Bump in the Night: Part 1

     Once in a while while we are drifting off to sleep it will happen. A loud bang of sorts, or what we swear was a scream or some other form of agony. The things that go bump in the night. That is what people call them. But it is not the things that go bump in the night that we should fear. We should fear what does not want to make itself known. We should fear what wants to remain unseen until it has decided otherwise. Bump in the Night will be a series of several short stories based around this idea.

Hands

      He loved his wife, he would never say otherwise. But she did have her ways about her that could be quite irritating. She had a habit of leaving the dishes on a daily basis; and he believed that if she were to ever take out the trash that the dead would wake from surprise. But he loved her none the less.

He remembered when they were young how badly he wanted to share a bed with her. Not in a perverse way, he simply wanted to lie beside her every night. Now each night this wish came true, his new wish for a lager bed on the other hand did not.

     It was the previous winter that the latest habit formed. Each night she would craw into bed beside him after he had slipped into sleep for an hour or so. She would proceed to place her hands onto his fleshy sides. Cold could not describe the feeling. It was almost as if he could feel it in his ribs. Other worldly. He could not prove it but he was certain that she was plunging her hands into an ice bath each night before entering the bedroom.

     Like every other quirk she denied it. She denied this one with a little extra effort than the rest for reasons unknown. Night after night the cold would awaken him. In anger he would say nothing, show no sign of love; he would just simply roll over and continue where he had left off. Night after night the cold, and, morning after morning the denials. She would get more and more irritated with each accusation.

     Matters presented themselves to her that needed tending to, she would be away for the next few days. He would miss her dearly but looked forward to the thought of a night of peaceful rest. He accompanied her to the airport and saw her off with a hug and kiss.

     That night he entered the bed with a warm body and an empty heart. He felt the familiar burn of the icy hands again this night. Knowing that it could not be so he simply attributed it to his mind and the absence of his wife. The cold continued however, penetrating deeper and deeper into his body; his denial lessening with each dropping degree. That was the first night he heard the voice.

     He wish he hadn’t.