Leon was your average fox. Five foot ten, bushy tail, thirty five years old, thinning fur, and slightly overweight, working a 9-5 at a desk job with no opportunity for advancement. He lived in a small one bedroom apartment, his furnishings consisted of a mattress, a dresser, a mirror, and a used sofa. His walls were as bare and dull as his life, reflecting who he was as a person. Family, friends, socializing, everything was an afterthought. He existed for himself, moment to moment, day after day, routinely for as long as he could remember, and he had no desire to change that. Where he was, what he was doing, it was familiar and familiarity was a comfort.
His daily routine was repetitive, predictable. He would wake up at 7, make himself some toast and eggs with a glass of juice, rinse the pans, shower, throw on his watch, dress shirt, and slacks, bag, and then be out the door and down the stairs by 8:17 in time to barely make the bus to work. The bus was always running late, it was a sure thing, five after the hour, every hour, of every day. The driver would grunt, people would complain, but the regulars knew this was the way of things and there would be no changing that.
He would sit near the middle, leaning against the window and watching the same buildings pass by. Each regular had their own self designated seat where they each sat, keeping to themselves. The bus was never full, and he hardly ever needed to find a different seat or share with a stranger. Of the times he did, thankfully small talk never happened.
The bus, being late to each stop, would still arrive at his work building seven minutes before his shift was to start. He would make a show of rushing through the door, swiping his key for access, and make his way up the stairs. To others, he projected the image of a man in a hurry, places to be, of importance. They in turn would not stop him, nor greet him, and this he preferred. These people were not his friends, after all. He just wanted to get to work, and do his mundane job without having to worry about needless pleasantries.
And so he would. Sitting at his desk, one small cubicle of many, for two and half hours before taking a break to refill his water and coffee, then resume his work. Answering each email with almost autonomous responses, each more similar to the last as it seemed everyone today was having a password issue or a benign question that could easily be answered for themselves with a quick search on the company website or the documents sent to each partner company.
*Good Morning,
Thank you for your email. I have reviewed your profile and reset your password, please visit the link below to set a temporary password following the on screen criteria.
Please feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns.
Kind regards,
Leon S.
Customer Account Specialist.*
And send. Log it. Notate. Close it. Move to the next one, and repeat. His typing speed would be commendable if not for the fact he was writing out the same response twenty, thirty times a day. Lunch would arrive after another two hours. He wouldn't eat, instead he would head to the lounge and rest, closing his eyes, cutting off the light of the world and any social obligations along with it. Sometimes he would nod off, others he would sit there, eyes closed, unmoving, simply listening to the world around him. His timer would go off and he would return to his desk, finish off his coffee and work various tickets, reaching out as needed and answering internal questions as dictated by his job, only stopping to take his final break as mandated by management.
Five P.M. would roll around, timing his final email with the last minute of the clock. Overtime is certainly available, and he could certainly use the money, but he preferred his routine above all else. The last time he opted for overtime his mood soured and after a week his desire to work at all had vanished on top of falling ill.
Several rehearsed clicks later and his terminal was shutting down. Another windows update, another extra click to ignore it and shut down. He grabbed his things and once more made a show of rushing. “The bus will arrive soon!” he would say, rushing past his boss and not giving them another chance to speak. Down the stairs, out the doors, to the corner stop to wait. He checked his watch, three past the hour, the bus would arrive in two minutes.
And so he waited, one minute passed, others from the office would gather around and like him would ignore each other. They spoke enough at work, leaving work at work. Outside of the building they are strangers, passing acquaintances who happen to go the same direction. They fiddle with their bags and their phones, catching up on missed events.
Two minutes passed. Leon looks, as do others, but the bus is not yet in sight. This is fine, this is normal. The bus is always five minutes late, arriving five past the hour every hour. It still had some tens of seconds to arrive. Leon resumes his idling, knowing the bus will arrive soon and checks his belongings patiently. His bag, simple, black, holding items he never uses. The weight rests over his shoulder offering a familiar comfort.
Three minutes have now passed. The bus is later than usual. This never happens. The others murmur and check their phones. Leon gets an itch on his arm, scratching it, trying not to show his spike of anxiety. That's all this feeling was, an over reaction to something mundane and ordinary. Buses can be late on occasion, this is a fact of life.
But not this bus. Not his. Never.
It was like a weight in his stomach, the world was wrong. Something… changed. And not for the better. Something was severely, dreadfully, wrong, and he was the only one aware of it. As others discussed the delay or looked for other avenues home he remained motionless, the wrongness of the world filling his vision, his eyes seeing almost for the first time the world around him and noticing things he had never noticed before.
