Dark Presence

By Amina Green - 2021

Dark Presence

The nails of a beast carves intricate designs into my delicate, pale skin. Red lines follow the sharp, devious tour guide’s nails at every twist and turn it makes. I sit on the floor of the bedroom beside the bed that’s placed in the center. My eyes are shut tight, and it’s almost as if my trachea has followed suit because it has become hard to breathe. I don’t dare to force through any more breath, though, for I don’t want the creature to hear me. I don’t want the predator to realize that this canvas is just another piece of living, breathing flesh to feed on.

My arms, despite the agonizing art being carved into them, remain still like a street artist posing as a living statue. They’re spread out like bird wings with my hands facing upward on top of my knees. My legs are bent outward with my feet hugging each other for dear life. If I didn’t look like I’ve just been through hell, you might’ve been reminded of a Gautama Buddha painting just from the sight of me.

I feel the line art in my skin start to slowly open and I clench my jaw at the familiar feeling. Cold sweat trickles down my face as my blood follows suit along the length of my two fragile limbs. When the dark presence from behind me seems to have disappeared, I immediately open my eyes and let out a quiet cry at the pain I’m enduring. I look down at my arms and let my impatient tears flow down my cheeks in the form of Niagara Falls. The color red truly is one of the worst primary colors; it’s the only thing flooding my vision in the form of smudged paint all over the canvas that I call my skin. My body shivers, as if cold against its own blood that warms its surface and interior.

‘I should wash myself up,’ I think to myself as I try to calm my nerves. Though the only lighting in the house is from the moonlight outside, I manage to make my way through the maze of walls and eventually into the restroom. Many people would say otherwise, but this room truly does live up to its name. It’s a safe haven from everything outside. The only room with both a lock and a mirror, where you could watch your reflection slowly age and grow along with your regrets and guilts, and the only room where your privacy could be respected. 

I face the off-white sink in the small, square room and repeat the same process I have done many times before. Clean, rinse, and return to bed. I turn the handles beside the faucet on and stare at my tired reflection in the mirror. Repeating the same action over and over makes it a habit, but expecting the outcome to change after each time makes you a psychopath. Am I a psychopath for expecting the pain to end after doing this again? For expecting a different outcome by doing the same actions?

The water softly falls from the faucet like a gentle lullaby. There’s neither a beat nor a rhythm, but it’s quiet and soft enough to let you create your own in your head. I mentally hum along with the flowing water as I put each of my forearms under the faucet, washing away the red until all that’s left is a familiar, blinding white. The water feels warm, warmer than the blood when it first escaped from under my skin, and subtly sedates my prickling hairs and thoughts. Though I know one can never truly reach a tranquil state in this household, I feel composed and serene under the water’s warm comfort.

“Tristan?” asks a feminine voice. It has a familiar, demanding tone to it that sends a shiver down my spine. “Tristan, I know you’re in there. Answer me, you’re scaring me,” the voice continues, this time more quiet and shaky. I come to remember the identity of who’s speaking to me, and feel the corners of my mouth curve downward at the thought. I close my eyes shut as I respond, “yes, honey, I’m just washing my hands. Don’t stay up late because of me, go to bed-”

“Do not tell me what to do!” she snarls as I hear a thump hit the door, “You’re always pushing me away every time this happens. Open the door and come back to bed with me. I miss you. I can’t fall asleep without you beside me.” I swallow a gulp of saliva at her request. The irony of her not being able to fall asleep without me, and me not being able to fall asleep with her is baffling. I would say that opposites attract, but that would add another contradiction into this situation.

“I am in pain, darling, please.” I beg, letting my vulnerability show through my tone of voice. I don’t want to come off too aggressive, for I don’t want to make her angry. Though, I care more about the consequences of her emotions than the emotions themselves.

“What do you mean you’re in pain? Are you okay?” My head starts to hurt from her constant talking.

“No. I mean, yes, but I have it handled. It's nothing to worry about, darling.” I say through stressed breaths. The injuries start to sting again as my heart beats heavily.

“Are you just trying to get me to go away? Do you not want me to care for you? I’m trying to be a good wife, Tristan," she continues to probe. I realize that there’s no point in trying to get her to go away anymore, it’ll only do the opposite effect and bring her closer.

I purse my lips as I clench my hand around the door knob before quickly opening it. My wife immediately shoves herself into my chest with tears streaming down her face, crying utter nonsense. Though I was unable to comprehend a word that she said, I let her take my hands into her own as her pupils repeatedly moved from left to right and up to down.

