Inanimate

  INANIMATE

  By Deryck Jason

  Prologue

  The beauty of youth is as follows:

  There is a time, before you understand the ways of the world (and some never do) when you attribute latter day common facts with monsters. When, as a child you would lie awake in bed wondering if the creaking in the hallway was a creature on its way to your room, or if the sound of a mouse in the attic was really some hideous beast scratching its way through the ceiling above your head. You would not dare to have an arm or a leg outside the blankets, for fear of it being eaten and you certainly would not dare to have any limb dangling off of the bed. Before you learned that thunderstorms were natural phenomena, (relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things) you may have believed they were the work of a demon; some great behemoth illuminating the skies and roaring terribly. You may have believed the creature that caused these things was a creature you saw on television and you may even have thought it had taken up residence in your bedroom. As you lay in bed, eyes stared back at you. Your favorite doll in the daytime suddenly became an outcast in the evenings; a shadowy figure that was possibly the cause of all of the strange goings on. Now I cannot say that all children look at their own dolls and picture horror, I cannot even say that all children believe in monsters, but it is a fact that most children do.

  In my case, I had shelves full of toys. I had stuffed toys, large robots, action figures and various other human-resembling playthings including one, bearing the likeness of a particularly famous cartoon character which I will not name. I am unsure as to when the fear started to manifest but I can tell you that it carried on for years. All these dolls had rigid, set smiles and in the darkness, when your eyes like to play tricks, was when they were at their most destructive.

  Nations all over the world adored this (unmentionable) character. The fact that he had such a loveable persona during the day and such a sinister one at night was not even the scariest part for me. The scariest part was the pull string on his back. One pull and a random phrase from six pre-programmed sayings would spew from his tight-lipped mouth. If, after pulling the string, you didn’t release it fast enough, a deeper, scratchier and more menacing version of the same phrase would come out. I knew these catchphrases by heart, millions did also, but no-one heard them as I did. Whenever I closed my eyes or turned my back on him I would hear one heart-chilling sentence. Whenever I was brave enough to turn around I would see him (and the others) staring back at me. Their faces had the same fixed smile they had during the day but it seemed different in the darkness. As if using the night for their own devilish purposes they could trick my eyes into seeing scowls or even winks. Some nights it would take hours, some nights, minutes, but in the end he would always break me. I would bawl, I would yell… carefully. Careful enough to wake up my parents but also-in my childish mind-careful not to let my tormentor know I was trying to tell on him. After I would yell I would survive one more night, but only because I got to sleep in my parent’s room. At the time I knew that tomorrow I would be alone with him again and that then I might not be so lucky.

