The Dark Somnium - My Neighborhood Has Been Invaded

Episode Date: May 10, 2024

This scary story was written by T.W Grim, make sure to check out the authors other works here: https://www.veloxbooks.com/book/a-different-kind-of-magic/Special thanks to  @RomNex  for joining me in this! Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Craig just wanted to watch some TV before bed. A simple thing to ask for him, really, but could he find the remote? Of course not. He had just begun the process of pulling out all the couch cushions when someone started to knock on the front door, rapid and insistent. He let out an annoyed grunt and looked at the clock on the wall. It was five minutes to eleven. Uh, who is that? From the kitchen, Elsie called out.

Is there someone at the door? Yeah, can you see who it would have? He yelled back. I'm busy over here. I'm looking for the remote. I can't find the stupid thing anywhere. I'm kind of busy too, Craig. Can't you please do it?

Elsie hollered back. She was fixing herself a bag of popcorn, and it had just started to pop, emitting tiny, greasy firecracker explosions in the microwave. It's kind of late, isn't it? Don't open the door unless you know who it is. He growled and stomped over to the door, a storm cloud brewing over his head. Who is it?

Craig was answered by more brisk rapping. His lip curled, and he peeked through the doorhole with a surly, what do you want, poised on the tip of his tongue. The words crumbled in his mouth. It was Mandy McTavish, the next-door neighbor's seven-year-old daughter. She was standing on the front porch all by herself, wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms in the January cold. Her tiny feet were bare and ghostly white in the amber glow of the overhead porch light.

Craig gasped. What the? And he yanked open the door. Mandy, what are you doing here? You don't even have any shoes on, honey? Something wrong? The little girl looked up at him with a frozen non-expression, perfectly smooth and neutral. Craig had time to register that her eyes seemed strangely reflective in the muted light,

almost as if they were emitting a yellowish glow. And then the girl's arm suddenly shot forward in a blur, fingers hooked to seize the front of his hooded sweatshirt. Craig flinched back from the unexpected movement, but Mandy's hands stopped just short of reaching across the threshold. Craig looked down at them in goggle-eyed surprise. What? Mandy squeaked out a creaky little mule and dropped her arms to her side. A thin, delicate string of drool slipped from the corner of her mouth and ran down the side of her chin. Her voice dragged out in a rusty, atonal drone, the exact opposite of her usually bright-eyed, lelting little chirp.

This was the croak of an ancient crone, a noxious old wretch suffering through the final hours of a long, odious existence. Craig felt a shiver raced down his spine. He blinked and cleared his throat. What do you mean us, Mandy? Is everything okay at home? Craig looked down into the girl's luminescent gaze, and for a second or two, he found himself wanting to do just that, to step back and invite her in.

But at the same time, he didn't want to, because something was really. Wrong. Horribly wrong. A finger of unease trailed down his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The look on Mandy's face, the white pallor of her skin, and even though she was out there in the bitter cold in only her thin pajamas, the kid wasn't shivering in the slightest. She was just a skinny little stick of a girl. How could she not be freezing out there? His gaze had strayed down to the little girl's bare feet again. And this time, he realized they weren't actually making contact with the all-weather carpet that covered the front porch. Mandy was floating several inches in the air.

There weren't any footprints in the snow behind her either. Craig's heart abruptly started to pound in his chest. He thought, this isn't Mandy. It's not her. It was a crazy thought, a nonsensical thought, but it was true. This wasn't sweet, happy-go-lucky little Mandy McTavish, not at all. This was a monster. Craig found himself swinging the door shut.

He didn't know what was going on, but he knew that it was wrong, and that was enough. Us? Mandy repeated, and the door slammed shut on her strange, blank little face. Craig turned the deadbolt and sled the chain in place, his hands shaking. No, no, you can't come in. Go away. Craig slowly backpedaled down the short hall, dreading the sound of another knock, and he let out a little shriek when Elsie's questioning hand. settled on his shoulder. He spun around, and his elbow knocked over her bowl of popcorn. It shattered

against the wall. Popcorn and shards of glass sprayed across the floor. Elsie cawed like a startled cow and smacked him dead center in the chest with an open-handed slap. Jesus, what the hell, Craig? Look what you did? What are you— Elsie, don't open the door. The words came out as a quivering plea. If she knocks again, ignore it, okay? Don't open that door. What? What are you talking? talking about? Who's out there? Elsie pushed past him, still yammering out a barrage of unanswered questions, and Craig grabbed her arm hard enough to make her gasp. I said don't open the door. Elsie smacked his hand away. What is wrong with you? Her face was pinched into an expression of bewildered annoyance. Broken bowl, popcorn mess on the floor, husband gone crazy. What the hell is this? Craig

scuttled after her in an agony of anxiety. His throat felt arid and tight. She turned to scowl up at him, still indignantly rubbing her chin. Craig, I can't believe that I'm actually going to say this. But are you high or something? I mean, really? Is this a joke? Because I'm not laughing. There was someone there.

It was Mandy McTavish. She was in her pajamas and she was out there all by herself. She told me to let her in, but I didn't. I didn't dare. I don't even know how to say this, but she wasn't. She wasn't what? Poor little Mandy was out there all alone in her PJs, and you didn't let her into the house? Craig!

