Thanks to: Katlynn888 for beta-ing my story (and helping me name characters and final the title!) and my iPod, for supplying music that gave me inspiration (and YouTube too!)
Author's note(s): Hey! I really hope you all enjoy this story, that I've called "Presence." I hope it is okay… PLEASE read & review, it'd be much appreciated. The song/lullaby that Nick sings(NOT made by me!) is "Love Me, Love Me" by Arsenium.
He slinked his small feet over the edge of the bed, letting them hang over the side of his bed. The shadows in the room curled as a gentle breeze blew in through the open window, moving the dead leaves that hung off their brown branches that swayed in the wind. He curled up his feet and reaches over to pull out a drawer in the nightstand beside the headboard of his bed next to himself. He pulls out a pair of long, white socks silently, and then quietly shuts the drawer. He takes one sock from the muddled pair, and leans over the edge of his tall bed. He takes the one sock and hangs it in the air for a moment, letting it sway, watching the moving shadow of the sock of his floor. He drops it and swings back over the edge, ducking away under the sheets of his bed. After a minute or so, he peers out from the covers and worms his way to the edge of the mattress once more. Peering over the edge, he squints against the darkness to see the same, long white tube sock on the floor, lying inanimate in the shadows of the deep night. He raises his eyebrows in quirk and sits back up, shuffling under the covers for the other white tube sock.
Picking up the sock, he throws the covers off him, careful not to throw them onto the floor. Leaning back over to the nightstand, he takes out more pairs of socks, and, with each pair, stuffs them into the other half of the tube sock pair. With the second sock full, he latches his tiny fingers onto the end of the tube sock, curling his fingers around the nape of the neck to hold it steady in his little hands. Leaning back over the edge, he slowly lowers the sock to the floor, being sure to keep the end of the long neck in his small fingertips. Shadows dance on the floor and he tenses.
After a minute had passed, he smiled in victory and dropped the sock to the floor. Shadows curled and skipped around on the walls, and tenses once more, fingertips gripping the white, clean fine cloth of the bed sheets he sat on. Silence settles in and the only sounds are that of his ever faint breaths and the gentle breeze blowing up his curtains and ruffling the leaves on the now deep brown branches that they hung upon. His grip on the disheveled sheets loosened and his shoulders slowly settled, his shoulder blade resting back onto his smooth, pale back, his eyes adjusting out of his petrified state of mind.
He slowly rolls over the edge of the large bed, slipping slowly down as his shirt ride up against his stomach and back, eyes down at the floor as he pushed down to the floor. The wind made the socks swivel and move softly and he instantly scrambles back up onto the bed. Looking at the floor, glancing to the window, he realizes that it was only the wind.
He stands up on the bed and strides backwards, gliding his feet to watch for the edge of the bed. He swallows silently, and braces himself, licking his lips, eyes on the doorway, his destination of thought. He begins to run and pushes himself hard off the edge of the bed, flying through the air like a bat against the night sky, knowing the shadows can't reach him now.
Rolling onto the floor, his feet hits an edge that his recognizes perfectly and he smiles to himself in victory, knowing he had won. He sits up and diligently but hastily brushes himself off. He stands up and curls his fingers around the familiar cool of the brass doorknob, turning and flinging it open quickly to escape the darkness of the bedroom he was in. Opening the door without a sound, he found himself staring into the darkness he that consumed his phobic thoughts. Stricken, he turned his to the side swiftly, staring to the very familiar door that had been his destination, his escape route, his itinerary to safety, the door.
Turning his head back to the darkness, seeing something in the depths of what he recalls as his closet, the shadows taking a form that could only haunt his and the worst nightmares of all mankind. He lets out a stifling scream of fear when its hand reaches out for him. But, his scream can't escape his mouth, and he can't even begin to open his mouth. Mind whirling and making him move from the deathly aura, he instinctively rolls back on his heels to run and run screaming, but he slips from sheer trepidation and falls back on himself, crumpling up against the wall behind him. The hand lowers instantly and wraps itself around him, fingertips curling around his ankle and pulling him with unimaginable force towards the shadows. He struggles under its grasp and he swivels as it begins to draw him backward, he rolls onto his stomach and claws at the floor desperately. Kicking and shuffling, trying to scream without breath, he kicks back on the hand and the hand flinches on his ankle, and after his split-second reaction he scrambles forward. Clambering up, his fingertips touch the edge of the doorway and he jostles upright with a fury of feet and clenching hands looking for support to help him up.