Has that patch of dirt always been there? What are those markings on the sidewalk? That sign is bent slightly. There, a series of holes in the cement and faded markings not far from where he stood. Have those always been there? Why is he just now seeing these? His eyes continued to dart around in their sockets, focussing on things he's never seen or noticed before.
Only when a cold, wet tap struck the top of his head did he finally blink, snapping out of his trance and seeing that he now stood alone at a bus stop, waiting for a bus that would never come. Another cold tap, and another. The rain, forecasted for tonight, had begun. He dug through his bag, pulling out a collapsible umbrella. He always had it, and hardly needed to use it, but was thankful to have it every time he was out. A small comfort, a hint of normalcy to anchor himself to as he opened it above his head.
Now calmed down, he turned, and began to walk. He was only a half hour bus ride from home, he could easily walk that distance, rain or not. His evening had been ruined, his schedule, the comforting repetition, had been shattered, but that is just for today. Tomorrow, it will be nice out again, and the bus will be five minutes late, the driver would grunt, and he would idly send his emails again tomorrow, just as every other day.
Onward he walked, the windows of buildings reflecting his form, distorted and imperfect through the drops running down the glass. His steps small splashes on the cement, his only company along with the pitter of rain on his umbrella and the ground around him. The streets were empty, outside of an occasional car driving past, it was just Leon and his umbrella on the long, uneventful trek home.
Alone on the sidewalk and alone in his thoughts, he mentally reviewed what he would do when arriving home. His shoes would need to be dried, arriving home late would mean preparing dinner late. His usual shows would have no doubt ended, he would need to almost rush in order to make it to bed on time.
Eventually Leon happened upon a small alleyway, a known shortcut that would save him several blocks of walking. Looking down into the shadowy darkness he spied no other souls. His desire to be out of the rain, home, and resuming his daily schedule overrode his sense of self preservation and into the ally he strode. His steps now echoing off the walls that closed him in on either side. The exit was just ahead, his steps quickened, the echoing louder and drowning out any other sounds.
The sense of wrongness welled up as he neared the end, but soon breached back onto the main road, none the worse for wear. He spared a glance back behind himself, down the ally, and it appeared just as it had from the other end. He let out a breath and turned, resuming his back home as the sky continued to darken, street lamps clicking on to illuminate the way.
As he left the ally behind, that sense of wrongness still lingered in the back of his mind. Where was everyone? Why was the rain so loud? Do his steps really sound like that? He cast a glance back behind himself, surely this is all in his mind again, a repeat of earlier and a result of his ruined schedule.
Looking back, the street was as it should be, with the exception of a street night, flickering, then going out. He narrowed his eyes, the darkness left behind was too dark, the lights around almost coming to a hard stop, leaving an inky blackness that he couldn't quite see through. Then the light flickered back to life, and the road was as it should be.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, perhaps he was tired, his days of staring at bright white computer screens was making him see things. Perhaps it was age finally catching up, even though he was still young. He looked forward and resumed his steps, eager to return home, to normalcy, his routine.
However, the sense of something being wrong grew within Leon as he walked, the fur on the back of his neck raising, his tail poofing out even as he fought to keep it out of the rain, almost as though sensing a danger he could not perceive. He looked back, stopping and turning suddenly as though to catch a stalker in the act. Instead, as he stood under a light, the light he had passed under mere moments before was no more, replaced by that thick inky void.
His fur stood up, his heart rate spiked, fear and adrenaline pumped through his body as he swore he could see something in that darkness, something not capable of being seen, but staring at him all the same. Then the light flickered back and the road was the road once again.
His chest heaved as he worked to catch his breath, the sense of danger suddenly gone, leaving behind an adrenal high. The streetlights were just faulty, that was all. He wouldn't know this because he never walks home, or so he tells himself. Even with that reassurance there is no stopping his increased pace, a fast walk, nearly a jog, as he rushed home as fast as his out of shape body would allow.
Leon glances back, movement out of the corner of his eye, the reflection of the shop window, was it his own or something else? He couldn't tell, he saw nothing, and yet he also saw the imperfections of reality, the world shimmering in the light, or swallowed in the dark. He pushed himself, moving faster, a pain flaring in his side as his legs started to burn, but drowned by the adrenal rush as a primal danger sense rushed through his system. He was prey, being hunted, and safety was near.
Finally, relief in his chest as he approached the entryway to his building. His foot landed on the first step to the doors, and suddenly he was surrounded and engulfed in an oppressing darkness. He froze, one hand on the rail, the other shakily holding his umbrella, the only sound he could hear was the rain, pattering around him and on his umbrella, not quite under the awning of the doorway he knew was just ahead but could no longer see. He stood there, holding his breath, listening to the rain, waiting for the light to return as it had before, when he felt it.