He struggled to find the words to express the terror he just felt, the overwhelming sense of impending doom, but he couldn't think of a way to express himself that wouldn't sound completely insane. What was he going to say that Mandy was floating in the air, that she hadn't left any footprints in the fresh snow? He ran his hands through his hair and let out a long, heaving sigh. Something was just... It was just completely off, Elsie. I can't properly explain it, but it made my skin crawl, and I... Elsie turned her back on him and started to unhook the chain.

He lunged at her and caught her hand in both of his. Don't! Please don't do that, hon. I mean it. Don't do it. Craig. His wife trailed off. She blinked up at him, completely nonplussed.

Are you... Are you okay? No, he thought. I'm not okay. I'm scared. There was a scream outside. shrill and desperate. The Renfrews both jumped in unison.

Elsie clawed back the little lace curtain that covered the doorlight, and they crowded together to peer outside, clutching each other like frightened children. A woman wearing only a bathrobe and one fuzzy slipper ran into view, all out sprinting down the middle of the street, with her hair streaming back in the frigid breeze, and her mouth gaping open to let out another scream. A smaller form streaked in from behind and slammed into her with immense force. There was a flash of movement, and then wham. Two bodies were rolling together in the powdery snow,

tumbling in a flailing tangle of limbs. There was one last shriek, high pitch, and raw, and the two struggling forms rolled out of sight. The street was quiet again. If it weren't for the disturbance in the snow, it would have been as if nothing had happened out there at all. Elsie turned to Craig with a shocked, stricken look on her face. What just happened?

Was that Vicki Pinbrook? I think it was. Keep your voice down, okay? Turn off the hall light. Turn off all the lights. But, Vicki. Elsie gestured weakly at the door. No, we aren't going out there.

Are you crazy? Craig reached out and flicked the switch on the hall light himself. I'm calling the cops. I don't know how I'm going to explain myself without sounding like a lunatic, but I'm calling them anyway. Craig crept back to the front door and turned off the outside light. He took another peek outside and froze. I think I'm going to bed now. Okay?

Elsie's lip trembled. She was struggling against tears. I don't like this, and I'm freaked out, and I just want to go lay down. Craig barely heard what she was saying. He was too busy staring out the window with a look of horror on his face. He took a deep breath and said, Not just yet, hon. Can you come here and tell me if you see what I'm seeing?

The woman with the bathrobe and single fuzzy slipper was back. Elsie was right. It was Vicki Penbrook, long-time neighbor and soccer mom extraordinaire. She was gliding down the street with her feet hovering several inches off the surface of the road, her bathrobe now loose and flapping around behind her in this stiff, icy breeze. Her face was completely devoid of emotion, slack and flat. Like she's dead, Craig thought, and he felt a rash of goosebumps break out on his arms, dead and laying in a slab in the morgue.

Oh, my God. Elsie whispered. Look at her feet. Her feet aren't touching the ground. Vicky stopped directly in front of their house. She tilted her head back and appeared to be sniffing the air, a predator catching scent of its prey. How cold is it tonight? Almost 20 below.

Elsie turned and clutched Craig's arm. She's just about naked out there and she doesn't even seem to notice. Vicky revolved in midair to face the house. Even though Craig and Elsie were crouched down in the dark, he was sure she was looking directly at them. Craig hissed, get away from the door. and he grabbed his wife by the waist to haul her into the deeper shadows of the hallway. Vicky floated smoothly up to their front porch and ascended the steps. Her face was still and serene as a statue.

Vicky levitated across the porch in that surreal, dreamlike manner and stopped in front of the door, still sniffing delicately at the air. Vicki's eyes were glowing a dull, silky shade of yellow. She started to knock on the door, the rhythm rapid and insistent. Craig pulled Elsie close and they huddled together against the wall. Vicky called out. She spoke in the same dead, dragging rasp as Mandy McTavish, the rattle of dead leaves in a frozen gutter. What's wrong with her?

Elsie whispered. Her eyes were very wide and wet. Craig, I'm scared. This is freaking me out. Me too. Don't listen to her. Come on. He led his wife back into the living room, stepping gingerly through the mess of broken glass.

and popcorn on the floor. He sat her down on the couch and grabbed his cell phone off the table. It was time to call the cops. There was a long moment of silence on the other end, a loud click, and then the mindless, one-tone busy signal. Like hell, really? I call 911, I can't even get an automated message on the line? Vicky finally stopped rapping on the front door, and the silence that came after was unsettling.

They looked at each other with the same troubling question in their eyes. What do we do now? Maybe we should make a run for one of the cars. Elsie was picking nervously at her pajama pants, harvesting invisible lint with pecking fingers. Jump in and peel out of here. Should we risk it? I don't know about that. I don't think we should.

Whatever tackled Vicky out on the street, it was fast. Craig hesitated and added. I'm not completely sure, but I think it was Mandy that jumped on her. I mean, it was all over so quick. I hardly even saw what happened. But I'm pretty sure. it was her. So we just sit here and...

What? Wait? Elsie clutched her hands together in her lap and squirmed. I don't want to stay here. I don't feel safe. What if they try to break in? I don't think they can break in. We have to let them in.