  I woke up in a cold sweat; I must have dozed off quick that evening, but it was nothing to celebrate. Now I was awake and he was watching me again. As I stared back into his dead eyes I wondered if tonight was the night he would finally make his move. A master of patience it seemed he took his pleasure in making me wait, knowing there was nothing I could do. Who would have believed that he was trying to get me? The blankets felt tight around my body. They had to be. My mind allowed me to believe the blankets would save me so long as my body was wrapped in them. Really, what I wanted to do was hide my face, but I was convinced that if I took my eyes off him for a second then he definitely would get me. The air was cold around my face. The heating wasn’t switched on tonight but I didn’t care, heat was the least of my worries tonight. I had to do something. I had already called to my dad the previous three nights and I didn’t want my tormentor to get suspicious of me. So I got up. Carefully I got out of bed, swallowing hard as my little foot touched the carpet. I wouldn’t put it past my tormentor to have an accomplice under the bed, waiting to grab me at any moment. Trying not to arouse suspicion, I looked down the hallway to the bathroom at the end. It was silly that I did this. If this monster could read my mind he would know that I was not actually going to go to the bathroom (as my rouse would suggest) but was, in fact going to my parent’s bedroom just beside it. My eyes could not see the walled staircase that lined the now pitch black hallway but I knew it was there. Despite my young age I already had my route committed to memory. Stealing an innocently veiled glance at my tormentor I started to walk slowly out of my bedroom. My brain was screaming at me to move faster as now I had my back turned to him but I couldn’t let him think I was going anywhere except the bathroom so I kept my pace slow. It was pitch black but still I knew my parents’ door was closed. It always was. The feeling of eyes burning into the back of me was overwhelming. I had to turn around. I did. Nothing but eyes. Nothing but staring. The little moonlight trickling in through my pale, star covered curtains caught every one of their eyes, illuminating them ever so slightly. I turned back around and approached the door quickly; darkness seemed to be enveloping me. With a trembling hand I grasped the brass door handle. Snores from within told me I was so close to safety, but my next problem was right in front of me. Memory told me the door handle was stiff and loud. I knew that as soon as I tried to open it I had to be quick, for the noise would alert my tormentor of my intentions and I would be in trouble. I could hear my parents snoring on the other side of the door. With a breath I counted down from three in my head. Three. Two. One. I turned the handle downwards but it didn’t open, it did however, make that loud grunting sound I was so morbidly afraid of. And then it happened, something dropped from that high shelf in my room. I heard the thud in the darkness. Swallowing hard I looked down the hall at the murky pool of darkness filling my bedroom. As if he had planned it all along, a faint flicker of air nudged my curtains just enough to allow a sprinkle of moonlight through. That moonlight illuminated the face of my tormentor just enough to allow his eyes to flicker in the darkness. The curtains silently closed over, as if they were never open and for a moment it was completely silent. I could no longer hear snoring, nothing. Footsteps. Awkward, clumsy but constant footsteps. I had to end this, and fast. I turned towards the handle, frantically pawing at it with my boyish hands. It wasn’t working, it had given up. Footsteps grew closer and closer. I couldn’t breathe, hot tears streamed down my cheeks. Why wouldn’t the handle work? Then it got me. I was tackled hard from behind, pinning me to the ground. I smelled breath, as foul as decay. I felt hard plastic that pulsed like cockroaches were running around underneath it. And then I felt blunt, crooked teeth. And then a large mouth clamped down on top of me. And then it was over.

  This time I really woke. It was a nightmare. But it was not all imagined. I awoke, wide-eyed, frozen in terror as my tormentor was where he always was, watching me from his shelf. The night shaped his face into mocking, he had created nightmares for me and he was proud of the fact. I could not escape now, it didn’t matter if I was awake or asleep he would get me. Losing hope I cried out. Dad had only a few hours before he had to be up for work and he was fed up with all this. I had been waking him up for some time and he felt I had not given him a legitimate reason as to why. Until tonight. His bedroom door swung open furiously; he stomped down the hallway into mine.

  “What is it this time? I need to get some sleep.”

  He was careful not to yell, there were others in the house.

  “It’s them, they’re scaring me.”

  I whimpered, careful not to single out my tormentor.

  “Them?” Dad asked contemptuously.

&nb
sp; This one word showed more defiance to my tormentor than I had ever shown in all the years combined.

  “It’s taken care of” he said, quietly regretting ever buying me any toys at all. Grabbing each one from their shelf as if he wasn’t concerned for what they would do to me he stormed down the hall and tossed each one down the stairs.

  “Now, get some sleep” he said as he powered back down the hallway and closed his door firmly. He knew I didn’t like to sleep with my door closed but I wish he had closed it that night. There was no way I could sleep. My frightened little ears alerted me to every sound, every creak that was going on around me. I was scared enough when I knew exactly where my tormentor was, but now, he was out of my sight. In my kind, he could have been anywhere.

  To this day I still recall what happened next. And to this day I swear it really happened. Footsteps. Little footsteps, plodding up the stairs. Intent on coming after me. I stared down the hallway into the darkness. I didn’t want to look but I couldn’t bring myself to look away. The top step of our staircase had a distinctive thump when it was stepped on; this was the sound that made me hide under the blankets. This was the sound that caused many, many sleepless nights afterwards.

