The Town that Hides at Dusk
In which a family grapples with survival in the shadow of a monster
I live in the town that hides at dusk.
This is a ritual repeated daily, and has been for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a little girl, young and small and full of fear, my family has locked our door, shuttered our windows, brandished our weapons, and lit our candles, all before the day has expired.
Tonight is no different.
As the sun begins to fall, and the people retreat into their homes, I consider, for just one moment, what might happen if I stepped outside after dark.
Then I remember the code.
Never look.
Never interfere.
And above all: never go outside at night.
They are simple enough rules to follow, as upon each window there is a shutter, and within each home many locks. Remaining inside is often the most difficult task, however, because the being that stalks our lands is not of this earth, and has a way of seducing the weak-minded into leaving their dwellings.
I have never seen it. My mother has never seen it, nor my father. My brother, though—he saw it, once, when he was just a child. When he dared to the crack the door to look outside.
It changed him.
Peter doesn’t talk anymore. He may look toward the window at night, and he may follow my father and his orders, but he no longer speaks of the things that little boys do.
On this early evening, so dull and dreary but filled with fright, my mother looks out the window at the crimson sunset and watches my father and little brother as they tend to the final chores of the day.
“Mother,” I say, lifting my eyes to watch her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Sabrina,” my mother replies. “Everything is fine.”
I wrap my fingers around my simple dress and stare into the distance—where, beyond the long road, and the village that borders it, the valley extends below the high mountain. I wonder, briefly, if there is life beyond this nightly terror, but realize that is probably not the case.
Standing here, in this house, which in theory should be so safe and sound and feel like a home, I feel nothing but despair. It is an emotion I have grown accustomed to throughout my life.
The sky darkens.
The men and boys come in.
My father enters the home, with Peter shortly after him. He kisses my mother on the cheek, then turns to look at me and says, “Sabrina.”
“Yes, Father?” I reply.
“Fetch the matches.”
Though I move to do as asked, the shift in sunlight causes me to turn my head toward the window as I take the box of matches in hand.
For a brief moment, I stare with a mixture of awe and horror.
Then the window is shuttered, and my trance is broken.
I begin lighting the candles soon after.
And thus begins another night.
There is little I can say to describe how these nights are. Cold, morose, filled with tension and fear, it is always my mother whose face is uneasy, and my father whose eyes are unconcerned. Given that this has occurred for as long as I both I, and he, can remember, we rise during the day and go to bed at night as if this is nothing new. It is my mother, however, who is not as fortunate. She did not grow up in this land, and has always feared the thing that walks the night.
But do I?
I ponder this thought as I light the final candle, and as I set it down upon the fireplace mantle. Though a part of me wants to believe that I am scared of it, if only because of the influence it holds not only over my life, but the lives of those in the village, enough knows that is not the case.
I am strong willed, I am quick to think. Good of heart, sound of mind.
They say the creature could not sway the minds of the weak. But that does not mean that it does not try.
My father’s sigh from the dining table causes me to avert my gaze from the fireplace. I trace his steps, one after the other, as he walks to the rifle that is propped against the wall, and watch him check it before he removes his shoes from his feet.
Peter tugs at my mother’s dress.
“It’s time for bed,” she says.
He tugs at her dress again.
“I said: it’s time for bed.”
The boy looks at her with his wide eyes, but simply sighs before turning and sauntering to where he sleeps in the corner of the room.
“Sabrina?” my mother asks. “Is everything all right?”
“Just in thought,” I reply, and blink to clear the haze over my vision.
“All right.” She turns her eyes to my bed. “You should go, too. We know how these nights can be.”
“Yessum,” I reply.
In moments, I am drawing the blankets over my body and lacing my fingers together.
I can barely begin my prayer when the monster outside begins to bay.
Our father in Heaven, I think. Hallowed be thy name. Your will be done. On Earth as it is in Heaven. Please keep my family safe on this horrible night and deliver us safely from the creature that dwells outside. Though it bids no harm to those who follow, its temptation is great and wrought in sin. Amen.
“Amen,” I whisper.
My mother and father—who have seemingly been reciting their own prayers—say “Amen” as well before tucking the covers beneath their chins.
