Into the Void (a Short Story)
It is May 3rd 1940. I rushed to my study to write these words as soon as possible, for I do not have much time left. The insanity of man is upon me. This is the 15th night I have woken up from the same nightmare. The previous days, I ignored the sweat, tears and shaking upon regaining my consciousness, but today I cannot bear it any longer. The nightmare is becoming so vivid, I am starting to question what is the true reality. It all starts when my wife and I go to bed in the evening.
She is an avid book reader, and though I am her husband, she does not shy away from criticizing my published works. Upon reading my latest piece, she cannot help but worry about the state of my mind. The writing feels nihilistic, cold, distant, incoherent – nothing like what I would have written 2 or 3 years prior, she says. I assure her I am just exploring a new style, yet from her face I can see I am only wasting my breath – she does not believe me. She opens her mouth to say something, yet in that moment, our daughter opens the door and peeks inside. Bad dream – she asks if she can sleep with us. My wife agrees, so she comes up to the bed, climbing in between us. My wife strokes her hair, gently, and then gives her a hug. I close my eyes, breathe a heavy sigh, turn my head towards the foot of the bed. I open my eyes. There is a tall shadow figure standing in the room. No face. Long legs. Long arms with three long fingers. It walks to the bed. I am paralyzed. I cannot scream. I feel my heartrate getting faster. My wife and daughter do not see the monster. The shadow figure gets closer. And closer. My wife lets go of our daughter, telling her to lay down and sleep. The shadow figure reaches for my daughter's chest, burying it's fingers into it. Flesh tears, bones crack, blood soaks her night gown. My wife does not see it. She sits there, staring beyond our daughter's eyes. My daughter does not even flinch. The shadow fingers penetrate her chest through. They grasp her heart and rip it out. The shadow fingers hold it in front of me, as if it were showcasing a trophy. The heart is pulsating with life. Then the shadow fingers crush it to a bloody goo. It spills all over the bed. I sit there, unmoving, still paralyzed. My wife looks at me with her blue eyes, and blinks. At that moment, there are no blue irises looking at me. Just pure, pitch black. A soulless void. My daughter, up until now still looking at her mother, turns her gaze to me too. Pure, pitch black. A soulless void. All I can do is stare at it until it consumes me.
On May 4th 1940, the Arcibald family has been found dead in their mansion. The corpses of the mother and daughter, Lesley Arcibald and Hannah Arcibald, were severely mutilated. The police says it was so horrific, they cannot offer us a description. The head of the family, Otto Arcibald, was found hanged in his study. The police suspect Mr. Arcibald murdered his family and then committed suicide. The motive behind the murders is unknown. Relatives, friends and colleagues report that Otto Arcibald has not bee doing well as an author in the recent months. “He was mentally unstable and could have resorted to substance abuse,” says his sister, Elizabeth Gestrand. It truly is a tragedy that such a vile murder happened in our town again.
Made with love by Red.