Suddenly, he is tumbling forward and falling over in his scramble to break free from whatever –it-was-from-the-darkness, he latches onto the banister and turns back, looking at his doorway at the end of the hall. All he can see is darkness, until the hand reaches out for him. His feet scramble for traction on the floor boards as he began stumbling back to run. Swinging instinctively into a doorway at the opposite end of the hall, he slams the door shut behind him without a sound and hardly a movement.
He is staring forward with dilated eyes and with his heart beating furiously against his tiny chest, he sees a figure in the bed across from him so familiar that he heartbeat instantly slows to it's normal rate, and his eyes contract as not to let so much unkempt light into his eyes. He walked in a speed-walk to the bed, standing feet from the edge, not able to see over to look at the silhouette that he had seen from the doorway anymore. He bent over slowly and scooted closer to the bed as his palms pressed to the rug beneath the bed frame, looking into the abyss. There was nothing there and he sat up onto his knees. Standing up, he turned and looked over the edge to the silhouette on the bed, under those obviously warm blankets and once cold sheets, said silhouette of a boy just slightly older then he, so familiar and unique to him.
Smiling at the figure, he felt a cold breeze along his toes. He crouched over once more and stared into the abyssal shadows that went "bump in the night" in all children's' nightmares.
"What are you doing?" Someone asked in a slightly angry but whispered voice. His head instantly shot up and skimmed the frame of the bed, and would have ruptured the skin if he were closer, forehead barely skimming the skirt of the bed as he sat erect now, whipping his head around to see a tall, familiar silhouette lurking in the doorway into the room. Said silhouette leaned against the doorway, awaiting his answer.
"Checking for monsters," he answered in his soft voice, but not necessarily a whisper in voice.
"Greg, really, under Nick's bed?" The man in the doorway asked, raising an eyebrow at the three-year old Greg sitting in front of said Nick's bed.
"Hey! One grabbed me out of the closet!" Greg whispered, his voice rising into a speaking voice. "They could be anywhere!" Greg was serious, but he couldn't hinder the smile on his lips. The man in the entrance to the room chuckled silently, but he could tell he was laughing at him. "I'm not kidding, I thought it was gonna eat me!"
"Yeah, monsters are real and my name is Jillian Stokes!" He laughed at Greg in a whisper from the doorway.
"Jillian?" Greg asked. "That's Nick's mum's name, your wife! Your name is Bill Stokes, you big dummy!" Greg spit his tongue out playfully. "And your son's name is Nick!"
"Gee, can't get anything past you, can we, Greg?" Bill rolled his eyes at Greg, who simply smiled sheepishly and childishly.
Bill started towards Greg and then bent over to pick him up, wrapping his arms around Greg's sides, hands curling around his sides, and Greg couldn't help but extort a little, almost silent giggle when Bill's fingers poked into the tender flesh on his sides, lifting him up to the point where his hip was on Bill's chest, Greg's feet hanging down till they pointed at the ground. Bill looked from Greg to Nick, and then Greg followed his gaze to his brother-figure.
Nick was under the sheets, curled into a peaceful sleep, black and deep auburn tinted hair curling over his forehead and over his eyes, delicious chocolate colored eyes closed into sub-consciousness.
"Well," Bill whispered into Greg's ear, eyes still on his son, Nick. "We need to let Nick sleep, better not to disturb him." Greg simply nodded and rested his chin on Bill's shoulder as Bill turned to leave; now feeling his own eyelids getting heavy.
Bill entered Greg's room and patted out the sheets before setting Greg down on the bed. He rolled the untamed sheets over the sleepy three year old. Bill turned to leave the room, but Greg let out a little whine when Bill's right foot turned with him to face the door.
