Lullaby

"Suddenly, fear gripped me; I trembled and shook with terror, as a spirit passed before my face--my hair stood on end. I felt the spirit's presence, but couldn't see it standing there. Then out of the dreadful silence came this voice..."

--Job 4:12-17

I rub the bridge of my nose, rest my face into my open hands, and let out a deep sigh. Today has been tiring, but more emotionally tiring than anything else. I unclip my badge and hold it in my hand, slowly turning it over between my fingers and watching the glare of the artificial light. I remember receiving this police badge two years ago. I made an important commitment that day, not just to civilians, but to myself and my family. I had convinced myself this was the only way to make things right after that incident so long ago.

It had to be.

In reality, it probably happened several months before I joined the force, but god, it feels like forever. And I still remember every detail. I remember what we were eating for dinner, I remember my wife catching up on the phone with her mother, I even remember the way we laughed after her terrible attempt at humor. But the events that unfolded that night always come back as ghosts to haunt me in the back of my mind, slowly eating it away. I guess you could call it a disease, which would mean the loss of my sense of security is a symptom.

That's what compelled me to join the force. And at first, I looked toward this police station for doctors, but I found out later that some of them had diseases of their own. I learned that each person had their own reason for joining; each person had their own story to tell, and not many of them were glorious. Sick or not, we became like a therapy class for each other. So in this light, I cannot imagine a better career option for me.

I glance at the clock. My shift ends at five, which is only about an hour away now, after that I can go home and eat dinner with Avery. I do not see her most of the day, and when I do I try to savor every moment I have with her. She is the love of my life. I got this job partly because of her, and I want to protect her for as long as I can.

A few moments of silence pass, with only the ticking of the clock on the wall to accompany me.

I hear a knock on the doorframe of the room. I look over and see that it's Lieutenant Krause; one of the men in charge of the Crime Against Persons division, and within that division, the commander the Robbery Unit. I'm one of the officers in that Squad.

"Hey, good work out there, Connors," he says with his usual gravelly voice. Krause is an older man of German decent, although he lost his accent a while ago. He's a rather strict commander and doesn't give out compliments lightly.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," I reply.

"Make sure you keep your focus where it should be," and with that, he pats the doorframe and walks off to continue his duties.

After he leaves, I breathe to myself, "Yeah. I should work on that."

I doubt that he was giving me a compliment on my performance, it was most likely encouragement. Although he is strict with our Squad, he knows about the incident in my past and occasionally will try to help me when I seem to need it.

You see, a few hours ago, me, the Lieutenant, and a couple of other people from our Squad were the first people to respond to a burglary in a nearby suburban home. A man broke in thinking the place was empty only to find that the family was still inside. Sure, this kind of thing happens from time to time, but this time was different: by the time we arrived, it had turned into a hostage situation. While the Lieutenant called for backup, he told me to confront the perpetrator, assess the situation, and see if he had any demands. But that was not the thing that bothered me; it was the scene of the family that made it seem like I was reliving a nightmare. Maybe it was seeing the tears silently well up in the mother's eyes as she tried to cope with the gun to her head; maybe it was because their dad was almost shot as he told his kids everything would be alright, when his words did not come from his heart. Whatever it was, it was something I keep wishing I could forget. It did not take too long to detain the man with the family unharmed, so when we returned, we were rewarded with smiles and pats on the back. As if this unrequited gratitude is enough to outweigh the field work.

I decide to pull my head out of my thoughts and put my badge back on. I turn off the lights to the Video Surveillance Room to get a better view of the screens. The room itself is not too large. It is long enough to assign about four people in the seats to watch the cameras, yet I am the only one in it. There is not much decor, not that we make an effort to make the room beautiful. Just the clock on the wall, and a trash bin in the corner. The wall beside the door is outfitted with small screens that show every nook and cranny of this place, and I move my seat closer to the screens that show me what I came here for.

I watch as my friend Chris, prepares to walk into a room where another man--Thomas, I believe--is sitting. Chris and I joined at about the same time. Since we were both new, and because he was so easy to talk to, we bonded rather quickly and remain close friends to this day. Although I made some other friends here during my career, Chris is the one that I associate myself with the most.