I had the door wide open when Mandy was on the porch and she tried to grab me, but she couldn't seem to reach past the doorway. I think we're safe here. Out there, though. He sat down on the couch beside his wife and put his arm around her. She curled into him and grabbed his hand. Her palm was hot and sweaty. What's wrong with them?

I don't understand this. I mean, it's like they're turned into... Elsie trailed off. She didn't need to finish. Craig knew what she was trying to say. The idea was ludicrous, of course. Vampires weren't real. They were purely a figment of imagination,

the stuff of bad novels and even worse movies. But people can't float around through the air, can they? People can't. Try the police again. Elsie demanded. Keep trying. He tried again and shook his head. Still can't get through.

Elsie tensed. She held up a finger and said, Shh, do you hear that? Craig held his breath and listened. After a moment, he heard it too. Faint, but clear, the hectic, hysterical wailing of multiple sirens in the distance. No wonder you can't get through.

Sounds like every cop car, fire truck, and ambulance, and the whole city is out there right now. Trying to deal with this. She paused, then added. Whatever this is, even... And let out an unsteady little cackle. Craig reached over and clicked off the standing lamp in the corner, plunging the living room into gloom.

You were right. We can't wait for someone to save us. We need to get out of here. We'll just sit here and be quiet and wait for a little while. If the coast looks clear later on, we'll make a run for one of the cars and get out of here. Elsie's reply was interrupted by a volley of muffled screams. They were coming from somewhere close by, no more than a few houses away.

A medley of terrified shrieks echoed and rebounded down the empty street. Wordless cries of horror and agony. Craig put his arms around his wife and they hugged each other, both of them clamping down hard against screams of their own. A man's voice rose above the din. Keep away from me! There was a loud gunshot, and the man's hysterics suddenly cut off mid-wale. In the thick silence that followed, the only sound to be heard at 19 Chessnaut Street were the wind moaning across the leaves and the Renfrews' own ragged, shallow breathing.

They let them in. Craig whispered, They shouldn't have let them in. He pulled Elsie a little closer. They cringed in the dark and clutched each other as chaos laid waste to the world outside the walls of their home. Shortly after midnight, the Renfrews decided to sequester themselves upstairs in their bedroom. They barricaded the door with Elsie's heavy antique bureau.

The frequent rapping at the front door was fainter now, which was a blessing, but they could still hear the occasional bout of screaming echo up and down the length of Chestnut Street. The knocking was bad, but the screams were much, much worse. Craig was watching the street below from the bedroom window. He'd seen far more than he really cared to see. By this point, some kind of fatalistic, morbid curiosity was compelling him to continue watching. The street was slowly filling with people dressed for bed in their pajamas, wrapped in bath towels, and sometimes even completely naked, out in the frigid cold.

They were all people from the neighborhood, familiar faces. They came in twos and threes, sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups, and their feet never touched the ground. They knocked on doors, and occasionally someone would let them in. Their numbers steadily grew larger. The glow of approaching headlights lit up the street, and a weathered-looking Jeep Cherokee slowed to turn into the driveway of the house directly across from the Renfrews. Its back end fish-tailing a bit on the fresh snow.

Craig's breath caught in his throat. The guy across the street just came back home from work. He just pulled into his driveway. Elsie poked an arm out from underneath the comforter and waved her hand dismissively. They're going to get him. She murmured, and she pulled her arm back under her protective, quilted shield. Just like they probably got Darren. You don't know that.

Craig snapped. Just because he's not answering his phone, it doesn't mean that he... Craig trailed off. What? Then he let them in? Maybe he wasn't inside when it started. Did you think of that? He could have been out on the town with his roommates.

He's in college, Craig. They're always going out. They don't care if it's a Tuesday night. Shh, he's getting out. Craig pressed his forehead to the glass and held his breath. The neighbor across the street was a stocking. a skirly-looking guy with a shaved head. Craig had never actually spoken to the man in the entire nine years he had been living on Chessna

Street. All he knew about the guy was that he appeared to work a steady afternoon shift. He lived alone, and he was fond of spending his Sunday afternoons blaring classic rock while detailing his Jeep in the driveway. Elsie was right. Outside of his house, he would be helpless, easy prey. They would get him. Craig wished there was some way he could warn him, but he couldn't think of a way to

do it and still managed to remain unnoticed. All he could do was watch it happen. Mr. Jeep heaved himself out of his vehicle with his lunch bag in hand and stomped up to his front step, kicking up the snow in spiteful little puffs as he went. He paused on the first step and turned to look behind him, his expression changing from his usual stony belligerence to one of shock and surprise. He muttered something in a puff of vapor and took a few hesitant steps forward. His cluster of keys dangling loose and forgotten in hand. Mr. Jeep's eyes went wide, and he stopped dead in his tracks. He dropped his lunchback and whirled around to run for his door, but it was too late. They came for him, five streaks of blurred movement darting in from every direction. They slammed

into the man and threw him to his driveway with bone-crushing force. In a blink of an eye, he was covered in a blanket of bodies, a pride of starving lines and sweatpants and nightgowns. The fiends tore off Mr. Jeep's coat and shredded his work uniform with scrabbling hands, throwing ragged flaps of blue cloth to swirl and flap away in the wind. Jesus! Craig moaned. They got him. The attackers pressed their faces into the man's exposed flesh, and he screamed in agony.