  Underneath the blanket I lay trembling, my tormentor’s eyes sporadically flashing into my head. I heard creaking that sounded like footsteps. I would later learn this is caused by the house contracting/expanding in different temperatures. I heard whispering. I would later read somewhere that wind coming in from open windows can sound like whispering to a frightened child. I was sure I even heard my door slowly creaking closed but that was probably just my imagination. Either way it took me a long time to get to sleep after that.

  Currently, as I write this, my tormentor is still in the house. Through unconnected circumstances I switched bedrooms with my sister years ago but all my “toys” are still in my old room, buried deep in the back of my closet. I have no intention of getting rid of him. Knowing he’s there, in my old bedroom serves as a reminder that all the scientific explanations on earth will do very little to calm a child’s imagination. Beliefs in dark, mysterious and often evil things are common place in a young mind but as we grow older we tend to dismiss them as foolish stories. It’s odd knowing that, although billions of people believe in some variation of an unspeakable place called Hell, hardly anyone would believe that a child’s darkest fears could actually exist. I believe there are those who have the power to make these fears a reality if it serves them to. I believe omnipotent beings like demons get bored in the underworld and come up to us from time to time to remedy their boredom.

  The boy in this story does not have the same fears as I did when I was a child. Instead, he develops a bond with his dolls, a bond that will come to aid him in what becomes his mission in life. Together, they remind others of the fears they shared as children, but only for the length of time he chooses to keep them alive…

  CHAPTER 1

  7:45 am. The bedroom door opened and a kindly looking man poked his face in.

  “Time to get up son.”

  But Connor didn’t need anybody to wake him; he was already up and looking forward to leaving.

  “Ok dad” the boy said excitedly.

  “I’m going to work now, but I’ll see you when I get back ok? Have a good first day.” The man said while leaving the room.

  “Thanks dad” the boy replied, stepping out of bed leaving his bear tucked in behind him.

  The boy stood in front of his stuffed toys. A colorful clown, two small ventriloquist dummies and a toy Labrador dog his cousin gave him all stare back at him from the corner of his room. “First day boys!” The youngster stated with an air of confidence, pausing a moment before nodding in acceptance as if imagining their approval. Connor trotted down the hall into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. The house was well kept, the hallways meticulously clear, due solely to his dad being overly conscious about fire safety. Many seminars at his job had drilled that concept into him and he felt it important to be overly careful at home. The whir of Connors electric toothbrush made him happy. He liked to have clean teeth and the noise of the brush helped him believe a job was being done well. With a click, he set the brush down and turned on the shower. After lathering up his hair he quickly wiped the soap over his body. His hair was the most important thing to wash. That and under the arms. His dad told him that; his father was always giving him clever little tips like this.

  “If you don’t wash your hair people will know you haven’t showered. That’s why when I’m running late for work I just put some water through mine, deodorant does the rest.”

  His dad would say this to him as a joke. Connor could never remember him ever being late for work, but still, the concept was sound. So he washed the hair on his head and then went for the second most important area, the smelly place: The armpits. Although he was nowhere close to growing hair under his arms, he liked to make sure he smelled clean. His mother would know if he didn’t shower properly and he didn’t want to have to shower again. He didn’t want to be late for his first day of school.

  Toast and strawberry jam. That’s what Martha Williams liked for breakfast. “Simple, sweet and elegant” her Scottish mother used to say. “Alongside a cup of tea you couldn’t ask for a better start to your day.” Connor was brought up this way too. So when he came out of the shower, dressed and ready for breakfast he knew exactly what to expect. Given his mother’s background, tea was always Orange Pekoe but she would never refer to it as that, it would simply be tea. Still, Connor never took it; orange juice was good enough for him.

  “You know you probably should have eaten before you got dressed.” Martha said with a drizzle of sarcasm.

  “I know,” retorted the youngster as he carefully bit round the edges of the slice, avoiding the dreaded crumbs on his shirt.

  Watching the care and deliberateness of her son’s manner in which to eat toast without making a mess Martha could not help but be amused.

  “Are you all set to go?” she asked

  “Yep I have pencils, crayons, a ruler and an eraser in my pencil case, all packed up in my bag. I just need my lunch and I’m ready to go.”

