Gripping Darkness
by Robert M. Velkym

   The cold, dank, green foliage of the under bridge rustled slightly with the sweet melody of birds as if a tropical rain forest grew in the hot dry air of California. The drone of wet sneakers thumped dully on the rough surface of the bridge, the first rays of daylight filtering through the flora of oak trees, as though god reached down to the unfortunate souls. The clouds of early morning clung to the trees, setting to make the ground cold and hazy. The haze barely covered the stains of blood that had fallen from his multiple wounds, and smeared out by his one dragging leg.

   He leaned against the large tinted panels of the building just beyond the cement pillars that marked the upper entrance to the school administration office. His breathing was irregular and troubled as he gripped his ribs where a large stain of blood continued to spread. He staggered to get up, his back leaving a dark slippery stain upon the glass, and he crossed to where he had left his bag between the cement pillars.

   He crossed lazily, unconsciousness gripping slightly at his vision, lack of blood inviting him into the darkness. He thrust his hand into the deep blue Jansport backpack, and drew out a long thin syringe. Morphine, king of drugs, he pierced the needle into the soft pungent flesh of his left leg, slowly pressing down the plunger, the tingling flow of numbness passing throughout his aching body.

   He made to stand, the first wave of morphine filtered into his brain making the world spring into a panorama of fiery color. Then he shook his head and looked out across the bridge. Outward to where his hunk of metal Buick sat idling, the engine slowly shivering the old metal frame, giving life to the ugly beast.

   He shuddered slightly as he recalled his journey to the school grounds. The horrors. The pains of life and its cruel unforgiving glory in the embodiment of horror. He could feel the people still chasing him, their insipid jeers and beer bottles crashing down around him as he ran for life and limb. Air struggled to get into his quickly heaving lungs. He could feel the cramp that had lead to the 32 inch Easton baseball bat hitting his leg and falling him. He reached down and rubbed the lump with a soft sweep of his hand, forgetting the pain until he touch the center impact zone, whereas pain washed the entire area, bringing tears into his drooping eyes. He could feel the very definite lump that was the result.

   He wiped accumulating cool liquid from his forehead, his hand dropping down to reveal blood, not sweat. Another unseen wound, running into his eyes, great. He was exhausted, his body hurt, shivering slightly in the dewy air of early morning. His mind was reeling, was he hearing people running at him, was the yelling beginning anew?

   He looked up, the air was growing heavy, the world began to spin. There were 4 kids running directly at him in slow motion, he could feel them advancing on him. He tumbled into his backpack, pulling at the zipper, he moved too slowly and the students ran by. He cringed like a beaten dog, covering his head, they were going to get him!! The mob was back!!

   He looked timidly up, no one had touched him, the area was silent, the students were nowhere to be seen. He faded out of the world, blackness gripping his lids, time slowed and darkened, nightmares sneaking into his troubled mind.

   In his dream his eyes fluttered open to a world unlike any he had ever seen. He was on the same place, lying next to his backpack, although now all of his pain was gone, his wound had healed. A high mist covered the familiar landscape, the clouds covering most of his body as he lie, the sky was a deep alluring purple and pink color, as though the sun hung on the horizon, shedding only setting light on the world. He shook as a large shadow crossed the sky, its shape sweeping across the fog, it was a airplane, right?

   A soft, whisper like cackle crept form the ravine under the bridge. The sound put his teeth on edge, the mob was there waiting for him, biding their time until he was dumb enough to cross the bridge. He stood on shaky legs and climbed atop the stone pillar he was leaning against, turned to look out across the ravine. The mist cover made the ravine have no depth, the sides and bottom were masked by the swirling haze. His car was barely visible, the rattle and wine of the engine was audible, but it was if it were a million miles away.

   He jumped down from the pillar and gathered his belongings, the familiar weight of his backpack weighing on his back. He walked pusillanimously toward the bridge, with each step he took to it, it seemed to age 50 years. The paint faded before his eyes, the wood began to deteriorate, the overall form began to twist and large gaps opened in the floor coverings. By the time he reached the base of the rickety bridge, he greatly doubted the safety of crossing. He carefully reached for the railing, sending one foot out to scout for firm stepping. He pressed on a solid spot and with a groan of annoyance the bridge held his weight.

   (Bump-Thump)

   He walked onto the bridge, testing each step, hoping his next would not be his last. A eternity passed, he was in the center of the bridge, the squawk of birds, momentarily drawing his attention. Were those birds? He listened more closely, they were there, the demonic cackle was there, the birds became silent. The only thing he heard was his heart pounding in his ears. (Bump-thump. Bump-thump. Bump-thump.) A thin trickle of sweat ran down his nose, he could hear it hit the ancient wood. (Plink). The cackle began, the noise rising from around him, surrounding him, penetrating him.

   He looked frantically toward his waiting car, he hurriedly began to make way. The cackling was coming from his right, no his left, no behind. A giant lump formed in his throat, cold sweat broke out all over his body, drenching his clothing. He stopped and turned fearfully backward. (Bump-thump.) He turned slowly, every muscle in his body bracing to be pounced on… nothing was there.

   He reached for the railing (bumpthumpbumpthumpbumpthumpbumpthump) his hand closed on the blue paint, the cackle became a scream. He looked to find another step, he looked right, then left, the cackle moving quickly. He looked at the railing and saw them. A spidery skeletal hand reached over the side and gripped his hand. He jumped in surprise, his balance barely saving him from plummeting to his death.

   (bumpthumpbump…)

   A loud crash indicated something larger than a man fell behind him, which caused the bridge to sway slightly. He could take no more. Without a glance backwards he bolted. His feet destroying the bridge as he ran. The old wood fell away after each step, he was 10 feet from the car. 9 feet. A decomposing hand reached out of the mist through a hole in the bridge and caught his foot. He lost his shit. Yelping, he was dragged toward the hole, another hand reached up. (bumpthumpbumpbumpbump) The stench of decay filled his nose. He gagged. They were dragging him into the gray monotone darkness. He kicked and struggle, a hand reached into his mouth, his soul screamed…

   (bumpthumpbumpthumpbumpthumpbumpthumpbumpthumpbump)

   Blackness. He blinked rapidly, clearing the terror from his eyes. A reddish light was all to be seen, he looked for its source. His alarm clock blinked at him, 4:30 flash before his eyes. He sat up, his wet bed sheets gripping him, attempting to drag him back. He turned on his light and pulled out a book. There was no way he was going back to sleep…Not with the memory of the hands gripping him to darkness.