It was over in seconds. They levitated away from the crumpled body like a video run in reverse, and they all glided off without looking back at their victim. Mr. Jeep lay face down in his driveway, naked. save for his underwear, work boots, and a few scraps of his uniform. His skin was shockingly pale in the glow of the streetlights. Craig couldn't see any visible wounds on the body. He turned to the lump under the blankets and said,

They ripped the guy's clothes off and they went at him like they were feeding on him, eating him, but they didn't even break the skin, not a single scratch. I don't want to know the details. Don't tell me anything like that. You got it? I don't want to know. They were feeding on him, but what were they eating? What did they take from him?

His soul, he murmured, and he instinctively knew this was the correct answer. He nodded to himself thoughtfully and turned back to the window, morbid curiosity pushing past his fear. How long would it take for Mr. Jeep to turn? Craig froze. Mr. Jeep was already on his feet, and he was looking directly up at their bedroom window. But he wasn't really on his foot. feet so much as he was hovering several inches in the air, impossibly weightless and buoyant. The streetlights were shining brightly in front of his house, but Mr. Jeep wasn't casting a shadow

on the ground behind him. None at all. Craig backed away from the window. He decided he'd seen enough for tonight. He sat down on the bed beside Elsie and waited for the knock on his front door. Moments later, it came, loud and insistent. Elsie squirmed beneath her blanket fort. Craig rubbed her back until Mr. Jeep finally gave up and wandered off. He lay with her on the bed for a while and tried to think what they could do to save themselves. Their situation was bleak. He whispered, Should I try the radio again? What do you think, honey? Elsie didn't answer. Craig sighed and clicked on the little radio alarm clock on the side of his bed. An hour ago, most of the stations had been broadcasting pre-programmed blocks of music, or dead air, which was troubling. But now,

Almost all of them were blasting out an emergency broadcast message on a repeating loop. It consisted of several seconds of a high-pitched tone followed by a robotic-sounding voice that said, A wave of violent civil unrest has spread across the nation. Marshall Law has been declared. Please stay inside and do not attempt to travel. Do not let anyone enter your home. Lock your doors and wait for further instruction. Shut it off.

There's not going to be any further instruction. No one's coming to save us. You can't say that. I can. Haven't you noticed yet? The sirens? What are you even talking about? Jesus, Elsie, why can't you try to...

Craig closed his eyes and bit down on his growing irritation at his wife's frail, washed-out fatalism. Of course, she was losing hope. Why wouldn't she at this point? The entire world was falling apart around them. The sirens. Do you hear them anymore? Craig held his breath and listened intently, but once again, Elsie was right. He couldn't hear them anymore.

At some point in the last hour, the hectic background of emergency vehicles wailing in the distance had fallen silent. He turned the radio off. He was unsurprised to see that the missing remote for the living room TV was sitting on his nightstand, teetering on top of a pile of change. He considered going downstairs to check the news stations men decided against it. The same message was probably scrolled. rolling across the screen on every station.

Why bother? What the hell is that? He whispered, but he already knew what it was. It was the sound of cold fingers tapping on glass. Craig looked over at the window and strangled back a shriek. Mr. Jeep was floating on the other side of the glass, his eyes glowing that hypnotic, dreadful shade of amber. The shredded remains of the man's work uniform fluttered in the wind.

His mouth was moving, and Craig didn't have to be a lip reader to understand what he was saying. Let us in. Craig took in a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to stand. He shuffled over to the window on legs like rickety stilts and dropped the blinds down. He pulled the heavy curtain panels closed. The tapping continued. Craig stumbled back to bed and joined Elsie under the covers. They curled together in the hot, close darkness of their blanket cave and waited to see what dawn might bring.

The night lasted in eternity, echoing with the sounds of a world. sliding into ruin. There was a squeal of spinning tires and the jagged tinkle of breaking glass, hysterical shrieking and futile pleas for mercy. Just before dawn, the sound of horror and strife came to an abrupt end, and the shell-shocked Renfrews both fell into a light, troubled slumber. Elsie opened her eyes just before ten in the morning and nudged her husband awake with a soft tap of her elbow. He flinched and briefly struggled against their cocoon of blankets. Elsie shushed with a finger to his lips. She peeled back the blankets and said,

I really, really have to pee. Me too. We'll go together. They crept out of their bedroom and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. Both of them skittish as wild horses after being barricaded upstairs for so many hours. Craig stood watch at the door while Elsie took care of business, his feet shuffling around in an urgent little got-a-pea dance. He heard Elsie stifle a giggle behind him, and he found him.

and he found himself smiling a little, too. In the light of the day, it was almost possible to convince himself that the horrors of the previous evening were just a dream. It had to be a dream. The sun was shining, wasn't it? They came downstairs with Craig in the lead, an aluminum baseball bat cocked over his shoulder. Elsie followed close behind with a letter opener clutched in her hand. They did a quick sweep of the main floor, both of them flinching every time they rounded

a corner, but they were still alone in the house. Craig nodded his head towards the big double windows in the living room. Let's have a look outside. Maybe it'll be okay. He tried not to wince how insane that sounded. Of course it wasn't okay. Literally nothing was okay. Elsie wrinkled her nose and asked,

Do you smell something burning? The odor was faint inside the house, but it was there, acrid and sharp. It wasn't the nostalgic mellow tang of wood smoke curling into the winter air out of a neighbor's brick chimney. This was the noxious stench of a housefire. Craig flung the curtains back and inhaled sharply, his mouth dropping open in shock. Oh, hell. You come here and look.

