Trembling With Fear 01/03/20

Image by Beth Godfrey.

Nightmare After Midnight by Steven Deighan

The first time I saw them–those bony, pale limbs that dangled from the top bunk–I knew they couldn’t have been real. 

I mean, how could they have been?

#

Leukemia can be a cold, indiscriminate killer. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia–now that’s a mouthful for most people, but even more so for my younger brother, Steven, who was eight. 

“Do you think I’ll ever get used to saying it?” Steven asked me occasionally from his hospital bed; woefully, most days.

At twelve, I was more aware of the condition than young Steven was. I had to keep positive–we all did. Mum and Dad, our grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins.

“Course!” I said back. “You’ll be saying it in your sleep soon!”

The hospital visits were manic, but Steven rarely needed overnight or lengthy stays in. Though we preferred most days that he remain in bed or, at least to stay relaxed at home, Steven took to being just as energetic as most other boys that age. But the signs and symptoms eventually surfaced. Those were early signs that we saw but didn’t quite register despite all the literature we had been handed and verbally fed by clinicians, because it was tough trying to work out just what was common with his illness, and what wasn’t.

One night, Steven was up on the top bunk–my bed space, usually–whilst I lay on the bottom. We were each laying on our left side, such was the position of the bunkbeds and the TV that was screwed to the wall. Though it was not my cup of tea at that age, Steven preferred to watch spooky YouTube videos–or listen to them: short, narrated audio tales. Serial killers, skinwalkers, missing people–it freaked me out a bit, but to him I think it helped make sense of the unfair world he was cast into. You know; why terrible things happen to good people, and all that. To me, there wasn’t much sense to be made from it, even more so with these horrific situations some unfortunate folk find themselves in. I doubted many of these stories were real, but they did seem to serve some purpose, I concluded: they were warnings.

“Can you turn it up a bit?” Steven asked, drowsily.

“Sure,” I said.

I found the remote control and thumbed the volume up a few digital notches.

“Did you like that last one?” 

“The one with the blood-covered cash machine?” I replied.

“Yeah! I’d just keep the money under my bed.”

“Our bed!” I said, lightly punching the mattress through the slats above.

I usually had sleepovers at friends’ houses come weekends. It was nothing personal–I had grown out of that young age Steven was in the middle of, and since I’d not long started high school my interests in computer games and video apps had waned. Up on our bedroom walls sat shelves filled with sports trophies–all in my name. I was an active teen.

I could hear him rolling in his bed; he was agitated; seeking ways to get comfortable before falling asleep.

“I don’t mind,” I said.

There was no answer. I was about to repeat myself when I heard him starting to snore. He had found that sweet spot that would give him a few hours’ rest.

I don’t mind, I thought myself to sleep.

#

I woke up a few hours later; the YouTube videos had either finished, or the internet crashed, for the screen was stuck on a horror graphic too eerie to look twice at. 

As I felt around the covers for the remote to turn off the TV, something caught my eye. It appeared Steven was sitting up in the bed above, as his legs were hanging over, almost touching the top ladder-rungs.

“Steven?” I whispered. “You okay?”

No answer. Perhaps he had got up and conked back out. I tried whispering out again a little louder, but got nothing. I didn’t fancy him sleepwalking down the ladder.

I was more awake by now; the black and red of the TV graphic was more visible and shocking, and the stationary legs with matching wrestling socks was enough to get my blood pumping in anxiety.

I sat up and was about to lean forward and playfully push the legs when I heard a voice above and behind me:

“What’s up?”

It was Steven. He was leaning over the side looking down at me, despite his legs being three or four foot down the bed. Impossible–unless you were David Copperfield splitting yourself in half in one of his many crazy illusions.

“I thought you were coming off the bed,” I started. “I saw your legs down there and I–”

When I turned to point to the limbs, they were gone.

“I woke up when you called on me. I’ve been lying here, facing the wall.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Just go back to sleep.”

That, we both did.

#

In the early hours of one morning the following week, we had to rush Steven to hospital for what would be the last time. I had lain under the top bunk earlier that night, having my last conversation with my younger brother.

“How are you feeling tonight?”

I heard him rolling about again. His energy had drained to near zero. 

“I feel like I’ve been hit by five or six trucks!”

“Really?!” I said. “That’s pretty exact! Well, you sound good!”

“Can you put one of the videos on?” he asked, draping his hand over with the remote.

It was a shame, but he must have been really tired to be unable to work the remote. I took it from him and opened the YouTube app on our TV. I quickly found the stories he liked–some ran into hours’ worth of narration–and clicked play. The monotonous voice of an adult male began the audio chills, whilst I only had a few hours to wait for my own visual scare.

#

The rain tapping at the window woke me, and to add to my distress the horror stories continued to drone on from the TV. I was sure some of the tales had filtered uninvitedly into my dreams, such was their impetus and ability to shock.

It was just after 3am. I could hear Steven snoring again; nothing like he would be in a few hours’ time, gasping for air and turning pale and deathly. My little brother.

I thumbed the mute button on the remote; suddenly, without sound the whole room came alive with only the illumination from the TV: I could see all our toys and drawer sets, casting meagre shadows across the floor and walls that both grew and shrunk in size from the TV light. The rain on the glass made it sound like there were thousands of tiny creatures attempting to break in, like maddened insects flying blindly into the pane. 

I swivelled my legs out the side and got into a sitting crouch, so my head didn’t connect with the top bunk.

I felt something bump against my right shoulder. When I turned to see, that something was actually ‘they’, and they were pale.

I felt my stomach drop. I jumped up in fright, almost banging my head on the top bunk then. When I stood up fully, I could see that Steven was still up there, sound asleep and facing the wall.

When I looked by the ladders, I noticed those legs had vanished.

In less than 24hrs, my brother did, too.

#

The heart of our family was torn out mid-August, just days before Steven and I were due to restart school.

When we should have been having fun picking our new school clothes and school bags and extra-curricular sports kits, we ended up having to look up funeral attire and its subsequent furnishings. I clearly remember that time, my parents and I walking through the funeral office, reading booklets with the choicest selection of burials and cremation services. My parents chose a nice, basic-looking burial; something sweetly simple that even now, twenty years later, it still looks decent. My wife and I top it up with fresh flowers every time we visit the gravesite, and Steven’s niece and nephew assist with the maintenance of the ground around it. 

I wouldn’t have them growing up not knowing who that little boy was.

#

The very last time I saw them–those bony limbs dangling over the top bunk–I knew they were not real. 

How could they have been? Steven had been dead for over a month…