What We See in the Dark

Sometimes you look out the car window and see them – running alongside you.

You aren’t sure what they are exactly, these strange beings, but you only see them when you least expect it, when your guard is down and then they slip out from the shadows of the trees along the tarmac road and follow the car down the highway.

You are never quite sure if you’re dreaming. Every childhood is founded upon dreams, for children are prone to seeing things that aren’t there. They believe in the most outlandish tales without needing to question them. An interactive imagination that seeps out into reality is hardly a revelation. Children always have an uncanny ability to find the unnerving things in everyday situations.

Do you remember the time you heard the cries of lost sailors in the spiral seashells lining your Grandmother’s bathtub? Or how you crawled through the split womb of that ancient oak tree down by the river? Do you remember when you believed the world was fantastical?

The difference between make-believe and reality has always been apparent, even when you were younger. But now, at the cusp of teenage years, you are certain that they are real.

They hadn’t appeared for some time though, so you couldn’t be sure. Not fully. Not until you had questioned yourself to the point of exhaustion, wondering whether you’d simply lost your mind. Now, as you teeter at the brink of madness, they come back.

Black, they are. And big, hulking bodies made up of edges and lines that do not soften even as the heat from the engine hits them. They are long too, widening and thickening each time you see them, viscous and condensed into that tar-like consistency, until they are near the size of the car itself.

You cannot make out what they are. They are nothing like you’ve ever seen before yet something about the rippling movement reminds you of greyhounds racing down a track, of the casual grace in a wildcat’s spring that alerts you to its predatory intent.

So you look outside and you wait. They emerge so fluidly from the shadows of trees, zipped away in an instant, keeping pace with the car with such simple elegance that the hairs of your arms rise, unbidden.

You lean forward, your cheek damp against the window as you watch them. You tap the glass.

They do not react, focus narrowed in on their destination. They ignore every attempt you make to catch their attention; invisible you remain, too unremarkable for them to bother.

Another tap and still nothing. You resort to banging your fist now, enthralled by the fluid motion of their running and curious whether they will take any notice. The window rattles with each thump.

Your mother turns around and asks what all the commotion is about. You don't try to explain. The frequent doctors’ appointments are already beginning to wear you out and it’s not worth the effort it would take for your words. She doesn’t see them. Nobody ever does.

When you look again, white teeth press against the window, only closely followed by a bright gleaming eye, with a pupil so black you can see your own terrified face reflected back at you. You can’t scream; its eye paralyses you with fright and although you want to cry out, for all your efforts the roof of your mouth is glued down. The sensation is beyond words. There is no way to convey the absolute horror you feel, trapped, unable to move, as those teeth – sharp, ravenous and hungry – disappear behind an enormous pink tongue and fade away into nothing.

Instantly, your teeth are chattering together and shivers erupt over your body like a chill.

It’s not cold inside the protection of the car, you’re in a t-shirt despite the overcast sky. Fear makes it stick to your body, the car’s interior suddenly suffocating. Your mother notices and makes to wind down the window but you hurry to stop her.

Over and over, in your mind’s eye, all you can see is that pink tongue unfurling over sharpened, expectant canines.

Once you might have laughed at that, the bright colour of the tongue lulling you into a sense of false security. After all, nothing the colour of a candy floss, of Mrs David’s poodle-next-door, could ever be remotely sinister. Besides, you are safe inside the car with your mother. They can’t get you with her here.

The instant you think this, mentally clutching this paltry defence, that dark inky eye suddenly looks amused. Wide teeth curve up into a shark’s mocking grin. One of them catches on the glass, chipping the smoothness, and a tiny crack makes its way down the window.

You swallow. Today changes things.

There are things that run alongside the car. If you look carefully — there! Can’t you see them? Moving closer and closer to the passenger window until you no longer need to look as carefully. You only see them when your guard is down and by then, it’s too late. You’ve made them aware of your presence; by seeing them, they’ve noticed you. Fear has made you a target.

And, now that you’ve seen them watching you, they will remember. They will come for you, maybe months, maybe years later.

What happens next is too bloody to account so the best advice is to drive. Drive as far and for as long as possible and don’t stop until the sun is high and the shadows have gone.

But stay alert. After all, they’re hungry, can’t you tell?