She raised an eyebrow and asked. Do I really want to see this? Craig didn't answer. He couldn't. He was speechless. The wind had died down overnight, and the still air outside the window was heavy with the haze of dirty, gray, black smoke. Two housefires were visible from the window. One was guttering out on the next street over, and the other was burning fiercely just a few houses away.

The neighboring homes were heavily scorched on either side of the inferno. It would be a miracle if they didn't go up in flames as well. Most of the houses in view had their front doors standing wide open, including the house that was burning steadily to the ground. The open doorways looked like mouths, yawning wide to let out a despairing scream. Further down the street, an overturned car was lying on its hood on the sidewalk. It appeared to have been flipped over by brute force. The driver-side door had been torn off its hinges and flung into somebody's front yard. Mr. Jeep's insulated lunch bag was still lying in his driveway.

A large, shaggy-haired shepherd mix trotted across his front lawn and flipped it over with a questing snout, sniffing for leftovers. Finding nothing of interest there, the dog strolled away. its body language, stiff and alert. Well, so much for it being a dream, Craig thought, and he struggled against the urge to sit on the floor and start bawling like a toddler. It was real, all real. Now what?

Elsie joined him at the window. She gasped at the mayhem outside. I think it's the end of the world. Houses are burning down and there's no one left to care. Where did they all go? Craig waved his hand at the empty street outside. Those, you know, those things were all over the place last night. I saw dozens of them.

Where are they? Basements. Elsie murmured quietly. They're hiding in closets and under beds, hiding away from the daylight. Isn't that what vamps? You don't have to say it. Elsie flinched. The words weren't supposed to come out as a harsh bark, but they did anyway.

Elsie shrank away from him. He softened his tone and tried again. I think you're right. They're not pounding on the same. the door right now, so they must be hiding somewhere, waiting for sunset. It's a good time for us to get dressed and get out of town, because we can't stay here again tonight. Where are we going to go?

Elsie ground her palms against her eyes and blinked up at him. She looked dreadfully tired, tired and diminished. Seriously, where could we go? There was an emergency broadcast on every single channel and radio station. The internet isn't working either. This is obviously happening all over the country. Maybe even the entire planet. Who knows?

Where are we going to drive to, Craig? A deserted island? I haven't figured that out just yet, hon. I'll admit that I don't know what it's going to be like out there on the road, but I'd honestly rather take my chances out there than... The roads are going to be a freaking mess. You saw what happened to that car out there? Yeah, that'll be us.

We'll get stuck somewhere behind a pile up of cars, and when the sun sets, we'll be screwed. They'll surround the car and rip off the doors, and that'll be it. Listen to me, Craig snarled, and he resisted the sudden urge to grab her by the arms and shake her. He gritted his teeth and said, I think we very well might be the last people on this damn street. When the sun sets, this is where they'll be coming, Elsie. All of them, the whole neighborhood, all of them knocking on our doors and tapping on the windows until dawn.

And they'll come back tomorrow night, too. They'll come back every night, over and over again. I don't know if I can face that. Can you? Elsie paled. She hugged herself and sighed. No, I don't. God, no.

At Craig's insistence, they both wore heavy boots and bundled up in layers. According to the thermostat outside the kitchen window, the temperature was hovering around ten below. And if the streets were snarled in a chaotic mess of crashed and overturned vehicles, they might very well be forced to strike out on foot. He found a box and packed up a loaf of bread, some canned goods, bottles of water, and the first aid kit from the bathroom, anything he could think of that might be of practical value.

The box was starting to get pretty heavy by the time he was done, but Craig was a big guy. He could probably carry it for a long time if he had to. Here's hoping that it doesn't come to that. Elsie tried to put on a brave smile, but it faltered. I'm scared to leave. I don't want to stay, but I'm scared to step outside. Craig pulled her into a tight hug. It was like embracing a mannequin.

You can do this. He breathed into her ear. I'm scared too. Who wouldn't be? He pulled a knitted wool cap down snugly over her ears. Which car are we taking? Mine or yours. There was a hard lump of dread stuck in Craig's throat.

Now that the time had come to abandon their rabbit hole, he felt an overwhelming urge to call it all off and stay right where they were, cowering in their own house. The street appeared to be deserted, but it wasn't safe out there. He could feel the danger in the air. It prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Death was waiting for them on the other side of the door. Yours.

You drive. He fished his key fob out of his coat pocket and thumbed the unlock button. Outside, there was a muted clunk as the door lock slid open. Craig hefted the bat. I'll go out first, he said, and he pulled back the chain. You ready? Elsie pressed her lips together and nodded. Can you carry the box?