A breath, not his own, rasping out behind him, flowing over the fur on the back of his neck. He choked out soundlessly, his chest frozen in fear to the point he couldn't breathe even if he wanted to. He could feel it, like the static of someone too close, strands of fur just touching his own, light, barely enough to register they had been disturbed, yet speaking columns of the presence behind him, joining him under the umbrella.
He closed his eyes, breath shuddering out before finally daring to inhale the smallest amount, just enough to keep him from passing out due to lack of air. He swore he could feel teeth on his neck, breath on his ears, and a low growl of a beast who was successful in its hunt.
Then, it was gone.
His eyes snapped open, the lights were back. He whipped around, looking for something, anything, that would leave a hint or a clue as to what was just standing behind him. Instead he found nothing, the lone, empty street without traffic stared back at him, the lights of the stores and streetlamps reflecting off the wet cement.
Clutching his chest in an effort to slow his racing, aching heart, he walked up the steps and into his building. He rested against the mailboxes, finally feeling safe in a familiar space. It took too long for his pulse to settle, the darkness that followed him did not return, yet he did not drop his guard.
He skipped checking the mail, he would get it tomorrow when things were normal again, for now he just needed to get home. He used his hey with shaky hands to open the interior doors, shook off his umbrella and made his way inside. He walked to the elevator and paused, the vivid horror of the darkness pressed against his mind, he would rather not be trapped in an elevator should it happen again. Instead he opted for the stairs, the old idea of this being exercise floated into his mind as his body regretted the idea.
His legs, still angry from the rush down the road, protested with each step. The adrenalyn slowly left his body, making room for fatigue to swiftly replace it in the absence. Three stories, six flights of stairs, around and around. He briefly wondered if this was how the ghostbusters felt on their way up the skyscraper. He trudged up, his feet landing heavily as he finally reached his floor.
He let out a heavy breath, muscular pain and exhaustion flooding his senses as he pressed on, idly wondering if he should try making the gym or some kind of actual exercise a part of his routine. He tried doing so in years past, but he was set in his ways. It was more comfortable to stay where he was than to try anything new if he didn't need to, if nothing was forcing it upon him.
He reached his door, keys in hand, and it opened with a soft familiar click. He turned the knob and entered. The temperature was a comfortable 68 degrees, the soft glow of his electronics punched through the darkness within. This was a comfortable darkness, he knew where everything was and where it should be. He clicked on the light, the entry illuminated as it should, he slipped off his shoes and placed them upside down to dry, on the rack where shoes belong. His keys on the hook, the bag by the door, his wallet in the tray of change he never adds to or removes from.
He let out a heavy sigh, the weight lifting from him as he removed his dress shirt, hanging it on the back of the door to dry. He stretched and looked at the time, it was past 9 P.M. The walk home was longer than it should have been, he was only a half hour bus ride away, it should not have taken more than an hour and a half at a leisurely pace, but here it seems he had been walking in the darkness and the rain for over four hours.
The sense of unease in the pit of his stomach made itself known, the world was indeed wrong today, but here and now, things were as they should be. He busied himself, trying to get back on track and leave the horrifying events behind him. Leftover food, old spaghetti with a light sauce and a pile of parmesan, microwaved to perfection and consumed in his overstuffed chair as he watched TV.
He washed his dishes, then moved to his bedroom. He removed his clothing and began looking over himself in the full length mirror. It was framed in stylized wood, passed down to him from his grandmother. He didn't care for it, but neither could he get rid of it. He hoped perhaps someday it would be worth some money as an antique. But for now, he used it for its intended purpose, looking himself over.
His fur was still refusing to lay down, remaining partially puffed from his fear earlier. He used his hands to try to brush the fur back into place, to little effect. He didn't have time for a shower and was about to give up on grooming when he brushed his neck, and paused. His hand felt wet.
Strange, he thought, he was under the umbrella, there was no way his neck should be wet, at least not without more of his fur also being wet. He pulled his hand away, and froze in horror again, his fur rising once more as the weight in his stomach returned with such force he wanted to vomit. There, smeared on his hand, was a line of blood.
He dashed closer to the mirror, contorting his body to look at the back of his neck to no avail. Instead he grabbed his phone from the dresser and used the camera app to record a video, holding it up behind him to get a recording of what he could not see. After a moment he stopped and reviewed the footage. There, just under the fur, a red line, no more than a scratch, seeping blood.
He reached back and ran his fingers over the area, smearing blood through his fur in the process. He traced the wound, his mind flashing back to when he swore teeth grazed his skin in that exact area. His blood ran cold, here on his hand was physical proof that something did indeed happen, and it wasn't just in his mind. Something was wrong, and something was after him. He could not come to a better explanation.