"Check for monsters?" Greg asked from beneath the sheets. Bill was about to tell Greg monsters didn't exist when he felt something on his foot. He jumped slightly, and then looked down to see what it was. He bent down to pick it up, rolling his eyes at Greg when he noticed he was holding a pair of white tube socks – one filled with other pairs of socks and the other with nothing but itself and space. He looked up to Greg with his eyes, keeping his head in the same position. Greg smiled sheepishly, and then tucked his nose under the end of the covers, gripping the ends in his fingers. "Please, Billiam?" Greg whimpered. Bill sighed and reached over to put the socks on the nightstand beside Greg's headboard.
"Monsters aren't real, Greg," Bill sighed as he lifted up the bed skirt and stared into the abyss of shadows under the bed.
"Oh yeah?" Greg asked challengingly.
"Yeah," Bill answered, standing up.
Greg glanced at his father-figure. "Then what in the name of Friedrich Miescher lives in my closet, hmm, Billiam?" Bill turned to the closet by the door. The doors were open and after studying the shadows, he reached up to the doorknob to close the closet doors when something tangled around ankle, that which felt like fingertips. He jumped slightly when the fingertips curled and uncurled. Petrified, he looked down slowly to his feet. He sighed in relief and bent down to pick it up.
"Greg, it was just a scarf," Bill said and started over to Greg. Greg was silent. "See?" Bill said, holding up the scarf, realizing the tied-off knots at the end were the "fingertips." He looked at Greg when he didn't respond. "It was probably blowing in the wind and tangled around your ankle." Greg was silent, not saying a single word. Suddenly, Bill's heart began to pound in his chest and he didn't know why he felt frantically nervous. He took a step towards the three year old, bending over to squat to look at him. Now, Bill saw that the once fearful Greg was now in a harmonious sleep. Bill gave a silent sigh of relief, and then began silently toward the door, his steps silenced by his gentle touch on the floorboards.
He stepped up to the staircase and saw a small, looming silhouette in the doorway at the opposite end of the hall from Greg's room, the silhouette only about a half a foot taller than Greg. Bill smiled at the profile, watching as the figure stepped into the dim light emanating from the street light far outside the window.
It was Nick; the six year old dressed in a black tank top and deep green cargo pants that he had slept in.
Slowly, one of Nick's hands rose from his side to his stomach, gripping the black cloth that practically engulfed it, squeezing his hand into a tight grasp around the cloth, fingernails digging into the tender flesh, harsh eyes on his father Bill.
"You sick, Poncho?" Bill asked, stepping forward to put a cold hand to Nick's warm forehead. Nick simply batted his hand away with a shake of his head.
"No," Nick said silently, voice masked by an emotion Bill wished Nick would never have to endure. "I feel like I am in a bad movie…" Bill stared into Nick's eyes and they were wide with the same feeling that was covering his voice. "One where everyone dies."
Bill was about to tell Nick something when he heard a sound clattering up from downstairs. Bill turned his head to Nick, who was only gripping his stomach tighter, fingernails digging deeper into the soft flesh of his stomach. Bill lifted a finger and pointed at Nick, then at the floor, indicating for Nick to stay where he was. Then, Bill pressed the finger to his lips, adding a little "shh" noise to Nick.
Bill quietly whipped around and then started onto the first step. Pausing, he glanced back at Nick. Nick's eyes were on him, then his eyes darted to Greg's room and he took a step onto the old, rickety floorboards. The polished, old boards groaned in coincidental silence and Bill narrowed his eyes at Nick in command. Bill noticed Nick stopped in his movement under his father's demanding glare, the only sign now that time hadn't stopped as it was that Nick's chest was faintly rising and falling as much as his father's.
Bill loped the corner, staring now into the artificial yellow light that illuminated the hallway. The lights began to flicker ill rhythmically. Suddenly, the light above Bill's head sparked and shook itself angrily; falling before him and plunging him back into the nightly darkness.