He glances at Thomas through the one-way mirror as he is talking to another officer, probably discussing the phone call Thomas gave us a couple days ago before we brought him here: Thomas' children have gone missing, and although Thomas claims they were murdered, we have yet to find the bodies, if any. After he called us, we sent people to ask around to see if they knew anything. But it's been about two days since the call and neither of the children have turned up, so we asked him to come the police station in order to get a better understanding of what happened. I would be down there and watch the interview in person with the few others who have nothing else to do, but after that hostage situation earlier today, I feel like I need some space to myself.

I get lost in thought for a few minutes, so I am startled when Chris appears at the doorway to the room I'm in upstairs.

"Hey, Connors," Chris says.

I flinch slightly, "Shit, you scared me, man."

He laughs a little, "Well I guess that's what you get for being anti-social now isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, I'm very anti-social. In fact, my skin boils whenever I touch someone."

Chris adds on to that, "The mere thought of human interaction gives you blistering rashes in the most uncomfortable places."

"Well I wouldn't take it that far, but thanks for that mental image though," I comment. "Anyways, aren't you supposed to be getting ready for the interrogation?"

"Yep. But I thought I might just check on you before I do, and, you know, ease my curious mind."

He taps his temple as if to explain it better. I don't respond, but smile a small one and exhale: The smallest form of a laugh.

"Another one of those days?" He asks, taking note of my growing distance from the conversation.

I rest my hand behind my head, "Yeah," I gently reply. The lightness in our conversation fades. I always try to avoid our friendly exchanges twisting into this recurring topic, especially when it has a taste so familiar it becomes almost bland.

"Well. . .Just come down when this is over; it's not going to do you any good hiding in there all day."

"Alright. I'll make my way down eventually."

Chris stood there for a minute, not sure what else to say to me, allowing the words to simmer in the air for a bit. Eventually, he ends the routine, turning around to go downstairs.

Of course, I don't like the way the conversation turned out, not just because of the topic like I said before, but because I feel bad for shutting out my best friend. I realize that all he was doing was making sure everything's alright . . . maybe next time I will open up some more and actually have an honest talk with him. But who knows how long that could take.

I swivel my chair back to the monitors. I watch as Chris makes his way into the room where Thomas sits. Thomas does not bother to look up, even when Chris takes a seat right in front of him. From this point of view, I can only see Chris' back to the door and the camera. He has with him a few papers attached to a clipboard and a pen to take notes.

"Hello, Thomas," he begins, "I'm Officer Talley, and I'll be asking a few questions about what happened before you made the call to us. Are you all right with that?"

I can feel Chris giving his well known friendly smile, which adds to his already approachable look. He is often charged with the task of questioning for that reason; there's an aura surrounding him that makes people feel comfortable and at home. He has short dirty blond hair and blue eyes that stand out among his other prominent features. Thomas, on the other hand, has longer dark brown hair. I cannot see his face because his head is angled a little to the floor, causing some of his hair to hang down and block my view. But what I do see is that he seems despondent and detached from what is happening.

When Thomas doesn't reply, Chris tries again, and, sensing an awkwardness brewing in the room, adds a little more friendliness to his tone, "Thomas, could you please start from the beginning?"

Thomas then mutters something, but the camera is not strong enough to pick it up. Apparently Chris hears, because he responds with, "You're safe here, Thomas. Now would you mind starting from the beginning?"

After a moment's hesitation, Thomas takes a deep breath and starts talking. He sounds wary and cautious, yet undeniably tired. He may have been relentlessly interrogating himself before this, most likely seeking the answers we all want, or even questioning if everything that happened was real.

He does not make eye contact with the officer, and he sounds almost as if he's talking to himself. "Ok . . . my children . . . Jessica and Andrew . . . they asked to play outside in the backyard, they loved playing out there, and I told them they could. After that, I went to my room to work on paying our bills . . . It was hours later and I would've expected them to be inside by now . . . I looked out the back window, wondering if they were still playing tag like they tend to do, but they weren't there . . ."

"Is this when you left to search for them?" Chris inquires as he writes something down.

