Creases
By David Castlewitz
You see them out of the corner of your eye, those dark lines that materialize where dimensions overlap. They’re shapes that flash at the periphery of your vision. Sometimes you espy eyes and mouths, the suggestion of a curved claw, a hairless skinny tail, and the unspent energy of bent hind legs. Blink and they dissolve, yet plague your curiosity. Did they slip into your world from an alien dimension?
They follow you from room to room. Turn on the light and they bolt. Turn off the light and they creep onto your back, tickle your spine, loosen your bowels, and you run for the safety of the next room, and the next after that, always turning on the light, light after light, running in your own house, the house you thought kept you safe from these creatures.
They materialize as fully formed monsters if you look at them only from the corner of your eye, on the periphery of your vision, and if you don’t blink, don’t think they might be something else, don’t kid or fool yourself with other thoughts. Their tails wind about their long hind legs and they stand ready to pounce, snouts wet with spit, pointy teeth poised to rip you apart if you aren’t fast enough.
The crease is like the seam in the center of a pair of trousers that need repair. You’ve no idea how such things are fixed. No idea if you or someone else should be responsible for mending what’s broken, this chasm that’s wide enough for monsters to slip through.
If they’ve come to haunt, they’ve succeeded. You admit it. You tell them, they’ve frightened you, so now they can laugh and go home, satisfied that they’ve achieved their mission. All the while, you gather the courage to stalk them, to find where they scurry when the lights come on, whence they peek at you when you’re not looking. You carry a hot iron, thinking that might mend the rip, seal the tear, and secure the broken crease that spews the monsters.
No one knows what you mean when you speak of the clawed beings lurking where they can’t be seen, darting for safety when you see them. No one understands. They smile, touch you on the hand, the wrist, the arm, and tell you to rest. They warn against drinking too many cocktails with friends, too many liter bottles of wine when alone with your demons. Refrain from that shot of whiskey in your morning coffee, they advise; don’t have a vodka-and-orange juice helper to start each day.
Friends show concern. Until your talk of creases annoys them and they stop being kind with their words, their good wishes, their touching and their gentle urging about your health. Soon, they tell you you’re wrong. And they’re angry when they say it. You’re very wrong, they tell you; and, after hearing that so often, you begin to wonder if there are no monsters, none at all.
Something else? Perhaps, they‘re new friends who’ve come to be with you. Like the friends who no longer sit with you for an after-work drink, or the friends who no longer invite you out. The creatures in the creases might be the true companions you’ve always sought, even when those false friends pretended to care.
Convinced that they harbor you no ill will, that their curved claws are not meant to hurt you, that their hairless tails, though repulsive, are not poised to wrap around your throat to throttle you, convinced that what you feared for so long is not worth the weight you gave it, you leave off the lights, look into the shadows made from the head beams of passing cars on the other side of the curtained window, and let yourself draw close to the crease, to the seam that briefly parts to admit monsters from the other side.
And you, a creature on this side of the two worlds, peek into the void, step across the emptiness separating the planes, and listen with delight to the frantic screams of the people on the other side who, you know, are convinced they’ve been invaded by an ugly and demented demon.
- - -
I've enjoyed an exciting career as a software developer, but my true love is SF and Fantasy. I live in a suburb north of Chicago, listen to Country music as well as Classical, ride a bicycle, and can sometimes be a TV junkie. I've published several short stories over the years and my Kindle books can be found at: https://www.amazon.com/author/davidcastlewitz
By David Castlewitz
You see them out of the corner of your eye, those dark lines that materialize where dimensions overlap. They’re shapes that flash at the periphery of your vision. Sometimes you espy eyes and mouths, the suggestion of a curved claw, a hairless skinny tail, and the unspent energy of bent hind legs. Blink and they dissolve, yet plague your curiosity. Did they slip into your world from an alien dimension?
They follow you from room to room. Turn on the light and they bolt. Turn off the light and they creep onto your back, tickle your spine, loosen your bowels, and you run for the safety of the next room, and the next after that, always turning on the light, light after light, running in your own house, the house you thought kept you safe from these creatures.
They materialize as fully formed monsters if you look at them only from the corner of your eye, on the periphery of your vision, and if you don’t blink, don’t think they might be something else, don’t kid or fool yourself with other thoughts. Their tails wind about their long hind legs and they stand ready to pounce, snouts wet with spit, pointy teeth poised to rip you apart if you aren’t fast enough.
The crease is like the seam in the center of a pair of trousers that need repair. You’ve no idea how such things are fixed. No idea if you or someone else should be responsible for mending what’s broken, this chasm that’s wide enough for monsters to slip through.
If they’ve come to haunt, they’ve succeeded. You admit it. You tell them, they’ve frightened you, so now they can laugh and go home, satisfied that they’ve achieved their mission. All the while, you gather the courage to stalk them, to find where they scurry when the lights come on, whence they peek at you when you’re not looking. You carry a hot iron, thinking that might mend the rip, seal the tear, and secure the broken crease that spews the monsters.
No one knows what you mean when you speak of the clawed beings lurking where they can’t be seen, darting for safety when you see them. No one understands. They smile, touch you on the hand, the wrist, the arm, and tell you to rest. They warn against drinking too many cocktails with friends, too many liter bottles of wine when alone with your demons. Refrain from that shot of whiskey in your morning coffee, they advise; don’t have a vodka-and-orange juice helper to start each day.
Friends show concern. Until your talk of creases annoys them and they stop being kind with their words, their good wishes, their touching and their gentle urging about your health. Soon, they tell you you’re wrong. And they’re angry when they say it. You’re very wrong, they tell you; and, after hearing that so often, you begin to wonder if there are no monsters, none at all.
Something else? Perhaps, they‘re new friends who’ve come to be with you. Like the friends who no longer sit with you for an after-work drink, or the friends who no longer invite you out. The creatures in the creases might be the true companions you’ve always sought, even when those false friends pretended to care.
Convinced that they harbor you no ill will, that their curved claws are not meant to hurt you, that their hairless tails, though repulsive, are not poised to wrap around your throat to throttle you, convinced that what you feared for so long is not worth the weight you gave it, you leave off the lights, look into the shadows made from the head beams of passing cars on the other side of the curtained window, and let yourself draw close to the crease, to the seam that briefly parts to admit monsters from the other side.
And you, a creature on this side of the two worlds, peek into the void, step across the emptiness separating the planes, and listen with delight to the frantic screams of the people on the other side who, you know, are convinced they’ve been invaded by an ugly and demented demon.
- - -
I've enjoyed an exciting career as a software developer, but my true love is SF and Fantasy. I live in a suburb north of Chicago, listen to Country music as well as Classical, ride a bicycle, and can sometimes be a TV junkie. I've published several short stories over the years and my Kindle books can be found at: https://www.amazon.com/author/davidcastlewitz
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