Though I want nothing more than to sleep, I know its nightly summons will soon begin.
Come to me, it seems to say. Come to me.
No, I think, though I wish to say it rather than think it. I will not give in to the shadow of the light, that walks in darkness, that bays at the moon as if it is carrion. I am strong.
But am I strong enough to face the evil that walks our lands?
I consider this as the sound of footsteps begin to echo outside. Loud, heavy, thudding with intent, and filled with purpose—the creature, who comes to our village from a place beyond our lands, scrapes along the outside of our home and makes the shutters on the windows vibrate as its body presses against the glass.
Lord be with me.
“With us,” I whisper.
From the darkness of the home, Peter begins to cry.
“Quiet, Peter,” my father says.
He cries again.
“I said—”
The creature outside stops moving.
No, I think.
Surely it could not have heard him, and if it had, would not bother us. Would it?
The creature begins to shift along the house once ore.
The shutters bow.
My mother begins to cry. Why did I have to love him? her tears seem to say. To live with him? To have children with him?
Truth be told: I don’t know why she didn’t pressure my father to move us away. On horseback, we could have made ample progress. But my father—he is sentimental, and always claimed that the road is too long, that the creature’s territory too vast.
Come to me, the voice whispers. Come to me.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I won’t.”
“What’s wrong?” my mother asks. “Sabrina? Who are you talking to?”
“No one,” I reply. “I’m—I’m not talking to anyone.”
“Oh, dear lord,” my mother says. “It speaks to her, Robert. Oh, why oh why did you have to keep us here?”
“You know why,” my father says.
“No, Robert. I don’t.”
I reach up to press my hand over my ears as my mother’s crying intensifies.
Ignore the beast, I tell myself. Ignore the beast and you will be free.
For a moment, there is nothing but silence.
Then, I hear it speak again.
Come to me, it says.
Then, as if I have no will of my own, I move my hand to remove the covers from my person.
“Stop,” I whisper, as my fingers snarl through the linens, as they part the covers from over my body. “Please. Stop.”
“Sabrina?” my mother asks again. “What’re you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, as my feet slide off the edge of the bed. “It’s like… like I can’t control my body.”
“It’s controlling her,” my mother says, as outside something begins to tap on the door. “Oh, God who is in Heaven, please, hear me—”
The creature taps once more.
I move to stand.
My brother slides from bed and takes hold of my arm—
But I shrug free.
Then, slowly, I start toward the door.
I know I shouldn’t open the door. I know I shouldn’t. But I want to. Oh, yes. I want to—desperately at that. Like seeing an apple in a tree I want to pluck it free: to taste its fruits, to feel its passions, to know its secrets, to test its knowledge.
I start toward the door.
My mother runs forward and takes hold of my arms.
“Mother,” I say.
Come to me, it whispers.
“Ignore it!” my mother says. “Please, Sabrina! Ignore the beast!”
The doorknob begins to rattle.
My father moves toward the rifle.
“You can’t,” my mother says.
“Someone has to stand up for us,” he replies.
“But if it knows—” she starts.
“We already know the Devil,” he says.
The doorknob rattles once more.
My father settles his finger on the trigger.
Sweat beads his brow. Fear curls his lips. A pale breath rises from his mouth.
He lifts the gun, aims it at the doorway, and fires.
The sardonic bay of something that should not exist echoes into the house.
My father fires again.
The creature squeals like a dying pig.
He shoots a third time.
And the wood begins to splinter.
My mother screams.
My father cries out.
My little brother shrinks back, covering his eyes, his lips, his face.
And I, now able to break free from my mother’s arms, do so.
A jagged crack appears in the wood.
I see a sliver of flesh outside.
I smile.
My mother screams.
My father shouts.
The monster shrieks.
A gun is fired.
Blood sprays my face.
And though I want nothing more than to be free, my tongue slicks out to taste its wants, its desires, its utmost needs.
In moments, I reach out and open the door.
“Hello,” I whisper.
The creature centers a beady yellow eye on me.
I extend my arms just in time to hear my mother scream.
Then it takes me into the night.
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