She hefted the box and nodded again. Her mouth now just a little slash beneath her nose. Craig took a deep breath. Okay, let's go. It wasn't until he was bleeding on the driveway that Craig would remember the dog he'd seen sniffing at Mr. Jeep's lunch bag. By then, it was far too late. The air outside was frigid and tainted with the caustic stink of scorched paint and burning drywall. One of the houses beside the inferno down the street was starting to catch, and the smoke was floating along in thick, choking clouds.

Craig held up the bat in a double-handed death grip and charged out the door. Elsie close behind him. He started to skirt around Elsie's little Fiat, and a large, shaggy dog suddenly burst out from between the Fiat and Craig's Volkswagen sedan, growling low in its throat. It was Lion, the McTavish's five-year-old Chow. Mandy had absolutely adored him. They had often rolled around together in the McTavish's front yard, giggling and slobbering and grunting the afternoon away as the sun shone benignly from its lofty perch in the big blue sky overhead.

He licked his lips and croaked, Hey, big guy, take it easy, buddy, okay? Craig had always known Lyon to be an amicable, tail-wagging sort of fellow, but at some point during the course of the previous night, something had changed his demeanor entirely. The burly chow's body language was aggressive and tense, the stance of a dog who was about to attack. Lion's eyes were normally mild and slightly sad-looking, the eyes of a good old boy living in a state of melancholy peace with the easy world around him. Now they bulge from their sockets like twin spheres of volcanic glass, blank and merciless.

Lion? You stop growling. Bad boy. You? The McTavish's dog answered with a murderous-looking snarl. He reared back on his haunches and coiled to leap. There was no time to turn heel and run. Craig grasped and swung the bat as hard as he could at the dog's wild, fluffy skull.

It darted aside, and the bat pinged off the snow-covered blacktop, sending a puff of powdery white into the air and a painful shiver up his forearms. The chow came at him with snapping jaws, and Craig backpedaled, swinging the bat in front of him in swift, desperate little arcs. Shit, shit, get back in the house! Craig bumped into Elsie hard, and they both lost their footing. She dropped the box of supplies and fell to the ground. Craig immediately tripped over her legs, landing heavily on top of her.

The only coherent thought in his head was, don't drop the bat, don't drop the bat. Elsie shrieked. No, Bat Dog! And a split second later, Chow was on them. Craig lashed out with the bat and Lion ducked beneath his awkward swing, darting in to drive his fangs deep into Craig's upper thigh. He shrieked up into the heavens and ran the wide end of the bat into the top of the dog's head. lion let out a strangled wine and shook his head savagely. Skin and denim tore beneath the dog's fangs.

Reveulets of crimson ran down his leg and stained blood flowers in the snow. Craig screamed and hammered Chow a second time, then a third. The beast clamped down even harder and started dragging him back to its hiding place between the cars. He frantically pummeled at the dog with the bat and screamed for help. Elsie leapt to her feet and yowled. She planted her boot into the dog's side, and he responded. responded by giving her husband's leg another shake and dragging him away even faster. Elsie grabbed a double handful of Craig's coat and began to engage the beast in a fierce tug of

war. Lion gave her a wide, primal grin from around his mouthful of Craig's upper quadriceps and heaved with all his might, dragging them both several more feet through the loose, grainy snow. Craig screeched and battered away at Chow's head and neck with renewed vigor. His head was buzzing from agony and panic. The leg of his jeans was soaked through with blood. warm and steaming in the sub-zero air.

The dog squinted his eyes shut against the bludgeoning and kept hauling Craig across the driveway, almost robotic in his determination to carry the human away and maul him to death. Get off me! Craig dropped the bat and ripped off his thick leather gloves. He drove the tips of his thumbs into chow's slitted eye sockets, hooking his fingers deep into its mane for leverage. Lion finally released his leg and tried to shake him off,

whining and yipping against the agonizing pressure. Craig held on for all he was worth and kept pushing with his thumb until he felt the dog's eyes pop. The animal screeched and went wild in his hands, snapping its teeth and flailing. He rolled. The dog's head still trapped in his hands, and he shoved the thick-said animal beneath the Fiat's front bumper, wedging him deeper under the car with a few hard kicks with the sole of his boot. Blinded and trapped, the chow descended into a writhing, snarling frenzy. Elsie hollered.

Oh my God! and rushed to his side. She hooked her hands beneath his upper arm and tried to haul him off the ground. Craig used the baseball bat like a crutch, and together they managed to heave him to his feet. His entire body was trembling and cold, so cold,

except for the shredded wound on his leg, it burned like hellfire. Back inside! He gasped. Hurry! They took five or six lurching steps together before a matted-looking golden retriever came streaking in from down the street.

It latched onto the sleeve of Elsie's coat and started trying to pull her to the ground. Elsie squealed and attempted to kick the animal in the chest, but it hopped back and yanked her around in a circle, trying its damnedest to throw her off balance. Craig lurched into the fray and brought the bat whistling down onto the dog's back. The retriever let go of Elsie's arm and turned to fight its new opponent. Fang's bared to kill. Craig roared down at the snarling animal and whacked it across the head with an air-whistling blow. The dog went spinning into the dead remnants of last year's flower bed and lay there, its hind legs kicking spastically in the air.

