Scotaphobia
			  by S. Hanken

    The mist rolled through the streets, blanketing the city in 
oppressive silence. Shadows crept along, lengthening in the twilight. 
Jack eyed the oncoming gloom warily, never stealing his eyes away from 
the window. He watched the creeping dark, obsessed, believing it would 
bite him when his eyes left the window. As if the glass the only thing 
keeping the dark at bay.
    The doctor took a book from the shelf next to her, idly waiting for 
Jack to speak. He didn't seem to notice, and she tossed the book at the
floor next to Jack's chair. Jack jumped at the sudden thump, his eyes 
wide with terror. The doctor made a dispassionate note of his reaction 
in her papers. "Shall we continue?" She looked at him, curious, 
watching him shiver as he nodded. "May I ask what you're afraid of, 
Jack?" 
    Jack shuddered again, his gaze sliding away from her in her dark 
silk blouse and dress pants. His eyes glued to the window once more. 
He answered, his voice a bit strangled. "Out there. It."
    The doctor made a thoughtful noise, pen scrawling 'acute scotophobia' 
along with her other notes. "How long have you been afraid of the dark, 
Jack?"
    "No... Not really the dark. It." Jack paled to remember Its face- 
those eyes, those hands, those teeth... Instead of facing It, he ran, 
a scared child desperately trying to escape the neighborhood bully.
    The doctor sat up, suddenly interested. Staring intently at Jack, 
she asked, "What exactly is 'It', Jack? Is 'It' from your childhood? 
Something to do with.. The dark?"
    "No... Well, not directly. I went to a party one night, woke up a 
couple hours afterwards. I looked to the side and saw these glowing red 
eyes glaring at me... And they faded out. It's been revealing Itself 
ever since..." He watched the window, the sky beyond now fully dark. 
The night almost seemed to press against the windows, breathing.
    The doctor scribbled in her files again, and cast a quick glance at 
her clock. "Well, Jack, I'm afraid that's all the time we have... I'll 
prescribe you a little medicine that should take care of your 
hallucination."
    Jack looked up, startled. "Hallucination? It's all in my mind?"
    The doctor clucked her tongue. "Jack, you've admitted you have no 
idea what was given to you at that party. Chances are, someone gave you 
a hallucinogenic and that other night was a flashback." She handed Jack 
a little slip of paper with his prescription illegibly written on it. 
"Get this filled and make an appointment for next week."

    The appointment had been a couple weeks ago, and Jack went through 
the pills in a panic. In spite of the precautions he took, It kept 
showing up- Standing on his porch, waiting in the shadows near his 
car.. And It was getting bolder. The light on his porch was burned out, 
immersing his porch in darkness. He would have to change the light bulb 
again, but there was no time now. Jack's hands shook like leaves as he 
fumbled with his keys, cursing the lack of illumination on his porch. 
Fear made every hair on his body bristle with a cold anticipation, 
turning every gust of wind into a blast of fetid breath or rotting 
fingers stroking his neck...
    The door swung wide, opening after what felt like an eternity. Jack
tumbled into the yawning black hole. He slammed the door behind him, a 
half hysterical laugh escaping from deep in his chest. He was home. He 
was secure. Content that tonight he'd be safe, Jack flicked on the 
lights and dispelled the frightening dark.
    The light filled the room.
    Jack wished he hadn't turned on the lights at all now.
    It was waiting there for him, sitting in his favorite chair. Its 
trench coat covered the mockery It called a body and Its wide-brimmed 
hat pulled over most of Its too-large, blood-red eyes. It had invaded 
his sanctuary, and It had the gall to grin toothily at him. Its voice 
rasped, phlegmatic and raw in the back of Its throat. "Hey, Jack. You 
don't mind that I let myself in, do you?"
    Jack shut his eyes, repeating "This isn't real. I'm dreaming. If I 
take my medication, I'll be fine." He had almost convinced himself when 
It laughed, shattering his fragile illusions. Its grating voice rattled 
in his head. 
    "Go ahead, Jack. Take your medicine. Then we'll see what's real- 
and what isn't." It tossed Jack the heavy glass bottle. 
    He barely managed to catch it. The hollow rattle emphasized its 
near emptiness. 
    "But when you run out, Jack.... What then?" Smiling, It tipped its 
hat, brushed by him and exited. 
    He squirmed in revulsion as its coat brushed by him, certain if it 
touched him he'd feel the slightly liquefying touch of a rotting corpse 
underneath. Sensing his anguish, It left a sinister laugh hanging in 
the room. Jack's blood ran cold- It knew the prescription couldn't be 
refilled any more. It knew. 

