And Now for Something Completely Different

Back when I was in Washington, my brother Jeremy and I were talking about short stories we wanted to write but hadn't gotten around to yet. This one has been bouncing around my head for years, but I was pretty certain somebody already used the concept before. I haven't been able to find anything similar, so if you know who I'm borrowing from please tell me. If I'm not borrowing, that'd be even cooler. By the way, honest, helpful feedback is always appreciated. 

The Encounter

Alone in the darkness, the man lay awake, a cotton quilt clenched between both hands. The mattress was comfortable enough, but his back arched and his shoulder blades dug furrows in the bed. He ground his teeth, staring red-eyed at the black ceiling. Waiting for them.

They were coming. He knew it. They always came. Every night was the same. Any minute now, they’d come and he’d shake and sweat and scream for mercy. He’d shriek curses and throw things at them. But it wouldn’t matter. They’d just come back later.

Hiding from them was no good. He’d bolted the windows shut, drew the blackout curtains, and filled in every crack that led outside. He’d even piled his furniture in front of the window. But it wasn’t enough. They’d find him and force their way in, leaving him whimpering on the bed when they left. Whimpering and waiting for them to return.

He’d thought about fighting them. A good defense is a good offense - isn’t that what people said? But what could he do? His body was flimsy and weak and they were so very, very big. 

And strong. Damn, they were strong. When they came, the earth shook so hard plates fell from the cupboard and books rained from the shelf. Nothing was safe. 

The hairs prickled on his neck. It was starting now. He could feel a deep rumbling in his chest that grew more intense, until his body was vibrating on the bed. The dresser rattled a mad little dance toward the back of the room and the floorboards groaned.

Then came the light. It blasted through the windows, flashing around the room, and throwing warped shadows on the walls. It seared the man’s eyes with a blazing whiteness that left him momentarily blind. And with the light was a bellowing roar that drowned out the clattering of the furniture and the chattering of his teeth. 

The man rolled into a ball. Nothing existed but the light, the roar, and the endless rumbling. Although he couldn’t hear himself, he knew by the ache in his throat that he was screaming. They would never stop. He knew that. They would keep coming until the day he died. Through the shrieking chaos, a thought came to mind. Perhaps he could do something about that.

The man slid off the mattress, dropped to his knees, and fumbled for the bat he kept under his bed. Like everything else in the room, it was bouncing with a life of its own. He managed to snag it with two fingers and moved toward the door, teetering unsteadily.

The onslaught of light and noise continued in the living room. A little window in the front door glowed and the man made his way towards it. Stepping outside, he choked up on the bat, took a deep breath, and made a run at the thing, swinging wildly. 

It was three o’clock and Charlie was nearing the end of the line. He yawned and grabbed his mug without looking down. Sipping at the lukewarm brew, he made a face. He needed a better thermos. 

Suddenly, Charlie saw the outline of something flash in the headlight, then felt a shudder at the controls. He choked on his coffee. “What the hell?” Quickly, he pulled the break and the train ground to a stop. The conductor, Frank, tossed him a flashlight and the two went out to inspect the damage.


“Shit,” said Frank, his beam lighting on a smear of blood and flannel. “Call dispatch.  Another dumb ass trying to beat a train.”

“Looks like he’s been mashed to a pulp.” said Charlie. He rubbed his nose, thinking of the extra paper work. “What in hell was he thinking?”