He clutched his chest again, whipping around to look over his room. The light was on, illuminating everything clearly, his curtains drawn blocking out the darkness of night, his bed was a mattress on the floor, leaving no room for anything to stalk him from there. His eyes landed on the door to his closet. Be it paranoia or caution, he pushed his dresser along the wall, neighbors be damned, and barricaded the door.
He let out a breath, the exertion and preventative measure making him feel better, if only just. However, he had a new issue. He would not be able to go to bed with blood matting his fur, it would stain his pillow and the fur matted with dry blood would be a hassle to sort in the morning. Besides, he would reason, a shower might actually do him some good about now.
Half an hour later he emerges into his still lit bedroom, much more relaxed and moist than he was previously. It took a while, the calming, soothing shower was exactly what he needed. His schedule was so ingrained that, logically, the interruption of his dear routine had given him a panic attack. That was all. Of course in that state of mind he would imagine things. Hell, his own claws were getting too long and he reasoned he must have scratched himself.
He shook his head at his own foolishness, it was getting late and any later he would be too tired for his work day tomorrow. His hand rested on the lightswitch to the bathroom and he paused, briefly considering leaving the lights on, just in case.
He took a breath and shook himself, no. He would not be able to sleep at all, how could he hope to return to normalcy if he ruined his own sleep schedule? Besides, what was the point in all his reasoning if he still gave into a childish fear of the dark? He shut the light off with a click, closing the door. He stared at the knob for a moment, then opened it again. He locked the door and closed it. He had a pin to undo the lock from this side, so he wasn't worried about his access in the morning. Maybe it was a childish fear, but anything that would help him get to sleep after the evening he had was worth doing.
He moved to his bed and pulled back the sheets, then turned on his bedside light and clicked the primary lights off. He looked around the darker room, the world felt right again. He was here, in his own room, preparing for bed as was his normal routine. Tomorrow was a new day, a fresh start, a return to what mattered most. He paused, taking a moment to add a note on his phone to look into therapy. Normal people don't freak out over something like a bus not arriving. If anything, having someone confirm he wasn't crazy would be what he needed.
He climbed into bed, pulled up the sheets, then clicked off his lamp. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as he relaxed for the first time in hours, comfortable in his cool bed, refreshed from the shower, his scratch healing, his muscles sore and thankful to finally rest. He opened his eyes one last time, casting them around the comfortable darkness of his room, relieved that whatever the hell happened earlier had passed, it was all in his head. He closed his eyes, the events of the day being filed away as sleep took him, his breaths slowing, deep and easy.
…
He awoke, his body quivering and unresponsive as though shocked with lightning. It was dark, too dark, a pressure was upon him, he cast his eyes around wildly as adrenaline once more flooded his system. He forced himself to move, to jump, to shout, but his body refused, his eyes instead locked onto the dark corner of his room. He could see it, and couldn't at the same time. It was black, formless, having fur like oil and shadow mixing together around its shifting form. Limbs, tails, they seemed to appear and vanish, fading in and out of the shadows of the room.
But what remained constant was a pair of glowing white orbs, no bigger than a dime in size each, staring back at him. They rose, the darkness and his own eyes following, from near the floor, up along the wall, to just under the ceiling. They loomed closer, his body shaking and trying desperately to flee but was hopelessly paralyzed. His mouth opened in a silent scream as rows of sharp teeth seemed to emerge from the darkness, grinning at him almost mockingly as they slowly parted, looming closer yet.
He felt his mattress shift as a weight depressed it, not as though someone were crawling with points of pressure pushing it down, instead it was as though the earth’s very gravity increased on his mattress as the eyes and teeth loomed closer. He could see they were not static with each other either, the eyes wavered and flickered, almost stuttering back and forth while the teeth bobbed and wobbled with the shifting inky mass of its body.
He wasn't sure what clicked, perhaps he was so overwhelmed that it overloaded his paralysis, but he was suddenly able to swiftly draw a breath, and opened his mouth to scream.
But nothing came out.
A crushing pressure enclosed on his throat, stopping his scream short. He stared up at the orbs, now mere inches from his own eyes, the teeth were suddenly gone, he noticed. Then seeping in like an afterthought, he felt pinpricks of pain along either side of his neck. Thick, hot fluid soaked and matted his fur, ruining the pillow under him. He couldn't help but have a sense of clarity as his life drained away, he was going to die.
He heard more than felt a wet ripping sound, fluid filled his lungs faster than he could cough it out. His body grew colder even as the warm fluids soaked his fur, his eyes losing focus on the glowing orbs above him as the wet ripping and snapping sounds accompanied him into the darkness.
