Bump In The Night (Part One)

The nightmares now come closer, but it matters not, for they are seen even in vision now in the daylight. It is a fleeting thing, yet, so real and surreal, the shapes and shadows and muffled sounds now becoming more defined and less a thought of insanity; no, not insanity, for I am as sane as any man-yet, I see and I know what I see, and I hear, and I too know what I hear.

Do you hear? Do you too perhaps see? Or are you afraid to see what is really there and you close your eyes to it all? Perhaps you can walk blind, but how do you close your ears to the screaming, the tortured shrill stream of agony that rolls forth of the tongue of fallen angels and ghosts and spooks and other living dead things?

I used to think that those vixen shadows of the night to be a part of that fallen host of heaven that was cast asunder and punished to walk this domain forever and again. A third of the host of heaven would, by any means, be a phenomenal lot, but it grows worse, much worse.

At one time I sincerely thought of good and evil, black and white, believers and doubters; it was clear, concise, clean. But as the years progress and the shadows deepen and the walls become alive at three AM just to taunt me and remind me I am never alone, I see shades of gray and belief combining, mixing with doubt. I believe the word would be Agnostic. I now neither believe on blind faith, not do I deny as an Atheist. But I see an area in-between, a matter of mixture, good and bad, excellence and grotesque; all the shadows combining without angels standing with swords affixed to slay the evil dragons, not the total wailing and gnashing of teeth that spring fodder for the minister.

No, no it is above all of that, and beneath, way below yet still visible, still viable. It is in this position I am now engaged and wished to hell to be frantically disengaged, but to no avail.

How I long for that childish grasp of faith, of an all-knowing, all-embracing, all-loving God; a Deity that is just standing by to answer my every whim, just a brief, enlightened believing prayer away. Or, consequently, no God, no one to talk too, to cry for help, to thank for mercy and joy and gladness.

In the middle somewhere, how can any Deity possibly hear, acknowledge and intercept 6 billion prayers sent in the reaches of the Universe? But then, if there be no Deity, if this somehow collided matter all happened by chance, then what is the possible purpose of life at all? Merely some laughable dropping off station without beginning nor ending with the most viable and detestable conditions of cruelty, injustice and servitude.

In the middle then, somewhere, somehow, for even if man did follow the pattern of evolution, if that were the paths taken to creation of the Universe, it is impossible to decree that it is all by chance.

So I will now assume, before I continue, to state I no longer believe, nor accept the loving, all encompassing God of Scripture, neither do I deny the existence of the evil, vent full God of repentance, of hail and fire and brimstone that are such fodder for Sunday sermons. On the other hand, I do deny the thesis that there is no God at all. God, Holy Spirit, Higher Power, Rocks That Talk, Spirits That Walk. Does it really matter in whom one believes as long as one has something in which to believe?

And as the bard says, "There lays the rub."

For the sake of argument, I will just assume that there is a Higher Spirit, although not personally involved in every aspect of my daily affairs, yet I still profess the existence of and do not deny that existence as do the total unbelievers.

So then that little sidetrack tirade brings me back to my first thought. From where do all those nasty things that walk in the night come from?

I will subscribe to the fact that yes, there were, in fact, that many in heaven that were deceived by the cunning and lies of that man scripture brands as Satan, Lucifer, The Prince of Darkness, even "Scratch." For if there be a God, a Higher Being, then it follows the laws of nature that there is also to be a Lesser Power and that power is Satan.

Unfortunately for man, Satan is the pretty present God of this Earth and he has one-third of the Host of Heaven at his demand to do His work. How many billions and trillions and gawdzillions of beings were here before, or now, or yet to come? It is beyond comprehension, it has been going on for the eternities, so then, as we stagger along with this populace, 6 billion at present, of all these people, 1/3 of them are here now; consequently to the true believer, the causal believer or even those of no belief are almost hopelessly outnumbered.

We could pause here and go into pure theology and debate the merits of and the need for a Savior, atoning sacrifice and all of that, enough has been written, pondered and prayed upon for the reader to make his own choice and summation. Here we are only concerned with those that walk at night, and now seen even in the day.

Years and years ago when I was quite small, perhaps 10 or 12, I experienced a very traumatic experience with death. It was then that I began to search and seek for answers yes, but more for comfort and reassurance. I wanted to know where I came from, why I am here and where am I going? My Minster chided those present that death can come at anytime so we must be prepared, for if we are sinners all, we shall be victims of hellfire and brimstone.

This was very comforting and reassuring and I thought it sucked. What was the value and purpose of being if our reward was going to be eternal damnation anyway? So I read the scriptures and pondered and meditated and choose to believe in that wonderful, healing, tender God of mercy and Justice and understanding. But the sermons continued to embark that even though a Savior did come, we still must always be on guard from temptation and sin, hence, hellfire and brimstone and eternal punishment from a vengeful God.

