Night Terror

An excerpt from my novel work in progress

Photo by Nick Wright on Unsplash

Since late November, I have been steadily plugging away at my novel, titled Up in the Old Red Barn. It lands somewhere in the children’s literature genre. To date, I’ve been reaching my weekly writing goal of finishing one chapter per week. I’m onto chapter ten this week.

I’m throwing you right into the fifth chapter because it can somewhat stand on its own.

Really, I just wanted to share with you what I’ve been working on.

I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for checking it out, and I will be back on Friday with our Fifties by the Fire series.

- Justin

When Smitty got home, his father had already passed out on the recliner in the living room—mouth open, several silver cans on the end table beside him. Work clothes still on. Smitty picked up the remote and turned off the game. The Yankees were getting smoked nine to two in the bottom of the eighth inning.

Smitty went into his bedroom, closed the door, and let out his rage: he pummeled his pillow until he gasped for breath. When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but braces and peach fuzz. He hit the pillow again and again, imagining it was Jimmy Chambers’ face—Harry Reid’s, too.

At some point in the night, Smitty woke with a start. It felt like he was being watched. He stood, yawning, and crept toward the door. Slivers of moonlight shone in through the blinds.

When he opened the door and peeked out into the hallway, he heard his father’s snores coming from the living room. Otherwise, the house felt still and silent. Even the crickets and frogs had quieted in these sacred hours before dawn.

Smitty walked to the living room, woke his father, and helped him to bed.

“Night, buddy,” his father said to him, somewhere in that space between awake and asleep—somewhere in the in-between.

It took Smitty a while to fall back to sleep. Once he did, he dreamed that he was standing in a field of red and white tulips. When he bent down and pressed his ear against their petals, they told him secrets.

In a blink, Smitty found himself in the building that echoed, the one with sleek marble squares on the walls—names and dates etched into the stone. “Hello?” Smitty called out, but no one responded. No one ever responded. Slowly, he walked down the corridor in this empty place.

“Is there anyone in here?” Smitty asked, feeling more frightened with every step he took. He quickened his pace to a jog. “Hello?” he half-shouted before breaking into a sprint—footsteps echoing off walls, the very foundation of the place shaking.

Gaunt, shriveled hands reached out to grab him from holes in the wall. Smitty screamed, avoiding them, and pressed forward.

He ran on and on, the long, cold corridor extending endlessly into eternity.

---

Smitty bolted upright in a panic, wetting himself.

“Dad!” Smitty shouted. A cold sweat covered his body despite the thick, muggy air. He screamed louder, cried harder.

Moments later, his father thundered down the hall and turned the corner into his room.

“You’re okay,” Vincent said as he pulled his son into his chest in a tight embrace.

Smitty breathed in the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and stale beer, but he didn’t care. His father rocked him back and forth rhythmically—the same way he used to when he was little.

“Shhh,” Vincent whispered.

“Why won’t the dreams stop?” Smitty asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know. If I could make them stop, I would. I wish there was a way, buddy. But I think we’ve just got to try to be brave.”

“I’m sick of them.”

“I know,” Vincent said softly. “I know.” He held Smitty a while longer, stroking his hair in silence.

“Alright. Why don’t you hop in the shower, and I’ll take care of this?” Vincent said. They stood, and Vincent began stripping the bed. Smitty got naked and set his wet pajamas in the pile of soiled linens on the floor. Vincent balled it all up and carried it out of the room.

Smitty tiptoed down to the bathroom—suddenly cold—and stepped into the shower. He turned on the hot water and hoped he could cleanse his mind and body of the night terrors that had plagued him all summer. He wasn’t hopeful.

Once the laundry was going and Smitty was all clean, he walked back to his room—a fresh pair of gym shorts on.

Vincent had already put new sheets on the bed. Smitty crawled back in and pulled the covers up to his chin.

“Want your piano music?” Vincent asked. Smitty nodded.

Vincent went to the small desk in the corner of the room and turned on the boombox, turning it to CD mode. Once the disc started spinning, he pressed the play button and turned the volume knob clockwise ever so slightly.

Classical piano filled the quiet, twinkling like starlight.

Vincent planted a kiss atop Smitty’s head. “Get some sleep. I love you, son.”

Smitty’s eyes grew heavy. “Love you too.”

And then the gentle music carried him away.