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Clive knew he was dreaming. From the ceiling, he watched himself sleep, curled up on his side in bed. A perfect bird’s eye view of his guest bedroom.
From the ceiling, he watched as the door to his room slowly turned, and a shadow slithered in through the crack in the door. Formless and undulating in the dark, Clive wasn’t sure how much he was actually seeing versus feeling it. Like when a cloud passes over the sun, casting a shadow over everything, a chill seemed to settle over him. He squinted at the figure in the door, but the harder he strained his eyes to make sense of the gloom, the more it’d elude him.
Clive watched his blankets pillow under invisible hands. Slowly, as if not wanting to disturb him, it crawled up the bed. He felt ragged breath tickle the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end.
“Artem…”
Clive awoke suddenly, his body lurching into wakefulness even as he continued to lay there with his eyes closed. He was cold, and it was then that he realized that his blankets were bunched up at the bottom of his bed. He must have kicked them off in his sleep.
All was quiet, but Clive couldn’t bring himself to move. As he lay there in the dark, he listened, ears straining for the slightest whisper. Clive has never stayed in a house like this before. One with six rooms, four bathrooms, and a chocolate fountain, all surrounded by an intimidating gate to keep its inhabitants in. This house had too much space, and too few sounds to fill it. There were no city noises here, no da’s shuffling up and down the stairs, no clatter of the streets beyond. Instead of the sleeping and wheezing and sighing of his brothers, there was only his own breath, his own movement in that too-big bed, his door swinging open with a theatrical creeeeeak. And, was that his imagination, or could he hear muffled footsteps in the carpeted hall?
Clive listened, heart in throat, as his door slowly creaked closed, followed by a gentle click as the latch popped back into place. He didn’t know how long he laid there with his heart pounding until he finally slid out of bed, with one thought running on a loop in his head: “I need to get the hell out of here.”
The metal was cool under his sweaty palm when Clive tested the doorknob, and was flooded with a sense of relief to find it not locked. He turned the knob and stepped silently into the dark hall beyond. With the shutters all latched, and the curtains all drawn, it was even darker out there than it was in his room.
He reminding himself that he was not afraid of the dark, however, Clive had never knew a darkness quite like this… This darkness seemed sinister, seemed secretive, it was the kind of darkness that played tricks on your eyes. Made you see things that weren't there, or miss things that were. It was the kind of dark that lived in spaces you knew you should not look, lest you catch something looking back.
He held his breath as he moved down the hall, feeling his way along the wall in the direction of where he remembered the stairs being. Clive crept along, but the house seemed to grow around him, the hallway of the second floor landing felt like it was stretching and multiplying, branching out until he was surely lost. All the while, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, of eyes against his back. But he just had to make it to down the stairs, he told himself. Then to the front door, then to the gate, then he’d be home free. Then he'd be–
“Artem?” The voice was as sweet as a bell and seemed to ring out from all directions, making Clive’s heart lurch into a gallop inside his chest.
He can barely see her in the dark, at the other end of the hall, nothing more than a pale shadow. Her hair seemed to blend with the night, her eyes like two black holes in a bone white face, her smile stretched far too wide.
“Did you get lost on your way to the bathroom again?”
Her hand stretched out across the expansive hall with ease, her long boney fingers wrapping around his wrist before he could protest. Not that he would, not that he could, he was frozen in horror. Her hands were far too cold for a young girl’s as they wrapped around his wrist in a vice; like ice, the cold seemed to creep up his arm, penetrating him to the core.
“I’m going to have to get you a leash at this rate,” she said with a light giggle. Clive didn’t think she was joking. As she guided back into the house, he could feel the front door, the gate, his freedom, slip further and further away from him with each step.