    Flame red eyes, knife-like teeth, and skeletal fingers, following 
after him in the dark. The wind howled like a dying beast, and It was 
everywhere. Like reflections in a fun house, It was always where he 
turned to run, all around him wherever he looked. A scream welled up 
inside him, only to find silence shriek out as Jack shot out of the 
dream. A rasping sound escaped his throat as he calmed, pulling in 
breath after breath.
    Jack reached over to the night stand for his bottle. Not there. He 
swung his legs out of bed, hurriedly searching the desk's drawers, 
jerking them open and banging them shut. He saw a flash of lightning 
glint off something in the corner of his eye, and turned to look as 
lightning flicked across the sky- There, on the floor, was the bottle 
of pills. Smashed, several pieces of glass and pills, inseparably 
ground into powder. Thunder sounded, the rain pounding in a sudden 
rush against the windows. Each wink of lightning in the shards of glass 
showed him his bleak future- For what happened when his medicine ran 
out? What then?

    The psychiatrist shook her head sadly as Jack tried to explain what 
had happened to his prescription. "Jack. The prescription you're taking 
has proven to be addicting, and I have no way of knowing whether or not 
you're lying about their destruction. I am truly sorry, but there's 
nothing I can do to help you. Besides- You knew about the no-refill 
policy."
    He stopped fidgeting with his umbrella and looked at the doctor, 
jaw hanging slack. "You're saying I'm a junkie." He watched her lips 
move, disbelieving.
    "No, you are not a junkie. You're just.. a little unbalanced right 
now. I can only help you if I put you under 24 hour observation..."
    He ground his teeth in frustration. "So I'm crazy and need to be 
institutionalized. Great." He stormed out as the doctor watched, 
silent.

    Pressing the button on the handle of his umbrella, he stormed out 
of the office building. A soft click and a muffled whump echoed across 
the wet pavement. Jack listened to the rhythmic patter of rain on the 
umbrella above his head.  Maybe he was crazy- He must be, out after 
dark, soaking wet, being scared of something that couldn't possibly 
exist. If only he'd never been to that damned party...

    It was a hard party to forget. Too much beer in too many kegs to 
count, too many strange cigarettes.. And her. After all the drinks, 
she's surpassed being merely pretty- She was a Venus. The drink in his 
hand was a thick brew from one of those incalculable micro breweries... 
He stopped caring about names a half hour ago. Hers included. She had 
walked over in skin-tight pants and a halter top, her green eyes 
dazzling jewels as she stole a sip from his cup. She said she liked his 
eyes, blue looked good on a man with dark hair... He reached out and 
touched her auburn hair. Like silk...
    They had gotten more beer. Something in the drink... His head spun 
from the smoke. A dark room. Kisses. Smoke. Senses spiraling. Her eyes. 
Clothes on the floor. Skin. The bed against his shins. Falling onto the 
bed. Her thighs. His blood pounding through his head. Down... Darkness.
    He woke up and she was gone, the faint perfume of her hair on the 
pillow the only proof she had been there. It was still dark. But there, 
hovering in the dark corner... Eyes! Inhuman glowing eyes! He bolted to 
the door, leaving his clothes. Forget the damned clothes, the bogeyman 
was real!

    Locking his car, he shivered in the light rain, chilled more by the 
memory than the weather. Reflexively pulling the bulky trench coat 
around himself, he walked up his porch, his footsteps coming back in a 
damp echo. The keys jingled in his hand, impossibly loud against the 
silence. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and opened the door.
    The light clicked on.
    Nothing there.
    With a relieved sigh, he lurched into his place and fell into his 
chair, enjoying a moment's relaxation. Relaxing led to sleep, and sleep 
lead to dreams...

