Shadowland
All I can see is dark
I close the book I’m reading with a gentle snap and yawn widely. I’m almost at the end and whilst the urge to continue is there, I heed my weariness. I’ve been here before; forcing myself to read on and on, eyes screaming for sleep, too wrapped up in the story and too close to the end to stop. But not tonight.
After setting the book back in its place on the bedside table, I snap off the small, softly lit lamp I’ve been using and huddle under the heavy duvet. It is late, and the temperature has dropped significantly; I feel comforted to have the warm material pulled up and tucked under my chin. I close my eyes and dreams come quickly.
Somewhere amongst the thickness of sleep, there comes the Shadowland. My eyes are open yet closed, both at once. I can see the outline of the wardrobe which stretches from floor to ceiling, and the window on the far wall, but they are fuzzy, blurred, as though my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness.
I can just make out the tightly pulled curtains at the window, but there is also another shadow that I struggle to bring into focus. It is the vague shape of a figure, possibly a human form, but I can’t determine any features where a face would normally be. The shadow lurks at the end of the bed, unmoving. It slowly becomes blurrier and blurrier, more out of focus, until complete darkness takes over and I slip back into the depths of unconsciousness.
Later in the night, I return to the Shadowland. I’ve moved onto my side but with overspill, now also half lying on my front. I’ve gotten closer to the edge of the bed and can see down the side of it to the floor.
In my vision, a shadow grows. This time I slowly discern it to be the shape of a hand. Again, I see its outline only so my imagination chooses for me. I envisage long, jagged fingernails, swollen arthritic knuckles, and deep lines etched into old skin. There is a moment where I see clearly in the haze and the image there terrorizes my subconscious. My body twitches forcibly and a sound escapes my mouth in reflex, not quite a cry and not quite a shout, but something in between.
My own hands move instinctively and of their own accord, pulling the duvet further up over my face to cover my eyes. A childish action, but an effective one. My breathing is heavy, ragged, but even so, thick fog again begins to descend as I continue to lie there. All I can see is dark.
