“Waking up in the same place in which you dozed off has never happened either to you or to anyone else. Ever. Earth does not stop moving when you sleep. Every hour that passes, Earth travels a little more than 800,000 kilometres around the centre of our galaxy. And so do you. That's the equivalent of about twenty trips around the planet. Every hour. No one minds, though, as long as their bed stays still beneath their body.”
― Christophe Galfard, The Universe in Your Hand: A Journey Through Space, Time, and Beyond
Marlow Eliot had a nightmare.
There was nothing particularly strange about having a nightmare, of course. However, it was strange for Marlow to remember theirs. They were a light sleeper in general and upon waking, usually forgot whatever subconscious picture show their brain happened to play while unconscious. This time, however, the dream lingered like Gran’s cigarette smoke after a long night of work in the office. The smoke, the nightmare, and the memory of Gran, still so painful after her recent death, created an ache. It tainted Marlow like yellow nicotine and they could practically smell the nightmare on their hair, which was getting too long, and their jacket.
Their jacket…
Marlow frowned down at their clothes - a light wool blazer over a knit vest, button up shirt, and corduroy pants all in various shades of gray down to their well worn boots that were once black but even now looked more charcoal. Adjusting their glasses, they looked around, frown deepening.
Perhaps more surprising than the lingering dream was the fact they’d fallen asleep in the Arkham Historical Society’s meeting room 3. Books were strewn out over the mahogany table and the usual smell of potpourri and dust filled the space. It was dark.
“Fuck.”
Marlow grabbed their messenger bag and fished out their phone. Clicking the side button, they silently prayed it wasn’t terribly late. It couldn’t be, right? Margaret or one of the other Historical Society’s old biddies would have given Marlow the boot by now if they were closing.
Click. Click.
“Fuck,” Marlow repeated, staring at their phone’s black screen. They could have sworn it was charged before coming down here. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time work and study had made them forget basic things like charging their phone or eating or apparently getting a decent night’s sleep.
Carefully stacking the papers they were reviewing, Marlow stuffed their notebooks and pens into the messenger bag with their dead phone, and gathered the rest to return to Margaret. They would apologize for running so late, make a cursory offering to put away the papers quickly, then maybe have time to catch the mess hall open for a quick bite before bed.
Turning to the door into the main area of the Historical Society’s building, Marlow paused. It was dark.
Why weren’t the lights on?
Marlow reached for the light switch for the meeting room.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing.
They sighed deeply. Power outages weren’t uncommon but certainly were a pain in the ass. It likely meant the mess hall was closed. Marlow wondered how many of the undergrad dorms were filled with panic right now. Hell, even Armitage Hall, where the graduate students rented meager apartments, likely had a number of residents praying over laptops that whatever they were working on auto saved in time.
Marlow looked through the doorway and into the dark main room. Without even the street lights outside, it was too dark to see anything. The darkness itself seemed deeper, more velvet than usual night.
The nightmare reached through it towards Marlow. Things moving in the deep dark. Inhuman and knowing. Then, just as Marlow thought they would drown in the darkness, overtaken by those things, something all too bright appeared. It was so white it seemed to glow. A monolith made of moonlight.
Something so bright in such horrible darkness should have been a welcoming sight, a beacon of security. It wasn’t though. Marlow remembered that.
Seeing the white thing made Marlow’s guts twist the way they did when Marlow knew something terrible was about to happen. That the white thing was just the beginning of something they couldn’t…didn’t want to ever imagine.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The dark in the doorway felt like that dream. Like stepping through would put them right back into that nauseating moment when the white thing was looming over them.
“This is stupid,” Marlow whispered to themselves, to the dark, then winced. Gran would have given them a look for using such a banal word. Illogical. Impractical. Unconstructive. Puerile perhaps…but not stupid. Stupid was a word a child uses.
Marlow felt like a child, staring at the closet door left ajar in the night. Unwilling to risk getting out of bed to shut it but unable to go to sleep while it was open to let any dark thing in.
