Languish of Lunacy

After weeks of struggling, a man's battle with his supernatural stalker comes to a head.

Anxiety accelerated as the night ambled toward its apex. Pacing hastened with every passing minute. One cigarette after another filled Tyler's home with a caustic haze. The couch barred the front door, the kitchen table blocked the back, the windows were covered with whatever worked--there was nothing more he could do. Not that it ever helped anyway.

Franticly rearranging his furniture and walking about his house for the last three hours had worn him out, but not nearly enough. Tyler glanced at the clock: 11:13pm. He bit his lip, a whine eked from his throat, Only forty-seven minutes to fall asleep. This had never worked either, and his frayed nerves made the objective feel impossible. The pit in his stomach grew heavier, I can't do this again.

Storming into the kitchen, he went straight for the assortment of medications laid out on the counter. Sleeping pills rattled in their bottle as he snatched them up. Considering the consequence of excessive dosage paused him. He had already doubled the recommendation, yet he couldn't even sit down. Over a month of achieving only glimpses of fragmented rest had left him illogical and desperate. He popped off the lid and poured two more into his shaking palm. Nighttime cold medicine helped them go down, which he chased with a swig of whiskey.

Nervous and knotted, his stomach threatened to reject the harsh liquid. With gritted teeth and clinched eyes, he held the sedative confection down. Queasiness passed, and he took another swig. Consciously avoiding looking at the clock--as the mere thought of it made him want to hurl--he reached for another cigarette. Tired lungs lamented the smoke, protesting with a fit of coughing. Despite his burning chest, Tyler forced another drag down.

Back and forth he paced, muttering under his breath between puffs. When embers singed his fingers, he snuffed it out and instinctively reached for another. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of his watch: 11:27pm. Dammit, Tyler clutched the sides of his head and spoke aloud, "I can't do this again."

Sleep was the only way out; unlikely as it may be, he still had to try. Panicked fatigue unsteadied him as he rushed to the bedroom and hid himself under covers like a child fearing the dark. He shivered beneath the blankets. Be it from the drugs, sheer exhaustion, or overwhelmedness shutting down his central nervous system, Tyler actually began to drift off.

However, it was short lived, for as soon as midnight struck he was jolted back to full consciousness by a tap... tap... tap... at his window.

Bloodshot eyes burned with tears. He hadn't made a sound, but Tyler forced himself to be even quieter. Festering fear turned subtle shaking into trammeled tremors. I can't do this again, played on a loop through his thoughts.

Tap... tap... tap...

Tyler wrapped the pillow around his ears and squeezed his eyes closed--it didn't help. Every few moments he flinched at the tap... tap... tap... he couldn't escape. He laid stock still for time unmeasured, grinding his teeth to bite back the urge to scream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rhythm and intensity increased. A deep itching started beneath Tyler's scalp; no matter how hard he scratched, it only got worse. It slowly spread downward until holding still felt like torture. Fingernails dug into his skin and peeled it away--still not deep enough. Pain alleviated some of the irritation, but only temporarily. With every Tap. Tap. Tap. the itch amplified. After a few more his entire head started buzzing, as if he were standing too close to a speaker at a rock concert. His mind began to splinter, I can't... Why? What do you want? Just go away... No more...

Tap. Tap. Tap--CRASH!

Alarm nearly sent Tyler through the roof; arrhythmic tachycardia stuttered in his chest. He was certain the thing outside had finally come through the window. With a startled yelp he threw off the blankets and braced himself for an attack. Nothing happened. When he looked out the window he found it still intact. The curtain rod had fallen down, whether it was because of the added weight from the blanket he'd hung on it to black out the window, or the thing's enigmatic influence, he did not know. What he did know was he was now exposed, and he could not bear to sit in a room where that thing could look in--recalling its face further frayed his sanity.

Dread overcame him as he considered what must be done. No matter how much he wanted to run, his mind wouldn't stop fixating on the vulnerability of the bare glass. Wobbly legs supported Tyler as he got out of bed. The closer he got to the window, the harder it was to breathe. Looking straight down kept him from seeing what may be just on the other side of the brittle pane. Trembling increased to violent levels as he picked up the rod and tried to put it back in place with eyes shut tight.

Tap--tap--tap!

Lurching backward, Tyler dropped the metal rod onto his foot and let out another cowed cry. Defensive reflex caused his eyes to open. He froze at the sight of a monstrous visage superimposed upon the reflection of his own face: Ghostly white and emaciated, it stared into the center of his soul with blackened sockets that were simultaneously lifeless and deathless.

Tap--tap--tap!

Flight took over freeze. Tyler bolted from the room with such hysteria he stubbed his toe and checked his shoulder on the door frame hard enough to nearly make him fall. He recovered, and kept running straight into the kitchen. He pounced on his medications; not the sleeping pills, but his antipsychotics. Of all the things he'd tried, these pills--and their accompanying diagnosis--had been most futile. With his own grasp on reality disintegrating, he was willing to seek an artificial one.

