town, a lot of tradition. That is the motto of my hometown, Tawnitown. My family moved from somewhere up near the town of Accident after my father committed an unforgivable offense to the minister when he showed up at the church blind drunk and feigned he was speaking in tongues in the middle of the sermon before pissing himself in front of the whole congregation. It was, of course, an accident — at least according to my father. Every time Ma would hear him tell that story to one of his buddies, she would stare at the ground as if she were trying to bore a hole straight down to hell, her jaw clenched tight so not a word against her husband might slip out. You see, Ma was a good woman, a devoted mother, and a faithful wife. She knew when to speak, and when to stay quiet, a quality that my father forcefully instilled in all of us. Whenever Ma had something to say, but knew she had better not, she clenched her jaw so tight, sometimes I feared her teeth might crumble. I always remember her with a loud pop in her jaw every time she would yawn or sing.

This all happened in the spring of '33. After the accident in Accident my father sold nearly everything he and Ma owned except for a buggy and their old horse. He bought a plot of land in the outskirts of Tawnitown, about ten or so miles east from Accident. It was less than a year after they moved that I was born.

I suppose you could say this town and I have grown up together. In the early days, there was nothing but forests and hills for miles on end. Over the years, as I have grown, so has the town. The older she and I become, the less and less we can move about as freely as we would like. In the early days, we’d have to travel about five miles to get to the nearest grocer. Nowadays, you can be at a Harps Food Store in three minutes or less no matter where you’re leaving from. I suppose its for the better ‘cause my old bones can hardly carry me across the yard now anyway.

I miss the old days, when God’s green earth was greater than man’s, and the natural world was the best teacher and grandest source of entertainment for kids. When Carl wasn’t busy helping our father with the house or the land, he and I would explore the hills and trees, splash around in the creeks, and harass the squirrels with the slingshot he fashioned for me on my eighth birthday. As a young’un, I was rather fearless, and I had good aim. I could usually hit just about any target. Carl always pretended to be sore when I would hit all the tin cans before he had a chance, but now I think he was just putting on a show for me. I think he preferred just to watch me practice. He was a good big brother like that, and I admired him endlessly.

During the full moon, Carl and I would sneak out of the house to climb to the biggest hill and just look out into the night sky. I wasn’t afraid of the dark back then. I had this habit, or, I suppose, tradition of blowing a kiss up to the moon. I believed that was where God lived. You see, my father would never allow us to step foot in a church after Accident, but Ma made sure we knew the Bible. I loved listening to the passages and singing the hymns. As I listened to my mother read, I would picture God looking down on us from his heavenly kingdom on the moon. That was where the light came from, and the stars were all his angels. I suppose that isn’t fully wrong, now is it? Who’s to say.

On those nights under the heavens, Carl would tell me fantastic stories about tents striped like candy that could fit a whole house, and gentlemen with handsome mustaches and herculean strength, and horrible creatures with the face of a beautiful woman, but the skin of a serpent. We had never been to a fair, but Carl could transport us there with his stories. That’s what I both envied and loved most about him, his endless imagination. My slingshot prowess was nothing compared to Carl’s storytelling. I would listen to him weave these terrific and terrible tales, and sink deeper and deeper into the magical world he created, finally drifting off to sleep — but not before giving my silent thanks to the moon.

I do not sleep anymore. Not peacefully at least. It’s the physician's biggest concern, but nothing he does has been able to help. I haven’t slept soundly for the majority of my life, in fact, not since the night that made Carl sick.

Nobody was able to pinpoint what he died from, but I know. Well, I don’t know what it was exactly, but I saw it. I witnessed it take hold of my brother. It was only a matter of days after the event before he slowly, pathetically withered away, like larkspur laid upon a grave.

. . .

It was a dark night. The waning moon was, for the most part, hidden behind the clouds. There had been rainfall most of the week, night and day. Carl and I had been condemned to stay in the house helping Ma with chores as she was suffering from one of her headaches for most of the day. Normally after supper, she would read us a Bible passage, but on that particular night, our father sent us up to our room so she could have some peace.

The room we shared was hardly a room, it was barely larger than a closet, with two tiny cots crammed into opposing corners. My cot was against an empty, dark wall, and Carl, being the oldest, was situated next to the tiny window. It was particularly warm that night. I remember being resentful of Carl. On nights like that, a light breeze was a luxury not to be taken for granted. Thou shalt not covet. Normally I would stay up as late as I could muster to hear my brother tell his tall tales, but that particular night, I was not having it for his games or stories. We went to sleep earlier than usual that night, without even so much as a prayer.