They swallowed and stepped forward. Their foot found the wooden floor of the main room in the dark. Another step found the plush rug that Marlow tripped on the first time coming here years ago as a history undergrad.
“Marge?” Marlow called into the dark. Had the old ladies left when the lights went out, forgetting a student was there? That seemed likely.
Marlow looked to the left where the front door lay. They could make a run for it, be outside in just half a dozen steps. Outside where undoubtedly people were, at least some rowdy co-eds perhaps taking this moment of black out as an opportunity for mischief.
But the papers in Marlow’s hands were a problem. They could just take them. Bring them back tomorrow and ask forgiveness. If Beth or Donald were at the desk they’d give Marlow an understanding look, the same look one might give a puppy that pissed on the mat - you’re cute but annoying, that look would say. Marge however, Margaret Paulson, head of the Arkham Historical Society, would not be as forgiving.
Marlow worked hard during their years in undergrad to get on Marge’s good side and didn’t relish the idea of losing what foot they’d obtained during that time.
“Come one,” they muttered, turning from the door towards the inner sanctum of the Historical Society building. The main desk was in that deep darkness. Marlow could set the papers there and no one could blame them for not doing more than that considering it would be impossible to read the labels to find the appropriate files.
The steps through the shadows were slow. One hand out to make sure they didn’t walk into anything, the other gripping the papers. Marlow was sweating. Sweat was acidic. They imagined corrosive handprints eating away at the papers. That would definitely piss old Marge off.
Thud.
Marlow winced as their hand hit the main desk sooner than expected. Gingerly, they felt along the front to the lip of the top section, to where it dropped to the main desk on the other side. Carefully, they laid the papers there and turned. With the desk at their back they felt a little better. At least nothing could reach forward and run its claws along their lower back if they leaned against something, right.
Marlow pushed the thought away. This was…unintelligent (that was a good grown up word for stupid). It was all that damned dream's fault. And the nap. How could they be so irresponsible as to fall asleep in the middle of their work?
But it was strange, wasn’t it. Marlow was not prone to dozing off. Couldn’t remember ever doing it before. And they’d gotten their usual amount of sleep the night before, hadn’t they?
Now wasn’t really the time to wonder about it, though it did keep the creepy crawly feelings at bay, for now.
Just get to the door, then worry about your possible narcolepsy, Marlow silently chastised.
The main room seemed to stretch forever. The sound of Marlow’s breath, now labored as if they’d been climbing uphill, not walking a few yards across a rug, filled the space.
Was that Marlow’s breath? They turned. Something moved.
It was a low sound. Not a step or a thud. Something sliding across the carpet.
“Hello?”
Their voice was barely a whisper so they tried again.
“Hello? Marge? Donny?”
Nothing responded. Just that slow, low drag.
The nightmare Them reached for Marlow in the dream.
Unintelligent, perhaps, but Marlow couldn’t give a shit just then as they bolted through the dark for the door.
Hands clutched at the knob as a voice in the back of their mind whispered. It's locked. They locked you in here with it. You’re trapped!
The knob turned with ease and they were out, stumbling down the concrete steps and into the front walk.
Turning, Marlow stared at the slowly closing door, half expecting something to reach out and make a final grab for them.
Nothing. The door shut with a definitive, almost mocking thud.
“Hah!” Marlow laughed breathily and shook their head. Pushing hair back and glasses up, they laughed again, at themselves. The relieved laughter of the survivor.
The cool spring air chilled the sweat on their brow and neck.
Marlow looked up at the stars and their laughter stopped.
The sky was wrong. It was hard to decide why but, it just was. The clusters of stars here, blank empty space there. It was just…wrong.
Turning, Marlow lowered their gaze to the parking lot. No…where was the parking lot?
At the edge of the walk was a ragged green space ending in a tall, wild hedge.
That nausea feeling. Vertigo. The earth pulled out from underneath and left you hanging for just a moment before falling feeling. Falling without moving.
Marlow wondered wordlessly if they had ever woken up from the nightmare at all.