Two more dogs came racing up the driveway, a terrier mix, and a bulldog. Craig shoved Elsie up the front steps and clamored stiffly after her, hopping backwards with his lips skinned back from his teeth in a grimace. Don't let them get in! And stopped to face the dogs at the top of the stairs, squaring off with them as Elsie scurried through the front door. He swung hard and the terrier flopped. volonously down the steps, its cold black eyes staring at nothing. The bulldog, however,

was made of sterner stuff. It stubbornly advanced against the whirling swings of the baseball bat and backed Craig across the width of the porch, tirelessly hunting for an opening. The bat felt like it weighed 50 pounds. Craig's arms were starting to feel like old rubber bands, brittle and weak. The burst of terrified adrenaline was starting to give way to shock and blood loss. Elsie, get ready to open the door! Craig fainted a thrust with the, the business end of the bat and hollered, Now! The door swung open as the dog jumped away from the bat,

and Craig launched himself backwards through the doorway. He landed and rolled into a clumsy backward somersault. Elsie slammed the door shut, and the bulldog rammed into the other side. It scrabbled at the door with its claws, bellowing for blood. Christ! Craig moaned. His blood was leaking onto the hallway tiles. He'd never seen so much blood in his life, and certainly never his own.

The bite wound was. It was a torn up mess of denim and mutilated flesh. Looking at it made him want to vomit. They tried to kill us. Craig's voice jittered up and down. He was shaking uncontrollably. They almost did. Honey, your leg!

Elsie grabbed a scarf off the hook on the wall and nodded it tightly around his upper thigh. He winced at the pressure. We have to get these pants off and clean the wound. She said and started tugging at his belt buckle. It'll get infected. They knew we'd try to get away. Craig whispered. His face was white as a sheet.

They're using the dogs to keep us trapped inside. They're making sure we'll still be around when the sun sets. Here, let me do that. Elsie stood up and peeked out the window. Her face went pale. There's at least ten of them now. All different kinds of breeds. It looks like most of them are wearing collars.

They were all someone's pets. Not anymore. What are they doing? They're just pacing around the yard, waiting. More of them are coming now. There's 15, 16, 17. Damn it! What are we going to do?

Elsie's words were gray and hopeless. What can we do? Nothing, Craig said, and he leaned against the wall. His head was swimming. Absolutely nothing. We're trapped. The power went out an hour before sunset, and it stayed out. Fortunately for Craig and Elsie, they had a fireplace installed in the living room a few years ago.

Normally, it was used for a more aesthetic reason, but it did throw off a little heat, enough to make the living room tolerable. Elsie went upstairs to retrieve blankets and pillows, while Craig hunted around the kitchen for some candles. He lit a few around the living room and gave Elsie a curdled, cheerless smile. I had to turn the water off. The pipes might freeze downstairs. Elsie shrugged.

She pointed to the candles and said, Should we have these lit? I don't know if it's a good idea. They know we're here. Would you rather sit here in the dark? No. Me neither. Craig held up a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey.

He gave her a waning smile and said, We should drink this. I think it'll help. But you took those codeine pills for your leg. Should you mix them like that? I'll be fine. Here, Elsie reached for the whiskey. She took a swallow straight from the bottle,

grimaced, and then took another one. It's going to be a long night, Craig said. Drink up. She braced herself and tipped the bottle back again, then made a face and coughed. Elsie pushed the bottle back into Craig's hand, and he had a few good nips from it himself. The whiskey burned down his throat and lit a cozy fire in his stomach. It would warm the chill in their bones and dull their senses.

It would help them cope with their awful new reality, if only for the night. They stood at the living room window and watched as the indigo blue of winter twilight. deepened into a dark violet of nightfall. Sensing the imminent arrival of their horrible new masters, the dogs slunk away with their tails between their legs, seeking shelter from the sharp bite of the cold. As the stars began to wink to life in the black sky above, the new residents of Chestnut Street started floating into view. The streetlights were dark and dead, but between the moon and the guttering housefires,

the street was lit with an anemic, flickering glow. It was bright enough for Craig and Elsie to walk. watch, as they slowly gathered out front, a silent crowd of emotionless faces. Many of them were children. The youth of Chestnut Street would never age. They would never grow tall and confident, never graduate school and move away from the neighborhood to start families of their own. They would never evolve into the people they might have become. The lost youth of Chestnut Street belonged to the moonlight now, and in its sallow glow they would remain children forever. The ghouls moved in to form a ring around the house, and as one, their dead voices rose up together in a chant.

Let us in, they said, and with those words there was a promise of peace. It was very simple. Craig and Elsie could either freeze and starve within the cold tomb of their home, or they could open the door to the mob outside. One death might take a number of days, and the other would be over in a matter of seconds, but both were equally horrific in their own way. Dead forever, or forever alive, those were the two choices. Because life as they knew it was no longer a possibility. No matter which end they chose for themselves, no one was left to remember their names. All they had been or ever could be, all of it would be extinguished forever.

