The Night Is Coming

By John de Sousa

I haven’t slept in three days.

I don’t dare. My chin quivers. “God help me not to slip.”

The accursed journal lies on the floor where I flung it last night. It’s skillfully bound, with crackled leather and twisted knotwork burned into the cover. A cover that should remain forever closed.

Yes, I vowed I’d write my dreams.

What I didn’t know was… the book gives me dreams.

My stomach lurches. I’ve barely eaten. Some crackers yesterday. Scattered crumbs dot the nightstand. Food brings drowsiness. Drowsiness… sleep. Wretched, nightmarish sleep. I can’t give in.

The haggard face staring back from the mirror by my door belongs to someone else. Swollen eyes rimmed with purple betray their semblance to my own. The man I was is gone. I miss his innocence. His unknowing.

Time itself has nearly dissolved. Was it a week, or a year ago when I’d pulled the virgin journal off the shelf at Craven’s old bookstore? Does time even matter, once you can’t return?

My intentions were pure. Celebrated by friends. “This new year,” I declared as we all sipped champagne and nibbled scones in my uncle’s garland-bedecked living room, “I resolve that I will record my dreams. Every morning of every night! Both the weird and the weighty. The epic… and the peptic!” A round of applause mixed with laughter answered back.

“Good on you, James!” Uncle Edward slapped my shoulder.

The mirth of the dead. Or those soon to be. The thought shakes me. The visions demand action. I can’t withhold the truth. I must dream. I must write. I must tell the world.

Pushing with all my strength, I rise. Cross the room and retrieve the journal. My fingertip slips beneath the cover and gingerly lifts it open. The lone entry begins January 2^nd, and ends there. Like a blast of lightning the hellish images from my last dream re-explode upon my mind. Terrible in their vividity, they nearly stop me again from writing. But I gather myself, lift the pen, and drag it to the page.

They came for the children first.

Grief shuts my burning eyes, but I force them open lest I drift. So tired.

They thought they could crush us. Shatter our will. For many, they were right.

My shoulders lift as I breathe in strength. So odd to write in the past tense, when the visions are yet unfulfilled. But my bones tell me their arrival is certain. Imminent, so I continue.

They were wrong about me. About… Judith. 

A pause. A tear.

We hid Benjamin in the closet, behind the fake wall we’d made from paneling.

His snores drift from across the hall. The strains of a perfect cello, bowed by an angel. Sleep well for now, my son.

We gave him dry cereal and water. “Hush. Benjie. Please don’t cry. Don’t make a sound.”

Judith’s eyes asked the unspoken question. I nodded my silent response. He’ll be okay. They’ll never find him. But I couldn’t hold her gaze. I bit my lip and turned away.

My watch beeps twice. Time for my medicine. But I can’t stop now. I’ve waited too long already. Pen to page, I begin again.

The gathering crowd surrounded the house. They thundered with threats and profanity. “Break the doors! Drag them out!” I pulled Judith close to me. Jolted as a cinder block crashed through the window, sending glass shards and wood across the floor. I wrapped my arms around my beloved while she screamed in my ear. They hated us because we wouldn’t comply. Wouldn’t allow the unthinkable. I rubbed the back of my hand. Shook my head. Our lives would soon be required for our stand. Benjamin wailed, his cries filled with terror. “No, son! Don’t! They’ll hear you.”

Exhaustion hangs on my shoulders. The pen slows to a stop. It’s not much, not everything, but it’s enough for now. I’m certain there’ll be more tonight. I must dream. I must write. I must tell—

“Mr. Wetherington?” The door opens and a nurse appears, pushing her computer cart. A bright smile adorns her countenance, and she tilts her head. “I’m Tina. It’s time for your medicine.”

Tina? Medicine, yes. But who is she?

Benjie’s snoring across the hall has ceased. As the nurse enters, I spy an older gentleman standing in the opposite doorway dressed in black socks and a backless gown. He rubs the sleep from his face. My gut tenses. Where’s my son?

Tina points to my journal. “I see you’ve been writing! That’s terrific. Is that a diary?” She winks. “A novel, maybe?”

I drop my eyes to the page. “It’s… It’s my dream journal.”

“Oh, how fascinating.” She types an entry into the computer. “I used to keep one of those myself. Anything good so far?”

“Good?” Not the word I’d have chosen. “I’ve had… a v-vision. Of the future.”

Tina places two pills in a small paper cup. “Really?”

Chills rake my skin. “Yes. Terrifying, stark pictures of what’s to come.”

Tina stops and looks at me with tender eyes.

“My son and my wife will be killed. Him by the mob, her by the soldiers.” Outside the window, the sinking sun casts fire across the horizon. “The night is coming, Tina.”

Tina lays her palm softly on my shoulder. Her long nails sparkle with metallic pink polish. On the back of her hand is a tattoo edged in silver. A number bordered by circuited lines.

“Those aren’t visions, James.”

“But—” My mind jumbles at her words.

“They’re memories.”

“Mem-Memories?”

She gently squeezes my arm. “Yes. Your son and your wife died last year, in the Purge. That’s when you had your breakdown. You’ve been here ever since.”

“Last year?” I fight the urge to retch. Peer at her hand again, then shudder as I drop my gaze to my own hand. I’ve been wrong.

The night isn’t coming. I finger my tattoo.

It’s already arrived… and consumed us all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John de Sousa writes supernatural thrillers, combining wide-eyed suspense with white-knuckled action. His stories dwell in that realm where the dark realities of this world collide with the heart-melting power of God. A retired pastor on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, John also enjoys playing music on a variety of instruments, especially guitars from the local factory on Kent Island. He and his wife Missy have two lovely daughters and eight grandchildren.

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