Gulping down fears, he reared back slightly and grabbed the baseball bat that Nick and Greg had left in the front hall earlier that day, now yesterday morning. Scooting without echo back into the hallway, he padded around the shards of glass, looking from his feet to the glass behind him then into his eye's target, his destination that his feet took his to, bat firmly in his hands as a shadow rushed before the end of the hall without stopping. His eyes widened and he scooted before a corner, clinging to the wall, craning his neck to look around the corner.
Empty, except for the typical household accommodations of the Stokes family – plus one Sanders.
Gripping the bat once more in his finger for a tighter hold, he began forward. Turning side to side frantically as he stepped into the kitchen, looking for things he hadn't been able to see from the corner.
Something clicked and he drew in a breath quickly, tensing. Forcing his shoulders to relax, he looked to his feet without moving his head. He looked for a shadow, but only saw the whispering movement of the trees in the gentle nightly winds and his own darkness on the white tiles of the floor.
After scoping out the first level of the two-level house, he slipped into the front hall, bouncing silently over to the staircase. At the top of the staircase now, he looked around the empty hall, but he didn't see his son. Now, he thought that Nick went to bed. He bent over and laid down the bat quietly next to the banister.
Bill gave a hefty sigh and stepped slowly down the hallway, floorboards of perfect stained, old wood creaking in protest beneath his every step of his two pale toned feet. He ran a hand through his
hair as a feeling of nauseous silliness ran through his gut, giving him the sensation that made him want to laugh and scream, but when he opened his mouth, instead came out a cry that was a distorted sigh.
His eyes flitted open and he noticed the artificial illumination that emanated out from under a door at the end of the hallway, opposite from Greg's. He tilted his head to the side slowly, gently cocking it to the side, and then forced his head erect as he paused in step, then proceeding to follow the light that dusted the floorboards in the night.
Resting his fingertips on the dim glitter of the doorknob, his heart thundered so hard he thought it'd rip itself from his chest. Pressing his fingertips tighter around the knob, he began to spin the knob into the room, but not just any room – his and Jillian's room.
When the hatch clicked out of the doorway, he swung the door open into a dark room that was lit only by the sky with a simple, silent swish. But, his eyes met the familiar darkness of the night that made a child's stomach whir with fear. But what made his stomach whir was the unkempt sheet of the empty bed before him… which weren't supposed to be empty.
His eyes darted around the room, studying it's familiarity with steady, quick precision, looking for the memorable silhouette of his wife Jillian. However, his eyes only caught darkness and solemn, dancing shadows on the wall.
Bill gave a mental sigh and turned around to look for his wife-
Nick stood behind his father, before him now, just outside the doorway, looking at his father with defiant eyes that were as set as his feet on the floor that ran a shiver down Bill's spine; who jumped back as he saw Nick unexpectedly.
Bill's heart thudded against his chest, the squirm in his stomach fading and untangling itself as realization drug Nick into his father's retinas and mind, relief flooding into his heart.
"Jesus, Nick!" Bill whispered. His hand was over his heart and he could feel it throbbing against his chest under his palm, chest rising and falling slowly to force himself to calm down. "Where did you go?"
"Sorry…" he thought he heard Nick mumble, and if he did, he didn't pause to take a breath. "I was just checking up on Greg," he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to the opposite end of the hall. "He was a asleep and so I sat down with him for a while and then I heard something, and it was you, so…" he trailed off with an almost-shrug.
Bill gave a hefty breath at the answer and stepped to the side and when Nick looked past him and demanded entry. Nick stepped in and stood inside the room now, before the doorway, glancing around at the blue nightly light that filtered in from the sky through the window and the shadows that Bill had memorized so many times over. "Where's ma?" Nick asked as the shadows swayed over him, meaning the clouds had swarmed over the moon, the deep royal blue taking it's place among the shadows.
"I don't know. I was going to look for her, but…" he was cut off by something warm dripping onto his right cheek. He flinched back from it, pressing his eyes shut momentarily, until it dripped on his cheek again and the temptation to look up at the ceiling pitted in his stomach. He raised his eyes up from Nick, who was looking in the bathroom for his mother, to the ceiling slowly. The ceiling dripped onto him again and he had to blink it away from his eyelid before he could open his eyes once more.
