Chained

Seven

Fear ripples through my body and I bolt up. I dash to the bathroom door and knock. "Freddie? Freddie!"

No response.

I knock more rapidly. "You gotta let me in. I know I said that you shouldn't, but I need to make sure you're okay."

Nothing.

I pound louder, but it doesn't drown out the pounding of my heart. "Okay! You don't have to let me inside. Just give me a sign that you're okay."

The silence mocks me. I set the candle down and tried to peer under the crack in the door. Nothing but darkness—no sign of the flashlight.

"Come on!" I pull myself up and knock on the door. "I'm going to get my tools, okay? Don't get scared or anything when I get this door open."

The lack of response chills me, but a stronger fear eats away at me.

My tools are upstairs.

I slowly approach the staircase, half-expecting to find the skull man lumbering down the stairs.

Only a shadowy staircase looms down at me. I take a deep breath. I'm not a child and there is no skull man.

One step up and my skin tingles at the creaking of the stairs. Ignoring the soun, I press forward until reaching the top.

Why did I have to keep the tools in our bedroom?

Each step to the bedroom feels like I am approaching my own grave. Shame chokes me at my own cowardice. If Freddie was here—if anyone was here—I might try harder to be stronger.

It's easier to be afraid when you are alone in the dark.

I press my ear against the door, a childish attempt to listen for monsters. But my bedroom is as silent as Freddie.

My anger kindles—this time the flame is directed at myself. What kind of wuss is scared of imaginary monsters? I hold onto the flickering flame of fury and push my door open.

Things are never as bad as you believe. We build things up bigger in our heads. When you are a kid, it's so easy to be scared of the monsters under the bed. You're sure that you hear them, positive that you feel the blankets rustling. But when you finally brave the glimpse under the bed, there is never anything there.

Nothing will be there.

My door swings open and my heart sinks. Broken mirror shards still cover the room. I hold up the candle, the light flickering with each shake of my hand. My shadow seems to twist on the wall and another shape appears next to me.

I whirl around and find...nothing.

There is no relief. Logic is screaming that I broke the mirror and am having some sort of psychiatric break.

But my soul is shouting that it all happened.

I push forward, unable to accept the cries of logic. As fast as possible, I set the candle down and reach under my bed. My hand brushes against the sturdy box of tools and I pull it out.

Something pulls back.

Terror—like I have never felt in my life—courses through me. All of my instincts know that I should run as fast as possible, but I tug on the toolbox, determined to get it out. A loud screeching sound pierces my ear as it slides across the floor, but I have the box.

Then something grabs my arm.

I try to rip my arm back, but sharp fingers—like daggers—dig into my flesh. It pulls me with an iron grip and I grab onto the bed, trying to prevent myself from being hauled underneath. My free hand clutches the soft sheets and tries to find purchase on something.