Cornered: My Short Story Of the Week

Cornered

It started a few weeks ago—the figure. Always in my peripheral vision; never there when I turned my head.

At first, I thought it was only the hinge of my glasses playing tricks on me. That spot where the arm joins the frame—that little square. I’ve worn glasses my entire life and never had it happen before, but things can change.

Things have changed.

For the worse.

You understand. You’ve seen things that weren’t there—we all have. You look straight ahead, and—there—right at the edge of your vision … something. You move to investigate and … nothing.

It’s happened while I watched TV in my living room, worked on my laptop at the kitchen table, got out of the shower in my bathroom, even once when pulling into my garage.

The shape remained unchanged. I could recognize a head, shoulders, a torso, arms, legs—most definitely a person. But this form, it didn’t have a face. It didn’t distinctly have … anything. A black mass. A shadow pretending to be human.

My bedroom seemed to be its favorite haunt. I could feel it off in the corner of the room, or just beyond my doorway, or sometimes next to my nightstand. It came closer the moment I shut my eyes—I know it did. I’m certain it would lean down into my face, daring me to look at it. Didn’t it know I would love nothing more than to actually see it, even if it cost me my life?

Does that sound melodramatic?

It didn’t threaten me, at least, not overtly. Nonetheless, I found its presence threatening. Being watched, being unable to escape or confront a tormentor, it’s maddening. I feared it would drive me to do something extreme.

I didn’t want to hurt myself.

You probably have questions. I know what you’re thinking. The answer is no, I don’t have any medical conditions that would provoke a hallucination. And, like I said, this only started a few weeks ago—it hasn’t even been a month.

In fact, I’ve been able to trace the exact moment the … thing … entered my life.

It began when I read a text from someone I considered a good friend. (For the record, I no longer consider him as such.) He suffered from the same ailment—an entity plagued him as well. He died the day I received his message.

I initially found that fact ironic.

After talking to his wife, I realized his time of death coincided with the moment I read his text. Of course, I figured it was all a coincidence.

But what if it wasn’t?

It never followed me outside, but I had to come home at night—I had to sleep. Selling wasn’t an option. Living in hotels wasn’t financially feasible. My job performance worsened. My personal life fell apart. In a matter of weeks, my entire reality disintegrated.

I had to do something. I couldn’t take it anymore. Living with it could not be achieved.

Then a possibility emerged. What if, in order to get rid of it, I simply had to tell my story to someone else?

After all, that’s what my friend did to me.

Would it work? Should I expect to die like my friend did after he shared his plight? Did I have to choose someone like he chose me?

But who?

How could I single any one person out? I needed to find a way to make sure that whomever bore this burden would be randomly selected. My friend gave me no choice in the matter. I didn’t have it in me to be so callous. My recipient needed to somehow volunteer.

You’re beginning to understand.

I’m sorry.

You were being kind—a good friend—and I did this to you. I didn’t pick you, not specifically, but the fault is still mine.

I’m so sorry.

Do you see it yet? Is it over there, nearly out of sight, in the corner of your eye?


Copyright © 2019 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

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