Darkness Falls

CW: disturbing imagery.

Darkness falls, terror setting in,

shadows moving on the walls,

reaching out and reaching in,

coldness creeps around the room,

fingers slip around my heart,

gripping… seal me to my tomb.

Melli calls the kids in for the night, and without hesitation, they go to the X-box.

I’m sick of Fortnite!”

“I’m sick of Roblox!”

“I’m sick of you!”

“Kind words please,” Melli says as she circles the room, closing the blinds to shut out the darkness. She feels the familiar clutch at her chest. Don't let the darkness in. I'm already in.

She goes to the cooktop to stir the sauce and add the frozen meatballs. She can’t bear touching meat, looking at it, smelling it—the flesh of another animal—but the kids love meatballs with their spaghetti. She would pick hers out. You want to devour flesh. I don't.

She tries not to look as she dumps the bag of meatballs into the sauce. She throws away the empty bag, notices her hands feel greasy even though she didn’t touch any of the meat. She goes to the sink to wash. The water feels good. You like it. I do.

“Mom, your hands must be clean by now,” Chloe says from the couch. Melli starts. How long has she stood here washing? Her hands are red; the water is hot. You like the burn. I don’t.

She goes back to stir the meatballs into the sauce and averts her eyes from the swirling blood. It’s not real meat, she remembers. She hasn’t bought meat in months. Has she? She goes to the trash can, pulls the bag from it. It’s Impossible meat. Not flesh, not blood. You want flesh. You want blood.

“I don’t,” she whispers, catches Silas’s eyes on her. “Silas, set the table, please,” she says aloud.

“It’s Chloe’s turn.”

“Chloe, set the table, please,” Melli says.

Chloe ignores her. Melli needs to keep busy, so she pulls the dishes from the cabinet and starts setting the table herself.

“You always do it when it’s Chloe’s turn,” Silas complains.

“That’s 'cause she loves me more, loser.” Chloe is fourteen and has just started getting mean.

“That’s not true,” Melli says.

“You’re the loser,” Silas says to his sister, and Melli sighs, returns to the kitchen to check if the water is boiling for the pasta. She watches the steam rising from the pot for a moment, watches the spirit convect until it dissipates on the ceiling. Filling every inch of your home.

She breathes in and out through her nose, like she’s been taught, focuses on what she smells. Meat. Not meat. Blood. Not blood. Boiling flesh.

“No,” she says loudly, and both children look at her. “No,” She repeats. “Neither of you are losers. Use kind words, please.”

“Yeah, use kind words, loser,” Chloe says, and Silas kicks at her, but she dodges him.

Melli pretends not to see or hear. She drops the pasta into the pot, gives it a quick stir and sets the timer. It’s only a matter of time now. Only a matter of time.

She stirs the sauce again, Cauldron of flesh and blood. She quickly turns away, clutches the countertop for support, feels an icy finger run down her spine. She shivers. The house gets so cold after the sun sets. She goes to adjust the thermostat, then stands in front of the vent for a minute to wait for the air to warm her.

“When’s dinner?” Chloe asks. “I’m starving.”

“Soon,” Melli answers.

“What’s taking so long?”

“The flesh has to boil.”

“The flesh? Seriously, Mom? Why are you so gross?”

“Whoa, what are we having?” Silas tosses his controller and runs to the kitchen to peer into the pots on the stove.

“I meant . . .” What were they having? Melli can’t remember. She follows Silas to the kitchen to peer into the pots over his shoulder. Flesh and blood.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” Silas says.

Of course. The kids’ favorite.

“Ugh,” Chloe groans. “I’m so fucking sick of spaghetti and meatballs.”

“What did you just say?” Melli asks.

“I said I’m sick of spaghetti and meatballs.”

Melli looks at Silas. If his sister had just said the f-word, he would be all over it, but he’s silently gone back to the couch and his game. She must have misheard. She looks at the clock. When will Darian be home? Shouldn’t he be home by now? She goes to the window, cautiously peers out. Don’t let the darkness in. I’m already in. No. Stir the fucking pot.

She goes to stir the sauce. It’s filled with chunks of bloody flesh now. Her tongue sticks in her throat, suffocating her. She breathes through her nose, like she’s been taught, quickly looks around the room for five things.

Five things to see. The kids. One. Two. Dark shadows are creeping on the walls. Three. Four. Five. That’s not what her therapist meant, but she can’t stop watching the limbs move across the walls like trees in the wind. They don’t have any trees in their yard. She looks to the windows. The blinds are closed. Don’t let the . . . I’m already in.

Four things to touch.

The pot. No.

The flame. No.

You want the burn.

“No,” the word gurgles in her throat as she frantically looks around for four things to touch. She grasps the countertop. Granite. Hard. Cold. She slides her hand across the round, smooth sugar bowl, then her cup of tea, long since gone lukewarm. She reaches for the wooden spoon, its smooth grain a familiar balm in her hand. Four. She stirs the pot, watches the meat bleed into a curlicue.

Three. Three things to hear. The kids are fighting again . . . Silas’s voice, “You went the wrong way, stupid,” then Chloe’s “Oh yeah? Then explain this door, idiot.”

“Kind . . .” but she’s interrupted by a scratching sound, the non-existent trees scraping against the windows, spindly branches screeching like claws. Don’t let the . . . Three. That’s three.

Two. Two things to smell. She inhales the steam rising off the pots. She closes her eyes to find comfort in the warmth, but then the smell hits her - the coppery tang of blood and the malevolent stench of burning flesh.

One. Yes. One thing to taste. Yes. She pulls the spoon to her lips and opens her mouth to scream.

Melli bolts upright on the couch as twilight casts its eerie haze over the house. Her show is over, and the five-o-clock news has just come on. She shivers. The house has gone cold. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and tries not to notice the shadows moving on the walls. She goes to the door to call the kids in. They rush immediately to the X-box, and Melli circles the room to close the blinds, feels the familiar clutch at her chest. Don’t let the darkness in. I’m already in.