    Jack remembered. He must have fled home, naked, because the next 
thing he recalled, he was crouched on the kitchen floor, clutching a 
butcher's knife in clenched fists, blade held away. Trembling, his back 
pressing painfully against the drawers, left shoulder pressed against 
the doorjamb. He knew it was coming. He strained to hear the whisper of 
its feet, his muscles knotting from his tense stance.
    Nothing.
    His breathing seemed to overpower every other sound. Heart pounding 
in his ears, blocking any other sounds, he fought to calm down and 
listen. Nothing.
    A positively insane idea came to him. It was sitting there, inside. 
Waiting against the other side of the wall, listening to him breathe. 
Listening to his heart pound, grinning. Leaning hard against the 
doorjamb, he silently got up, never taking his hands from the knife. 
With a growl, he elbowed the door open and leapt through.
    Nothing.
    Standing there with a knife clenched between his hands, stark naked, 
feet bleeding from his retreat across the blocks of sharp, stone-
riddled asphalt, he started to laugh. Softly. Loud. Louder. The laughing 
turned near-hysterical. Relieved, he let one hand loose from the knife, 
wiping his eyes as he giggled helplessly.
    It laughed behind him.
    Whirling, he cried out in horror. It wasn't just eyes now. It had a 
black trench coat and fedora on, a crude parody of Bogart. It grinned, 
showing a mouthful of fangs. A hot flash of rage and terror heated his 
blood. He lunged, stabbing the knife at Its chest. It roared, reeling 
back. The knife sunk in too easily to have hit healthy tissue, the 
knife in Its flesh to the handle. Its hands on the knife. Skeletal 
hands. His head buzzing. It yanked the knife loose. Examined it. Blood 
on the knife. Opened Its mouth. So many fangs. Frozen, can t move. Long 
tongue licking the blade. Lapping the blood.
    With a strangled squeak of terror, he tried to back away. It 
noticed and shook Its finger at him, the finger bones rattling dryly. 
The ragged, rotting flesh of Its palm flapped freely, the scent of 
decay fouling the air. He gagged, trying to breathe as it let the knife 
fall, focusing on him.
    "So, Jackie... We've been a bad boy, hmmm?" Its voice rasped, dry 
and harsh, sandpaper in his ears. It brought up Its hand, wiggling its 
bone fingertips before his eye, not touching. He flinched as It mimed 
flicking his eyelashes. "Know what I do to bad boys?" It grinned and 
laughed, a rolling and all too real sound.

    Thunder boomed and the lights flickered eerily through the house. A 
dry pop left the room in darkness,  the light bulb above burnt out. 
Jack opened his eyes and sat up quickly, holding his breath. The house 
was quiet and still around him. But he could feel It. The front door 
open, the rain hissing and slithering its way down the street in a 
river. The drops beat against the windows like something alive, wanting 
to get in.
    It sat on the footstool across from him, between him and the door. 
It was turned to face left, watching the TV in the far corner. It had 
apparently muted the show, no sound except the driving rain. Jack 
stared as It watched the white noise on the tube's screen, static 
wiggling across like worms.
    It chuckled, breath rasping harshly. "Nothing on TV, Jack." Slowly, 
It turned and examined him, barely two feet away. He was frozen by his 
fright. It knew that. He bet It could smell his fear, thick and heavy 
in the room.
    Grinning, It showed him Its mouthful of teeth.  "Just a reminder. I 
can take you whenever I like, Jackie." It got up, straightening the 
trench coat as if the coat's appearance mattered to the dead. 
"Whenever I like." One glowing red coal blinked out a moment as It 
winked, whispering pointedly. "Watch your back." It touched the brim of
 the fedora, a causal gesture. Tipping Its hat. And It walked out.
    Jack let himself begin to breathe again as It slid out his door 
like a shadow. A chill draft blew through his house, pelting him with 
frigid drops of rain. Zombified, he slowly drifted over to the door 
and pushed it shut, leaving his hand on the cheap wood. He wouldn't be 
sleeping tonight.