"Yes . . . I looked all around back, but they weren't there. I walked around my neighborhood, asked people I knew, but they said they never saw them. Then I remembered one place I didn't check . . . We live right in front of a wooded area. We don't go there often, but when we do, we go there as a family. It didn't make sense why they would go there by themselves . . ."

He began to drift off, seemingly lost in thought.

Chris chimes in, hoping to encourage him, "I have two boys of my own. There has been a kidnapping recently near where we live, so I'm constantly worrying about them. It'll be alright, please, continue."

Thomas takes in what the officer has confided with him while his own leg bounces furiously. Without making any comment about the kidnapping or Chris' personal life, he goes on, "It was getting dark. I walked back to our house, went through the front, and was about to exit through the sliding back door to check again when . . . I . . ."

I adjust myself in my seat as I tune in to what Thomas is about to say.

There is silence, save for the faint tick, tick, tick.

"Thomas?"

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Thomas abruptly sits upright, leans forward toward Chris with his eyes wide open. I can see his face for the first time. His irises are a hazel color, surrounded by an army of pink.

"That . . . THING! THAT NIGHTMARE!" Thomas covers his face and starts sobbing between phrases. " He . . . no, IT! . . . Jessica's clothes . . . red . . . in one of its . . . one of its hands!"

"According to what you said earlier you described her as wearing a white shirt and orange pants?" Chris pulls out a paper from the clipboard and re-reads it.

"THEY WERE!" He begins to stammer, "A--and in i--its other hand, A--Andrew . . . Andrew . . ."

"It's all right."

"You don't get it! THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO FUCKING BURY! It . . ."

I feel a wave of goose bumps run up my body when I hear that. I search through my mind, trying to formulate any guesses about the perpetrator, but come up with nothing useful.

Chris on the other hand, seems more or less composed, "Can you please describe what the perpetrator looked like?" Some of his friendliness diminished; this is serious business, and we don't know what we're dealing with, both the crime and Thomas.

"It was . . . it was just standing there, right behind the tree line. I could barely see its form, but its head was jagged and it looked completely black, it just must've been a silhouette or something, but looked . . . it didn't look human at all! Its hands were like swords and its face . . ."

Thomas trails off again.

"Thomas?"

". . .That horrible FUCKING FACE!! Just staring at me! But . . . no, there was no face! Its eyes were empty and glowed, and it smiled! IT SMILED! It had human teeth! That was the only thing human about it! What the hell was I looking at?!"

"Thomas, please calm yourse--"

"NO!"

Thomas stands up, knocking over his chair. He starts shouting even louder, not directing it at anyone in particular at this point, "NO! I SAW YOU SON OF A BITCH!" He clutches his head in his hands. "It took my Jessica, it killed Andrew, NOW IT'S COMING FOR ME! Everywhere I go, it's there! I can't sleep! I can't eat! I can't live! You don't know! YOU DON'T KNOW!" He looks back up. "OH GOD! OH GOD!"

"Thomas, calm down!"

Thomas begins wailing. It is a kind I've never heard before; it seems to erupt from deep inside of him, set free from its withered cage by something beyond terror; a nightmare that has kept humanity in check for a long time, and is the root of all fear that manifests within us. As he does, he runs backwards, tripping over the overturned chair in the process. Still screaming, he backs up as far into the opposite corner as he can. He points, "IT'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!" He lets loose a sound like that of a tortured animal, "IT'S SMILING!"

Chris gets up immediately, dropping his clipboard and pen. He grabs the police radio attached to his shoulder and turns to walk out, "He needs to be detained! Someone get in he--OH HOLY CHRIST!"

On the screen, I'm surprised to see Chris pull out his pistol from its holster and shoot multiple times at something outside of the room. He yells with eyes wide, backing up and firing. Loud and high pitch sounds bombard my eardrums; the sounds of gun fire and screaming almost make me lose my mind. But just as suddenly as it happened, it all stops.

What stops it, is something I will never be able to erase from my memory.

I watch in horror as I witness my friend Chris cease firing as his head makes an audible bone crunching snap. It turns one hundred and eighty degrees almost instantly, the back of his head where his face used to be. Chris's body crumples to the floor with a dull thud. Thomas and I both seem to swallow at the same time.

