The Story of Isaac, Part 1.

This story took place several times over, but the cautionary tale was never heeded.

Most – if not all – children suffer from achluophobia, at some point. Isaac was no different, though it was, perhaps, odd how long his fear of the dark lasted. At least, his father expressed that concern to his coworkers, many of whom had children of their own. The need for night-lights and the belief in ‘the boogeyman’ would end soon, both parents assured him. His mother would check the closet, and look underneath his bed. His father would read him a book to take his mind off the impending darkness, and he always left Isaac’s bedroom door open a crack, as well as a light on in the hallway.

Isaac also had a nightlight, plugged in day and night, the bulb regularly changed. His father put in Christmas lights, so the light would take on a colorful tinge – it dampened the brightness, but things sometimes didn’t seem so frightening when bathed in orange or purple light, instead of the paleness of a bare bulb. They’d rearranged his entire bedroom so that his bed was right beside the outlet.

His mother and father would helplessly continue their routine, assuring him again and again that there were no monsters lurking in the dark. Isaac’s mother was almost obsessively thorough in keeping her son’s room tidy and uncluttered, trying to ensure there wasn’t much around to cast warped shadows. One might have thought they were either very poor, or that Isaac was very neglected – there was little more than furniture, in his bedroom, and it was all so sparse and immaculate that no one would have guessed it belonged to a child. It was almost…restrictively dull, but it was all his parents could think to do.

Isaac’s sleeping patterns didn’t improve. He was listless all the time, falling asleep in his classes, with circles under his eyes that were so dark that he looked bruised. His teachers called home often, and there were two investigations looking into whether or not Isaac was being abused.

His father was losing sleep, as well, and Isaac hated himself for putting his parents through this. The stress, the suspicion, the helpless exasperation. Still…he was certain he saw movement, in the shadows.

They plagued him every night, rustling around and creeping against his walls. Isaac would pull his blankets up to his chin, huddled into as compact of a corner as he could manage, eyes flitting around wildly to every little movement. There was something there, he insisted. He was sure of it.

He was thirteen years old when he first felt them.

The light beside his bed that he was so vigilant in monitoring flickered, and died. It must have been a faulty bulb, and as jolted as he was, there was still the hallway light to see by. That was just barely enough to fix it. He had some spares, in the drawer of his nightstand – just in case.

Shaking a little, Isaac eyed the shadows moving against the wall, and opened the drawer.

His bedroom door shut.

It could have been a breeze, from his open window.

Isaac thought otherwise.

It was pitch-dark in his bedroom, and Isaac was nearly biting through his lip, trying not to cry. He wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t wake his parents…not over a silly fear. He could go to turn on his light, or open his door…but leaving the imagined-safety of his bed was just as terrifying as remaining in the dark all night. His fingers fumbled for one of the little light bulbs and grabbed one almost too-tight.

He knew where the outlet was. He was working blind, but fast. They were there. They were in the room, with him. He could feel them. He could hear them.

He reached for the night-light.

The pain that shook his hand and lurched up his arm made him scream.

In a flash, the light switch was flicked, and the door was open – his mother rocked him back and forth as he cried, and reassured him that he must have dreamed that something had broken his hand. She held him until morning.