My Jotter

Idea for Horror Novel

Tanya shivered under her bed covers for the third night in a row. Her fists clutched the white linen so tightly that her arms shook, but she had to be sure that the thing that was out there, watching her, couldn’t whip the sheet away from her and leave her exposed and vulnerable. Of course, the logic told her that a sheet and a thin blanket would offer no protection at all should the thing decide to attack, but logic had long since vanished, pushed into the dark recesses of her mind as the reptilian, primal, survival-driven area of the brain took over. Millions of years of evolution kicked in as she felt the intensity of a predator’s eyes boring into her. She was the prey and her body’s chemistry was reacting according; adrenaline flooded her bloodstream; ready to supply her with a burst of energy should she decide to make a run for it. But if she ran, she’d have to run past the figure standing inside her bedroom and, moreover, she’d have to fully acknowledge that it was real and not a result of her condition.

She slowly curled her feet up and began to move her legs farther up the mattress, forming a tight ball of her body and, more importantly, moving her feet away from the end of the bed where she was sure the figure was standing. Her breathing was shallow and fast and— she found as she attempted to listen for any signs of movement— loud and uncontrollable, as her lungs reacted to the barrage of hormones and endorphins coursing through her veins.

Her brain. That was the real problem here. She knew it. She may have schizophrenia, but she wasn’t an idiot. She understood that her brain was playing tricks on her; manipulating her senses; toying with her visual cortex in order to fabricate a hallucination, which, in turn, elicited a fear response. She knew all that. Her psychiatrist had explained it all to her long ago when she’d first been diagnosed, but right here and now, none of the medical science was reassuring.

And that’s when she heard it. The breathing. Not her own this time; from the other side of the covers — from out there. The figure was breathing and it was a slow, deep, rhythmical breathing quite different from her own jagged shallow breath. This was new. The previous two nights there had been no sounds, just the visual hallucination — that dark, sinister figure looming at the end of her bed; its red eyes blazing in its otherwise featureless head. It didn’t move, just stood there watching, peering into her being, daring her to make a move. But the only move she made was to duck underneath the bedclothes and quiver, hoping with all her might for the thing to go away.

The night before it had taken two hours for the visitor to leave; the first night closer to one hour. She knew when it left because the atmosphere in the room changed quickly and without warning. It was as if a dirty, static interference cleared in an instant and she felt a weight lifted from her body and realised that her lungs had been crushed under some mysterious force to the point where her ribs ached the next morning.

But the visitor hadn’t left yet. It had only just arrived and Tanya knew she could be in for a long wait. There was no chance of her falling asleep while it was still out there. Tonight she’d had the foresight to keep her phone under the covers and she hit the power button with a trembling index finger. The screen sprang to life; its light ten times brighter than she remembered it ever being before. She held her breath, hoping that the light would not cause the figure to react. She listened closely. An owl hooted outside her half-opened window and her heart raced even faster. As she pulled her knees right up into her belly, the springs of her mattress creaked and groaned and for a split second she was convinced she’d heard the voice of her nocturnal stalker.

Only a month earlier, Tanya’s doctor had suggested they reduce the dosage of her antipsychotic drugs and she had welcomed the idea at the time. The pills made her drowsy and constipated and she’d gained ten pounds in the past twelve months despite having joined a gym. She joked to her friends that she lost ten pounds in membership fees each month, but had gained the ten pounds back in weight. Exercise was supposed to be good for mental health issues, she’d read several articles about it. She wished the authors of those articles were with her now; could see how those endless hours on the treadmill had done nothing to ameliorate her symptoms and how they had, in fact, worsened. She’d rather be fat and downing cream cakes every night than go through this living hell each time she tried to sleep.

Creak. What was that? The springs again? Couldn’t have been, she hadn’t moved a muscle. She held her breath and listened closely. Creak. Oh shit. The floorboards. It was something moving inside her room, making the floorboards creak, she was convinced of it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her muscles tightened even further, something which she’d been sure only moments early was impossible. She contemplated leaping out of bed, blanket over her head and making a run for the front door. But then what? Was she really going to run outside at night with her bedclothes over her head? She already had a reputation in the neighbourhood as the local nutcase who could be heard screaming inside her house from time to time and whose husband left her because, the rumours had it, she tried to stab him while he slept.

The phone. She slid her thumb across the screen to unlock it and opened her contact list, all the while straining to hear the goings on in the world on the other side of her woefully inadequate barrier. It was two in the morning. Who was she going to call at this time to say that something was in her bedroom? Everyone knew about her condition and nobody would thank her when they turned up to find they’d been dragged out of bed by a figment of her dysfunctional imagination. Similarly for the police. How could she call the police knowing full well that the intruder was only in her mind? Her sixty-three year old mother had no sympathy for her plight, convinced that her mental health issues were the result of her rejecting her faith as a teenager.

Creak. An ambulance it was then. She carefully dialled 999 and each ring felt amplified and triggered a cringe reaction. 

Hello. Operator. Which emergency service do you require?

Her voice caught in her throat and strangled the word. “Ambulance.”

Is the ambulance for you, madam?

“Yes. For me. Be quick, please.” Her voice was shaking and she felt the air beneath the sheet become colder as she heard another creak and this time it sounded as if it came from right beside her bed.

And what is the emergency? 

“I’m having… oh God.”

Madam? 

Tanya felt the cold pressure of an icy hand on the side of her head. Even through the covers it was unmistakably a large hand. It cupped itself around the side of her face and then moved slowly up and down as if it were petting a cat. Terror stole her voice.

Madam? Are you still there? We have your address and an ambulance is on its way. I’m going to stay on the line, if you can still hear me.

One sharp tug was all it took for the covers to be pulled away from over her and Tanya looked up in horror and into the burning red eyes of her assailant. 

www.martincosgrove.com

Books by Martin Cosgrove:

The Destiny of Ethan King

K A R A

Pembleton, PhD