Followed By Darkness

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Recently, I've been attempting to figure out why, at 25, I am still afraid of the dark by searching my mind for any clue. While digging into my memory, I've noticed a terrifying pattern that has been a constant for the majority of my life. I've decided to write my findings down in hopes that I can make sense of it all. But I'm not sure if there is any sense to be made from this horrific pattern...

Chapter 1 (v.1) - The Introduction

Submitted: September 05, 2012

Reads: 88

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Submitted: September 05, 2012



I'm afraid of the dark. Sounds pathetic, doesn't it? I mean, what 25 year old man is (i) still (/i) afraid of the dark? I've got a wife, my own house, feed myself, and maintain the ability to wipe my own ass! So, why am I afraid of the dark?

For me, the unknown has always been far scarier than any physical manifestation like “Jeff ‘The Killer’,” or “Slenderman.” Although, most will argue that Slenderman’s nonexistent facial features translate into “fear of the unknown.”

But I digress…

For years, I’ve dug deep into the recesses of my mind, searching for any clue that would give me a little insight into why, at 25, I still remain terrified of the dark. You see, I’ve always had an inkling that some sort of darkness has trailed me for my entire life. I’m not sure if it’s an entity dwelling in the dark, or if it’s the darkness itself that follows me. The earliest proof of this darkness happened when I was around 3 or 4. As a child, my family lived in this wonderful little house that sat on a decent amount of land, complete with a barn, horses, and countless cats. On the cover, it was the perfect home. The pages within, however, told a completely different story, though.

This blackness enveloped the entire house, making it feel more like a prison than a home. I do remember, even as a small child, feeling that this house had something wrong with it, but wasn’t able to put my finger on it. Not until one day when I had to use the restroom. I walked my way down our hallway, making my way to the second door on the right, our restroom. When I entered the room, I shut the door behind me before switching on the light. I reached to turn the light on, but was unable to find the switch. I turned back to the door to open it so I could better see, only the door didn’t open. The lock on the door was one of those push-button locks that unlock upon turning the knob, except this didn’t.

I yanked and twisted the knob with all of my strength, but to no avail. Starting to panic and cry, I reached over to the wall that housed the light-switch. I began desperately rubbing my hands all over the wall, but I, again, couldn’t find what I was searching for. Now filled to the brim with terror, I reached once more for the knob. But, again, it refused to unlock. Tears streaming down my face and screaming for my mother, I began to pound on the door. After what seemed like hours, my mother rescued me from the bathroom by easily turning the knob and opening the door. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see my mother, or anybody else for that matter, to this very day.

This was my first memory, but it’s far from the only thing that’s happened to me. This was merely an introduction by this darkness. It’s been over two decades and there’s never been a lull in incidents. I find myself terrified of what might come next.

It’s beginning to get darker in my house, so I guess I’ll call it a night…

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