He came awake in a startled panic and saw the glowing green numbers of the digital clock change from three thirty-two to three thirty-three. It was far too early to be awake, but his heart was pounding. He wiped away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand and took some deep breaths to regain his composure.
The thought of the dream sent a chill shaking like iced lightning through his body.
Had it been a dream? The rasping childlike voice in a whisper from the darkness. He could not remember what it said, but tried to rub away the tingle, as of lips brushing the fine hairs at the rim of his left ear.
Of course it was a dream. There was no one else here.
He turned and scanned the darkness, trying to push down the lingering fear. Slowly, his sleep-blurred eyes cleared and adjusted.
Nothing there but familiar shapes: the clothes hamper, his dresser, and the small bookshelf snugly fitted just under the curtained window.
He realized he was holding his breath, and let it out in a rush, saying, “Oh, thank God.”
Then he heard a high-pitched giggle.
“God?” came a sardonic whisper. “No. No god.”
Streamers of shadow curled like smoke from the darkest corners of his room and clotted together at the foot of his bed. He watched horrified as it congealed into thin legs, a torso with pronounced ribs jutting, hunched shoulders, an oblong head, and long arms angled with too many joints. It thickened, becoming ink black, and as it took on density, it obliterated what little light filtered through the curtains from the streetlights, and cast a long shadow that spilled and spread across the quilt toward him.
He kicked his feet, and shrank back against the headboard as he felt the impossible coldness of that umbral touch.
By the time his throat released the high, tea-kettle scream of his terror, the shadow was fully upon him. And it was laughing.
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