This new, although flimsy, belief satisfied me until that winter when it started. The sightings, the sounds, the things that the movies tell us that go "bump in the night."

They didn’t talk at first, and there was quite a varied conglomeration of shadows, sizes, shapes, positions, intensity, lightness, darkness. They came from my closet, they harbored neath my bed, they entered and exited from the walls and floated to the ceiling, but that was funny, I just thought of it now, they never penetrated the ceiling, they stalled, they fell, they disappeared but never penetrated.

But worst of all, was the WINDOW.

It was the standard, old-fashioned double window with the handle at the base one struggled and pulled to crack an inch or two, ropes running up the sides for the lead counter weights, disguised in the frame, held the window in whatever position one found. Two windows, side by side, with a pretty sheer blue curtain down both sides and a few inches down the top, you remember how, just low enough to conceal the shades or blinds, whichever.

My shades were the standard spring-loaded roll type that one pulled down at nighttime and opened in the morning. My windows were located on the east side of the house so I didn’t have to contend with the falling evening sun, but needed to be shielded against the brightness of a new-day’s rays.

And, of course, for privacy, even though I really had nothing to hide.

But, as if the walls, and closet and bed weren’t enough, it was the window that terrified me. Night after night I would force myself to read until sleep would come to my tormented mind. I couldn’t, or didn’t, talk to anyone about this as I, being rather an intelligent sort of fellow, knew that my folks would have no answer to offer, my minister would tell me Satan is hot down my back breathing against the very hairs of my neck; I must beware, I must beware.

I read and researched, but, for even my degree of intelligence and advanced abilities of reasoning, I could not satisfy my need to know what it was that I was seeing. And I certainly knew I could not consult my beloved family practitioner, for, even as wonderful and kind and caring as he was, he would rather be inclined to either agree with my minister, for we went to the same church, or, worse yet, deem me mad, a condition that I had already researched as best I could.

I still keep it all to myself, and the nights grew longer, and it seems, the daylight shorter. Somehow the long, dark, dreary days of winter gave way to spring and then to summer.

I was heartened by the arrival of longer day’s, less night darkness for even the sprits or ghosts or whatever, had all but disappeared. Or so it seemed.

Perhaps July, yes, the anniversary month of that fateful car accident, I began to get restless, troubled, having some sort of premonition as it were of impending doom. Of course, I tried my best to shrug it off and continue, but merely a few nights later it happened, and from the WINDOW.

Windows cracked open to capture any movement from the stagnate night air, window shades drawn down to just a few inches above the bottom frame; it allowed the faint shadow from the corner streetlamp.

I always, from habit, checked my closet, looked under my bed and, at times, ridiculously felt my walls to ensure their integrity still intact and only then go lay down. I had a rather comfortable twin-size bed with, iron headboard, a little nightstand to my right separating me from the window by just a few feet.

From my bed, either sitting upright and dangling my toes on the bright blue carpet, or laying in bed resting on my right side, arm under my pillow, I could stare out the window to the buffer of a yard separating us from the next house, and then to the street, to the cornor streetlamp where bats few in and around and darted too and fro as they pursued their evening meal.

Yes, bats, in fact, a great many creatures are hunters in the night. Are humans? Not the type that robs the convenience store or rape and plunder and pillage all the night long, no, I mean those spirits mostly, and best, unseen; those with fainted shape and posture, waiting, watching, going "bump, in the night."

So, deep in the middle of summer, in the middle of the night, I first heard it; it-an eerie, creeping, haunting sound that awoke me in it’s fierce blast of thunder in the night that flashed a light and I arose, terrified to look outside, but I peeked through the window and saw ghosts that dance and howl and scream and then, so did I scream until a light, my brother came; I fought valiantly, forcefully for my very life, till I awakened to my brothers shaking and shouting.

He left with the light on and I, too terrified to climb out from beneath my covers, so I lay there staring at the ceiling, safe as long as there was light, but then, what had I seen, was it really there, did I see what I think I saw?

Only one way to tell, did I see this living hell? Was I prepared to find alone, the darkness of the night, the lights dim, the shadows faint, the world at peace, and then, and then this time next, with light still on the mournful sound and I turned and looked once more from my window to the light that did shine to cast a cutting edge across the lawn to the tree from which, it seemed to talk.

Then a howling quite unleashed I thought would raise the dead, but then, it must be the dead that howl.

Sleep finally came as I lay holding, hugging my pillow, covered by thick blankets on a hot July night, in fetal position. Then it all came back, the sounds, the shadows, my screams, my brother shaking me, finally, I began to worry of my sanity.