It must have been somewhere close to midnight, maybe even later, when I woke up to some kind of commotion. At first I thought it was our father at the door, but as I stared into the darkness, I realized the sound was coming from over near the coveted window. I thought perhaps a raccoon was trying to find his way into the house. I was about to get out of bed to scare the critter off when I saw the long fingers - rawboned and wretched. My blood ran cold. It’s figure was angular and gaunt, fragile and terrible. Slowly and painfully, the thing heaved itself in through the window frame then collapsed onto the floor.

I don’t know how long I lay cowering in my covers, straining to hear its ragged breath. I thought I must be dreaming. Then, the demon began to crawl; it’s skeletal joints rattling across the creaking floor. Every motion was torment wrought upon the thing. The agony of every moment radiated through the darkness. It's anguish pierced even the deepest corners of my being. I couldn't make out anything, save for it's massive, menacing smile. It writhed inch by inch across the wooden slats, finally stopping under my brother’s cot.

Suddenly, I was entombed in silence, as if someone had turned off all sound. There was no signs of sleep, no soft stirring, none of the odious rasp of the specter. Surely this had all been some kind of nightmare, one that I hadn’t even realized I had woken from. Certainly it was over.

Just as I breathed a sigh of relief, Carl, who had been asleep through the entire ordeal, began to stir. Gently at first, his head softly tossing back and forth. Then, what sounded like a muffled gag. He was choking. I wanted to scream for help. My mouth gaped wide, but no sound escaped my lungs. It felt as though I couldn’t breathe. Nothing in heaven or earth could help my brother, not even me.

Suddenly, Carl’s body went limp. He died, I was certain of it. The pressure on my chest was impossible. The grip of grief upon my throat immense.

Then, to my horror, his body bolted back to life. Rigid. Excruciating. His pain was exquisite. I could feel it. It radiated off of him like heat.

His lower half remained flat and straight, but his back was contorted, his neck distorted, pressing his head deep into the padding of the cot. Totally rigid. From his mouth rose a sickening sound. Something between a moan and a scream. It was hollow, and yet something beyond pain. I couldn’t bear to see his agony. I looked toward the window, searching desperately for the moon. But it wasn’t there. We had been forsaken. God was not watching that night. All I could do was plead to the dark, cloudy sky, and listen to the death rattle from my brother’s bed.

Then, there was nothing.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was beginning it’s ascent, painting the sky a vivid pink and flaming orange. My bedsheets were soaked with urine, my skin was sticky with sweat, and Carl was there softly snoring in his bed.

At the breakfast table, it was as if nothing had happened. Carl and our father discussed what chores needed to be done. Apparently the storm from that night had wreaked havoc on the chicken coop. I didn’t have much of an appetite, and neither did Ma, who was sitting at the table with her jaw as tense as I’d ever seen. Looking at her, my father snarled, “What is it, Alma. Spit it out.”

“I just,” she took a deep, long breath. “I just need to know which of you boys thought it would be funny to act like a damned animal, crawling around, making that god-forsaken ruckus all night long.”

. . .

It wasn’t more than a month after that night that my big brother, my hero, Carl, took his final breath. His body began to deteriorate in a matter of weeks. His skin turned yellow, he couldn’t eat, he could hardly keep water down without his stomach rejecting it, retching up blood and bile. I watched my strong, vibrant brother grow weary and gaunt, like the creature I saw that night.

Shortly after Carl died, Ma went too. A broken heart is my best guess. The house felt empty after her death, like a rose bush absent of bud or bloom. All that seemed to be left were the thorns. My father started going back to church after Ma passed. He, by the grace of God, somehow lived to see his 97th birthday. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a wholly changed man. He still reeked of liquor up until his final moment. Towards the end, he would get confused. On more than one occasion, I would find him talking to Carl, pleading with him to get out from under his bed.

As for me, I left my family's home when I was sixteen. I managed to move a couple of miles down the road, and Tawnitown grew up around me. I met the love of my life, had some children, and their children had children of their own, and I love each and everyone of them fiercely. I suppose you could say I’ve made a good life for myself, which I am quite proud of. Even still, that night changed me - for better or for worse, I do not know. Ever since, I have struggled with sleep. It’s worst on cloudy, moonless nights.

Much like sleepy little Tawnitown, tradition is about the only thing that keeps me sane and safe. I do not, nor will I ever know what summoned that unholy creature that night, but I cannot take any chances. Every night, I pray, I make sure every window is closed, and whenever I can see it, I give gratitude to the moon.

supernatural
2

About the Creator

Darby Harmon

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