  “Lunch?” asked his mother. “You didn’t tell me you needed that. I thought they fed you at school.”

  Connor was slightly put out. “Well I need money then, for the cafeteria.”

  “Money? What’s that?”

  Connor suddenly realized his mom was just joking with him. “Come on, mom!”

  “No, I’m serious, you might have to starve then I’m afraid.”

  Martha gestured as if to say “oh well” but Connor wasn’t buying it, he was too smart.

  “I’ll meet you by the door” Connor stated, turning his nose up in a snobbish fashion.

  “Wait!” demanded Martha “What do I get?”

  Martha and Connor both looked at each other for a long moment, the woman’s long dark hair framed her pretty face. The boy relented, running to his mother and giving her a hug. Martha did enjoy her little games.

  “Smile Connor!”

  The camera flash dazzled the youngster and he rubbed his eyes.

  “Mom, I’m going to be late!”

  Fondly, the woman smiled at her son.

  “I just want to get one more picture before we leave. You look so handsome in your uniform.”

  “This is not a uniform mom; it’s just my school clothes.”

  “Same thing!” His mother giggled as she snapped another picture.

  Martha Williams wanted her son to wear a uniform like she did when she lived in Scotland. But this was America. And in America, public schoolchildren seldom wore uniforms. But she would be damned if Connor was going to go to school looking “like a scruff.” She picked him up a nice brown opened necked polo shirt with a classic pair of blue jeans. “Stylish yet comfortable” she called it; but Connor didn’t care, he was anxious for his first day of class. He was smart for a five year old. Although most children were 6 when they move into
the first grade, Connor’s kindergarten teacher had suggested he start a year early due to unusually high intelligence level. As a mother, Martha could not have been more proud to hear this.

  “You’ll wipe the floor with them Connor.”

  Connor smiled. “Can we go now mom? The bus will be here soon”

  Connor waited patiently with Martha on the sidewalk. His stomach tingled when he saw the big yellow bus pull up alongside him.

  “This is it, my first day.”

  Connor fidgeted as Martha fixed his collar and patted at his chest, clearing off some fluff. Patiently, the driver waits; he knew this would be his longest trip of the year, with all the protective mothers reluctant to let their kids go for the first time. Martha smiled proudly, her joy that her only son had grown up shone like the sun from her face.

  “Mom, you’re embarrassing me.”

  “Oh, of course, sorry” she said, smiling fondly.

  “Go on then, have fun. Me and dad will be here when you get home”

  Connor jogged on to the bus. Unlike most children his age he was not shy; instead he smiled at the burly driver and went to find a seat. Since his was one of the first houses on the driver’s route he had his choice of almost any seat. So he chose one next to where his mom was standing. Martha waved at him, mouthing “Good Luck” and “I Love You” as the bus pulled away from the curb. Connor sat back and smiled. Today was his first day of school and nothing was going to spoil it for him.

  The backwind from the bus blew Martha’s hair a little, along with blowing a selection of fallen leaves from the overhead elms gently down the street. Motherly she stood, watching the big yellow cheese-wagon disappear round the corner. Not one to get overly emotional, Martha simply smiled fondly at the realization her little boy had grown up. The light breeze disguised the subtle sun, poking through the clouds at points. One glance off to the distance let her know that in a few hours the day would be beautiful. Now however, it was just starting out. Still though, there was a little chill in the morning air, so she folded her arms and turned to head up the garden path. She didn’t slow down to admire the flowers Andy planted in the summer; the roses and the tulips sure did have some color in them. This pleased her because the summer was over and still the benefits were lingering. As she walked briskly, noise seemed to disappear. The neighborhood was generally quiet in the morning but not like this. She hadn’t really noticed earlier, what with all the hustle of getting Connor ready to go, but she definitely noticed now. The wooden porch stepped thump as she jogged up them. She turned the door knob but something stopped her entering, a feeling she was being watched. Still holding on to the knob she turned her head to the left. A large man startled her. Dressed like he had been jogging the man stared at her, poised like he needed to tell her something. Confidently, Martha looked back at the man, but her apprehension was showing more than she’d like.