“I don’t see any injuries, are you sure you’re okay?” she pouts. I stand there conflicted by her question before looking down at my forearms. 

Nothing is there. 

There’s not one scar, no stained flesh, no tint of red, and no indication of the injury I sustained just moments before. No evidence of the beast that damaged me so. Just like every other time this situation has happened.

Once again, I am left speechless by the same question she has asked every other night as well. Her eyebrows furrow with narrowed eyes as she scans me once again, ending her examination by locking her eyes onto mine. She drops my hands and begins, “Tristan, do not waste my time like this again. You’ve been going crazy these past few weeks-” months, “-and it’s driving me crazy too. Crazy with worry, I mean.”

I apologize and try to calm her, “Let me walk you to the bedroom. I’m sorry for worrying you so late.” She stays put and I decide to quickly sedate her mood with the same reason I’ve mentioned before, “It must just be my joint-aches. You can’t be too young to start getting stiff, I’ll get it checked out by the doctor soon, I promise.”

She smiles at my reassurance and takes my hand in hers, “The doctor is expensive, honey. Maybe it’s just your sleeping position, this only ever happens at night.”

I follow her into the bedroom and hesitantly climb back into bed with her. Once we’re tucked in on opposite sides, I lift my arms over the covers and stare at them with a frown.

CH 2

It’s the second day and I feel the all too familiar dark presence following my every move. When I give my wife a morning kiss, it’s there. When I make us two a filling breakfast, it’s there. When she starts some small talk, it’s there.

The best time of the day is when she leaves the house for work. Work that she never gets a paycheck for or texts me during. Work that sometimes lands her either coming home at three in the morning or with bags upon bags of wants rather than necessities. All that matters though is that when she leaves, it leaves. The uneasy feeling in my stomach and constant fidgeting remain for as long as I stay in this house, but my heightened anxiety and blood pressure take a short hike.

She’s always going somewhere but never tells me where. Her responses are so bland and have countless possibilities. Whenever I ask, her answers are as simple as “out” or “to the store.” If I probe her for more details, only more questions will stem, and the more questions I ask the more aggravated she gets. I refuse to aggravate her because that results in the nights getting colder. Cold nights give you a cold body, and a cold body thickens your blood. When you’re being followed by a predator similarly to me, having thick blood results in agonizing consequences.

A good example is the relationship between getting a tattoo and taking painkillers. You’re told to not take a painkiller before getting a tattoo because it thickens your blood. The thick blood makes it harder to drill into your skin, so they end up having to go over the same spot multiple times before a mark is finally made. The presence that haunts me is the needle. It’s insatiable until its mark is made, and if my blood is too thick, it’ll work even harder to tear me down.

I come back to my senses while staring at the same door that my wife left through. I decide that instead of wasting time sitting still and doing nothing, I should begin some of my self care routine. A warm bathing for my skin and a quick brushing of my teeth should do for today. If time is left, or if I don’t feel too lethargic, I can make it to the grocery store and back before my wife returns. ‘I’ll prepare a dinner for us that will make her smile,’ I think to myself with a mental nod. 

I begin my routine and head to the restroom. Though, the process is already beginning on a tedious start due to how vast the living room is. The living room is huge, the largest room in the house because we figured we’d use it the most. Even so, it’s tiring to have because it takes estimately thirty seconds to walk across. The number doesn’t sound like a lot, but most living rooms take only five to ten seconds to stroll through. 

I make it into the bathroom and turn on the shower head. I give the water some time to warm by brushing my teeth. The bristles on the brush feel stiff against my gums and I clench my jaw in response. Spitting out the toothpaste, I put back down my toothbrush and undress myself before getting into the shower. I stand below the shower’s water, letting it dump itself against the top of my head and trickle down my face. 

I continue to stare at the bathroom wall, allowing myself to feel nothing but the scalding heat coming from the shower head. My skin starts to become a rosey shade of pink and my skin prickles, but I do not move. I let the heat overtake my body and let my eyes flutter closed. I bite my inner cheek as my body begins to feel numb. ‘A pretty shade of pink but lacking in feeling,’ I think to myself. That reminds me of a flower. ‘I feel like a flower right now,’ and that thought alone curls a smile onto my face. 

Deciding that the heat has gone for too long, I allow myself to turn off the water and step out. All the must and bacteria on my body has been burned away; I’ll let the spirits take care of anything left over. I put back on the clothes I let drop onto the floor and look myself in the eyes through the mirror.