Upon the ceiling lay the silhouette of a woman, a woman that Bill had memorized many, many times over and over and could be none other than his wife… Jillian.
Shadows danced and swayed and began to manifest upward and into a face, a torso, taking on a human shape very slowly as Bill's eyes settled upon it. The lights began to flicker on and off and Bill lunged over to grab Nick's arm, but he couldn't reach.
He looked up to the ceiling as the lights flickered on and suddenly, flames roared up from Jillian's sides, catching her dress, the flames illuminating her face and the deep gash that ran deep across her neck. But, with one last sparing glance at his wife, the flames engulfed her completely and exploded outward around her.
Bill ducked out of the way of a burning plank as he lunged over his son, picking him up quickly. Nick hadn't noticed the fire until Bill scooped him up and bolted instantly for the doorway.
Nick stared wide-eyed at his father as Bill put him quickly down on the floor just outside the room, in front of the banister and gave him a good shake to take Nick's eyes of the roaring flames behind his father.
"Get Greg and run like…" his father was cut off by a manifested shadow that pressed against him in it's cool presence and muffled, fiery breath down his neck, driving it's hand upward into the night air and then ramming it directly through Bill's back, bringing the whole hand out the other side of Bill's chest so Nick could see the shadow's wrist. Nick wanted to let out a blood-curdling scream but he couldn't because it caught in his throat as blood poured out from Bill's lips, his bottom lip quivering as Bill tried to get his last words out, "hell is after you…" his father let out and then his eyes grew desolate, his lips losing movement altogether.
Nick's feet flew along the floor, trying to escape the shadow lurking behind his father in it's distorted, disturbed aura, whilst trying to dodge the other shadows on the floor, the ever-growing shadows that tangled his steps, his father's last words playing a continuous loop in his head, saying, "hell is after you… hell is after you…"
Running too fast, he slid to a stop and began to fumble on his feet, scrabbling for traction on his feet. Latching his hands on the inside of Greg's doorway, he pulled himself quickly into the room and onto the cool of the floorboards of Greg's room that he could feel through his socks.
Greg's bed sat directly next to a window and Nick took advantage of that swiftly. All in the same movement, he jumped up onto Greg's bed, curling Greg into his arms against his chest, jumping off the edge of the bed and cracking open the window with a jumped head butt, and bursting out into the night air.
Greg let out a scream as he woke in mid-air, letting the scream become muffled as it hit Nick's palm over his mouth, his gut doing flips in his stomach as they fell down, curly blond-brown hair whipping back onto Nick's chest as they flew through the cold night, only to land amongst the flowing branches of a bush far beyond the window.
Nick landed on his back, having done a flip in the air, feet hanging loosely in the air far above him, head close to the ground, as he uncurled himself to look at the Greg in his arms. He smiled softly at the three year old in his arms, showing his teeth slightly, and feeling blood from his cheek dribble into his mouth. Greg lifted his head after Nick removed his hand form his mouth and eyed him with question that Nick knew the answer to, but couldn't answer aloud.
Nick's eyes looked over his now flaming house and took in a breath softly, tucking Greg in closer, pressing his nose into Greg's hair to take in his sweet scent and calm the three year old of a brother figure, then, after taking in another breath, he began to sing the same lullaby Greg's mother had sung to him before she had died when Greg was only two years old, along with his father.
"When you're lonely in the night,
I'll be near to hold you tight.
If you ever want to cry,
I'll be there to kiss your eyes!
Every night I'll whisper from my heart to you,
All those words of love, you're never gonna cry.
Every night I'll hold you in the moonlight,
You ain't never gonna cry,
I would never make you cry…"
The flames roared, and sirens rang in the now distance form the bush they lay in and Nick felt a tear in his eye, but he knew he had to comfort Greg more than himself.
"If you let me in your heart,
We will never be apart…
Leave your world and come with me,
Only love can set us free!
Every night I'll whisper from my heart to you,
All those words of love, you're never gonna cry.
Every night I'll hold you in the moonlight,
You ain't never gonna cry,
I would never make you cry…"