    The rain petered out and stopped, the old alarm clock next to him 
flipping its numbers from one minute to the next. Click. A glance over 
showed it was 3:12 in the morning. The lights outside cast a cold glow 
onto his ceiling. The wet sounds of pavement as the water evaporates. 
Dogs far into the distance barking. Click. And he thought of her again.

    Jack had known what he was doing. She'd been too beautiful to let 
her go and reject him. He'd needed her the moment she stole that sip of 
his beer. Jack offered to get her a glass of her own. She hadn't even 
been 21 yet. Poor little college girl... Sarah.
    He sighed and closed his eyes, painfully reminded. Her name was 
Sarah. 
    Click. 
    Her name was Sarah and given her lots of beer. Maybe even spiked 
her drink, he was too drunk to remember.  And he'd taken advantage of 
her. With a heavy sigh, he sat up in bed and turned back the sheets. 
    Click. 
    He remembered the cute dimple in her left cheek as she smiled at 
him, telling him about herself. They'd sat down, buzzed, and talked 
before the drug set in.
    He gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed, socks making a 
muffled noise as he forced himself up and across the carpet. Shuffling 
ten paces to the bathroom door, he slid his hand over the switch plate 
on the inside of the room. Counted to three. Flicked the light switch.
    Nothing.
    He wandered in, glad for the socks protecting his feet from the 
cold tile. Jack paused to peer into the mirror, running his hand over 
the stubble on his chin. Looked like he hadn't showered in days, let 
alone shaved. He sighed and poked at the faintly purple bags under his 
eyes... The made him look old, not twenty one at all. The whites of his 
eyes were bloodshot, making his blue eyes look sunken. Short, straight 
black hair disheveled. He scratched at the thin patch of dark hair 
centered on his chest, frowning discontentedly at himself.
    "You look like death warmed over, bud." He eyed the Bic disposable
resting on the edge of his sink. Reaching over, he turned on the tap, 
sticking his index and middle fingers into the stream, judging the 
water's temperature. He reached with his free right for the razor. 
Looked at his suddenly trembling hand. He tentatively held it out in 
front of himself, reaching, and watched it shake.
    "Better grow a beard..." He laughed at himself, though he thought 
even that sounded forced. "Don't think slitting my throat's a good 
idea."
    He let his hand drop into the sink basin, cupping the two together. 
He leaned down and washed his face, still annoyed at the prickly 
stubble on his face. He took a step to the right and rubbed his face 
and hands into the towel hanging off the shower. Looked back over his 
right shoulder at his reflection. "Maybe you deserve all this, you 
shit." He turned back towards the shower, muttering and shaking his 
head. "Talking to myself.. What next? Arguing?" He turned and wandered 
out of the bathroom, leaving the light on and returning to his bed.
    The mattress creaked at him as he pulled his sheets up to his chin, 
staring at the ceiling again. 4:23. He closed his eyes. 
   Click. 
   Slitted one eye open to look at the clock. 4:23. And the light was 
off.

    The clock finally ticked off the time to daylight and he rolled out
of bed, dry-eyed and blurry from lack of sleep. With a heavy sigh, he 
debated skipping classes again... It was almost amazing how quickly 
school lost its priority when he was being driven out of his mind.
    He groggily pulled his shirt on over his head, Its voice echoed 
through his memory.. "I can take you whenever I like, Jackie..." The 
thought of It coming for him... 
    He worked his way into a wrinkled pair of light blue jeans as he 
padded towards the front of his apartment. He  flicked the switch to 
the hall's overhead on in spite of the light, worried It might hop out 
of even the insignificant daytime shadows.
    The front room was a blaze of light, the blinds rarely drawn 
anymore. Jack ignored the kitchen to his left and moved to sit in his 
favorite chair, stuffing his feet into the worn pair of converse shoes. 
Hurriedly, he tied the laces into a shoddy bow and sat a moment. He 
really didn't want to go to class. Life was difficult enough keeping 
his mind on being calm.
    A floorboard creaked in the kitchen.
    Jack decided.