I see a pink, blemished face staring back at me. The pink face has dark, empty eyes. The eyes-lids are hooded, stopping the light from reflecting against the eyes caged inside, and the purple-tinted eye bags give them a sinking look. A long nose is placed between the eyes with black heads that decorate the tip. The face has thin, dry lips and sunken cheeks. The jawline is unnoticeable under the face’s slim-fatty shape. 

I look away from the mirror with a frown and walk out of the bathroom after turning off the light. I’m startled, though, when the whole house seems to go dark as well. I look around the pure darkness with furrowed eyebrows. If I remember correctly, the living room light should still be on if not the others. Taking out my watch, I realize that I’ve been in the room for thirty minutes. ‘I was expecting at least an hour to pass,’ I think, ‘at least then my wife coming home could’ve been an explanation.’

“In manibus diaboli animam nostram ponimus,"

I pause when I hear multiple voices chanting the same words from a foreign, dead language.

“Abutitur nobis prout vult suo bono et amore,”

One voice is the loudest and stands out from all the rest. The voice is feminine with an authoritarian tone, and sounds very familiar. 

“Cari sumite, ridemus et omnia donamus,”

Processing the situation, I turn and rush my feet into the bedroom. I quietly run to the closet and slowly open its door, making sure to not make even a peep. Rummaging through it, I push away the neutral colors and the few vibrant ones inside. When I see a familiar white hanger holding a long, black cloth, I remove it from its untouched position and toss it onto the bed.

I begin to strip again, leaving the clothing that was just embracing my body on the floor. I take the long, black cloak and throw it over my head. I let it naturally fall around me for its looseness allows it to fit me like an oversized dress. I pull the hood connected to the cloak over my head and take a deep breath. I feel small while encased in such a large overgarment, but close my eyes and let the thoughts of discomfort and concern leave my mind in the form of the ocean’s waves. I steadily open them back up, and with a pulsing fist, slowly make my way into the living room. 

I come to a pause from my walk as I come to face my wife and her twelve other disciples, all in matching black cloaks, in the room. With the windows covered by thick curtains and not a single light switch turned on, the only light source in the room is the blazing fire centered in the middle of the room. Its warm-colored blaze paints a beautiful yellow and orange color scheme on the pale faces within the room. As it moves, it reveals the blood-covered walls; the natural-red of the liquid forming paintings, a story, across each panel of concrete. The heat warms my body under the thin cloak and reminds me of my earlier shower; the comforting boil of tropical temperatures keeps me alert and aware of my surroundings.

“Tristan, please, take your seat,” my wife says. “This congregation was a last minute decision.”

I give my head a slight tilt forward to signify a bow before walking fully into the living room. I head between two cloaks who are seated further away from each other than anyone else because I assume that the spot was being saved for me.

 “Now, my husbands, as you all are aware, there are three mandatory rules for the loving family that our ancestors have created throughout our bloodlines,” my wife begins. Everyone’s heads immediately whip from facing toward me to towards her. The searing pain of the growing fire in the middle causes discomfort to stem within me as I continue to listen.

“Rule number one: thee shouldst giveth thy soul to thee, but doth not expecteth thee to giveth thy pitiful existence aught in returneth. Rule number two: arriveth carefully upon the hour and doth not f'rget the scheduleth at hand,” she turns to me before speaking the last one, “rule number three: if 't thou cometh into contact with the Devil, thou is requir'd to let the headmistress knoweth.”

I remain seated and responseless as all heads turn back to me. I know what she’s talking about, and irritation flows through my veins at the fact that she’s figured out. It isn’t very surprising, though. The headmistress, my wife, has the most experience with spirits from down below. I wouldn’t be surprised if the one after me is one of the ones she has summoned. After all, it’s only around when she is. If that is the case though, then she can get rid of its presence and leave me to be free.

“My apologies, my wife,” I mutter with a bow of my head, “I will do better.”

“What do you mean you will do better? You’re doing great. You’ve come into contact with a spirit, Tristan. This spirit has claimed a mark on you. It’ll be with you for life,” she announces with a wide smile. I feel my heart sink at these words, my throat drying and my eyes widening.

“Is that what last night was all about, Tristan? You should not feel so much fear when in the presence of such a grand opportunity. Let the spirit take over your mind, body, and soul. Let the spirit become the best it can become,” She declares while getting on her feet, throwing her hands in the air ecstatically. She then pauses in her nonsensical speech and stares at me with shrunken pupils and eyes widened much like mine.

“Tristan, the sacrificial ceremony must begin.”