Sleeping pills were added to the collection in his palm. The only perceivable consequence of overdose was relief. Skipping the cough syrup, he went straight for the whiskey, and didn't stop drinking until his stomach demanded it. Tyler turned to the sink as the contents came shooting back up his trachea. Slapping a hand over his mouth helped hold it in, but some still burst through his fingers and dripped from his nose. He swallowed it back down, and stood trying to catch the breath the alcoholic acid had stolen from him.

Wits returned, and Tyler realized he was standing in front of the kitchen window. Though he had covered the glass with cardboard, the creature always knew where he was: Tap--tap--tap!

Fight took over flight. Tyler erupted with a primordial scream and grabbed the largest knife from the nearby block. He charged the back door, willing to kill or be killed--he just wanted the madness to end. The kitchen table was tossed out of the way effortlessly by his enraged strength. Flinging the door open, he screamed, "I can't do this again!" as he prepared to barge into blackness brandishing his blade in blind belligerence.

Empty night was all that stood before him. The stillness was only broken by the itching and buzzing deep in Tyler's head. Nothing was there, same as every other time he'd tried to confront it. Waiting changed nothing. Eventually he closed the door; as soon as it latched, he heard from the other side...

Tap... Tap... Tap...

Defeated sobs caught in Tyler's throat; his head began to shake as tears filled his eyes. Itching turned into a searing sting. Buzzing vibrated his inner ear too deeply to satisfy. One hand scratched with fingernails, the other with the point of the knife.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A hopeless revelation bore down on the broken man, "It's in my head. I can't--it's all in my head--no more, I can't... It isn't real. I can't do... anything! I can't do it anymore!"

Tap--tap--tap!

Tyler backed away from the door, slowly at first, then a full sprinting retreat to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him, relief washed over him to be in a room with no windows or doors leading outside. After staggering around for a moment he braced himself against the sink. Looking into the mirror he saw his face was all but completely drained of color, leaving it ghastly and pale. An inability to eat for several weeks had left him gaunt and sickly. Tired eyes had sunk in, and bore dark bags beneath them. The longer he stared, the more his reflection resembled his supernatural stalker--it reminded him that not even the bathroom had ever proven safe.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

The tapping was not on any window of his home, but against the windows of his soul. The last frayed thread of sanity snapped, and Tyler called out, "What do you want from me?! You've taken everything! I can't anymore! So what do you want?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Tyler cringed at his mistake, and began hitting himself, "Stupid!" once, "Stupid!" twice, "Stupid!" thrice. Trembling intensified to the point of bordering on convulsions. Tears broke free and rolled down his cheeks, "Don't talk to it. Don't ever talk to it." The vibrations amplified until he could no longer see straight, the burning beneath his skin was unbearable, "It just makes it worse."

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Feverishly clawing at his head did no good. Tyler's cranium felt like a bee hive encased in flesh--drones buzzed wildly, workers tried to sting their way out from the inside, larvae crawled under his skin, and a hidden queen commanded them all. Reverberations morphed into a malicious utterance in his mind:

Let me out.

Chaos controlled Tyler's consciousness. Hairs were pulled out by the follicles, blood oozed from the many cuts on his scalp. Palpitations in his chest grew painful. Breathing was sporadic and raspy. Tyler could only shake his head as he slowly doubled over.

BANG! BANG! BANG--Let me OUT!

Clarity came crashing back when Tyler felt himself slash horizontally across his forehead with the knife--agony pulled a scream from his soul. Blood poured out and brought reprieve to the persistent pressure. Despite the pain, the razor's edge had cut deep enough to scratch that infernal itch.

Lucidity quickly turned back into lunacy as Tyler slashed himself again and again. He ripped and tore at his scalp in an attempt to rid himself of suffering. Blade scraped against bone, making a sound that bore into his brain. He couldn't stop, something had taken over. Flesh fell away from his face. His own screams made his ears ring as the knife took out an eye, and carved away the muscles within.

An excruciating eternity ensued, but eventually he slowed enough to catch a glimpse in the mirror. It was hard to see through all the blood, but peeking out from the river of red was that unmistakable shade of ghostly white. He gawked at the hollowed socket, it held the same living lifelessness he'd seen before. One half of Tyler's face looked on in horror at the stoic skeletal grimace that comprised the other half.

His revelation took on new meaning, It's in my head.

The knife came back up, and the creature continued cutting itself free from its chrysalis. Soon, Tyler was trapped in his own mind--unable to see, unable to hear, unable to move. All he could do was internally scream and shout in vain, Let me out! as he pounded against the confines of his consciousness, BANG! BANG! BANG!

More of Tyler fell away into a bloody heap until nothing remained of the man. Though his sentience lingered, his strength waned until all he was capable of was a subtle tap... tap... tap... in the back of something else's mind--drowned out by the shrieking inhuman cackles of his own bedeviled skull.