Читать книгу The Dead Place - Stephen Booth - Страница 12

No one told me that the worst nightmares would come while I was still awake. No one ever warned me that I’d lie in my bed in the darkness, eyes wide open, praying for sleep. Those were the hours I spent counting faces in the wallpaper, seeing the shape of a monster where my clothes lay strewn on a chair. Those were the times I listened to the noises outside the house, listened as hard as I could, hoping I might make the noises inside go away. Finally, as the hours went by, there would be nothing left but the sounds of the night – the slither of the darkness as it crept across my roof.

Something lives in that darkness. It’s our greatest fear, and it’s called the unknown. Everyone knows this fear, but few of us dare to think about it. We’d never be able to go on living our lives if we really saw the grinning presence that waits behind our shoulder. It’s far better to pretend we don’t see the beast. We turn away our eyes and convince ourselves it’s just a shadow cast by the sun. It’s only a draught from an open window, a rustle of dead leaves on the other side of the door.

It’s the same fear for the child whose bedroom door has to stand open at night for a glimpse of light and for the old woman whose hand trembles as she draws back the bolts. In the end, we’re all destined to fall into the claws of that darkness we glimpse in our dreams. The great snatcher of souls, the unseen lurker on the threshold. What threshold would he lurk on, if not on the threshold of death?

Do you see that shadow now? Do you feel the chill, and hear the rustling?

These days, my dreams are different. Sometimes, in my nightmares, I see bodies moving inside their coffins. Their mouths twist, their limbs writhe, their hands open and close like claws as they reach towards the light. I try to make them settle down, to lie still so they can be buried. But it never does any good. In my dreams, the dead just won’t stop squirming.