If they gave themselves to the crowd, they would become one with the others. One voice, one hunger, wandering and wanting for all of eternity by the cold and indifferent light of the moon. And if it ended the other way, well, there would be nothing at all. Craig couldn't decide which one was worse. Elsie asked Craig if he thinks it hurts them. If they can still feel. I don't think so. I don't think they feel anything at all.

They're not aware of what they are or who they used to be. They just are. No past, no future, no concerns at all except for their hunger. There's only the here and now. The chant outside went on and on, slow and deliberate, maddening. Craig and Elsie sat in front of the fireplace and drained the bottle to the last drop, mostly in silence. When the booze was gone, she curled up against him on the couch, saying she loves him,

and that she's glad she gets to spend her life with him. She tried to say something else and started to cry instead, raining hot, bitter tears onto a shoulder. Craig pressed his lips together in a tight, quivering line. and held her as she let it all out. After a while, her chest shaking sobs died down into sniffles, and she drew away from him. Her face was stony and brooding.

It'll be okay, he mumbled. His head was swimming with the booze and pills. We'll, you know, we'll get through this, hon. It'll be okay. No, it won't. It won't be okay. Don't say that. Don't say anything.

Just... When the last of the candles, guttered out with a hiss and a tiny puff of smoke, they stuffed the twisted wads of Kleenex into their ears and wrapped themselves in a cocoon of blankets by the fire. The combination of booze and sheer physical exhaustion quickly pulled Craig down into a deep, murky unconsciousness. He didn't stir when Elsie carefully wriggled out of the blankets, and he slept right through her shrill, bird-like cries, as she saw it into her own wrist with a filang knife. Craig didn't know what she'd done to herself until he literally stumbled over her body the

next morning, tripping over it and landing on his hands and knees in the puddle of her cold, tacky blood. He was bleary-eyed and shivering from a combination of the cold and his hangover, and for almost a full minute he sat there in Elsie's blood, unable to believe it, incapable of believing it. But then he started to scream. The screams tore out of his throat like jagged shards of glass, and they were real, just like the blood on the floor was real. It was so horribly, unmercifully real. Craig screamed until his voice gave out. His wailing made the dogs outside perk up their ears. They looked hopefully at the house, licking their chops and tentatively wagging their tails. They were all very eager for an end of their servitude to their new masters, the things

that only came out at night, the things with no smell or warmth on their bodies. The new masters commanded without words, and their will was as cold and sharp as the winter air around them. Perhaps the end would come, and the dogs would be allowed to flee. They stared at the house with hungry eyes and waited. The day passed in a haze of weeping and misery. Craig opened a bottle of vodka, and he had mostly killed it by the time sunset rolled around. He stood in the living room window and watched them gather in front of his house, a patient mob of blank faces and burning eyes.

When they were finally assembled, the crowd closed in tightly, filling every window and doorway with their bodies. They demanded for Craig to open up and let them in. He was the last of Chestnut Street's former residents, the final remnant of an era gone by. Craig's world was only two days dead, but it was already long forgotten. The new residents of Chestnut Street weren't aware of yesterday, and they would never worry about tomorrow. There was only one measure of time in the new world, and that was now, this particular moment,

and then the moment that follows directly after. The citizens of the New World were united by one burning universal desire. They would systematically root out the hiding places of the remaining survivors from the dead era, and they would wear them down with the dull, implacable logic of their three-word chant. The New World would consume what was left of the old, night after night, week after week, until there was no trace of it left. And when the feast was over, the moon would replace the sun as the champion of the sky, And the people of Chestnut Street would wander for all eternity by its pale and cheerless glow.

Lost and hungry for something they would never have the capacity to understand. Trapped forever in a singular shifting instant in time. They would drift to and fro in the dark, forever unsatisfied without knowing why. United as one, but completely and utterly alone. There's only two possible conclusions to this story. Craig slurred at them through the window. I can use the knife or I can let you win. Which one's worse?

He stared out at them, his former neighbors, and he saw a uniformity that was strangely comforting. The moon-mite world of the ghouls outside might be ruled by hunger, but it would also be free in its own way. Free from doubt, anger, humiliation, regret, guilt, or even sadness. As the whole world died, those afflictions died along with it, never to exist again. "'Hunger is bad, but there are things worse than hunger. My wife killed herself. I sat in her blood. That was a lot worse.'

Craig limped over to the front door, his breath puffing in the frigid air. He hadn't bothered to build a fire that day. And what was the point? It would be an effort wasted on a dead man. He pulled back the chain and opened the door. They were waiting for him. A dozen of them crowding the porch as the rest spilled down the steps and into the front yard.

Let's us in. One said. They waited for his response, eyes glittering in the dark. Craig wiped his tears away and stepped back from the doorway. Now or tomorrow, the next day or the day after that, it would eventually come down to either the knife or the crowd outside. And in the end, did it really matter anyway? No, it didn't.

Not anymore. Come in. They knocked the door off the hinges and splintered the frame as they surged inside. There was a split second of terror, a flash of agony and horror. And then it was done. Craig rose from the hallway floor, and he floated out into the moonlight to join the others. It was a new world, a moonlit world, and Craig was reborn.