Thomas looks away from the body and to the doorway and then to the other side of the room, obviously looking for something.

He finds what he's looking for, because then an awful moaning transpires.

He looks away and desperately drags himself towards the exit on his left, that is, until the door shuts closed and locks.

I watch this scene unfold feeling both terrified and bewildered, because that door opens inward, and Thomas is the only one in the room.

"NO NO OH GOD NO!" He scratches with futile at the knob. At this point tears run down his face, almost as if they too are trying to escape this dire situation. Thomas turns to the side and throws his arms across his face. He yells the names of his children so violently with remorse that I am sure it would kill his vocal cords.

Thomas's body begins spontaneously convulsing. Disoriented screams of pain and fear leave his mouth. Against everything I know, begins to hover above the ground, every part of his body is flailing like a ragdoll at impossible speeds, and limbs hit the one-way glass, causing massive cracks in the reflection. His yells gradually fade into nothingness as his body becomes physically unable to keep him alive. Just when I think Thomas's limbs would rip off by the sheer speed he is spinning at, he is flung directly at the camera. A disturbing sound of flesh against metal is heard right before the connection is lost.

I stare at the blank screen. In fact, all of the screens are blank. I'm breathing fast. I feel sweat on my face. My rapid heartbeats become thunder in the silence.

I sit there in that chair for what feels like forever, mortally petrified, and unable to process what happened. I sit there in the silence, as fear's icy grip refuses to weaken. Every second that passes by rolls past like an hour in my head.

Something is off. Something about the room I sit in now. Afraid of what I'll find, I look around the room. I listen. Then I finally realize what it is.

The clock stopped ticking.

My head jerks towards it, and its hands are frozen at five o'clock PM. I stand up, breathing faster and irregular. What the hell is this? I think. I turn towards the open door where Chris stood not too long ago and begin to walk out. What the hell what the hell what the hell! Haven't the other officers seen that? Why isn't anyone doing anything? I don't hear anyone doing anything. It's all gone silent. I have to get home. I have to get home now! Avery. . .

My thoughts stop at the same time as my feet do. I tense, watching in horror because no one is in the room outside. Before, there were plenty of people at their desks, receiving calls, and doing work on their computer. Now there is no one there. What is even more disturbing is what I see standing in front of me, in the middle of that empty room.

A dark shadowy figure with glowing yellow eyes.

I almost forget how to breathe. It stands there, motionless. It's easily a few feet taller and lankier than normal people. Its hands are enormous. I finally understand what Thomas said about them being swords; its fingers are long and sharper than daggers. Its head is jagged, pulsating and fading. I see no visible facial features except for those two glowing, yellow, soulless eyes. No pupil or iris. Empty. It's the spawn of cold dark nights and childrens' nightmares. The room seems to stretch out farther and farther the more I look, and yet that thing remains in the same spot. My eyes start hurting, and I begin to feel nauseous; it feels like the world is tilting. I lean over on my chair, take a few deep breaths, and stand straight again.

My breaths are released in a sharp cry.

That thing now stands inside the doorway.

With its head cocked to the left, and a wide unsettling smile on its face.

I am paralyzed by fear. I couldn't move my muscles if I tried. I want to shout for help, to say something, anything, but find it physically impossible. Helplessly, I watch as that nightmare's mouth opens three times wider than any normal person's, emits a blood curdling screech, and glides rapidly towards me.

Now I am the one screaming.

MEMORANDUM

To: All Police Department Personnel

From: Captain Michael Reynolds

Date: March 7^th, 2014

Subject: Officers Talley and Connors

As many of you are aware, Officers Christopher Talley and Isaac Connors underwent an appalling event last night during the interview with Thomas Fletcher. How the hell this took place inside of the station, I have no idea.

The body of Officer Talley was found on the floor with his neck snapped, along with the remains of Thomas Fletcher, which appeared to have been [DATA REDACTED]. There has been no sight of Officer Connors since last night, but forensic studies in the Surveillance Room suggests [DATA REDACTED]. Connors will be declared MIA until further notice. There is no useful video footage of the incident as the audio and visual contain too much static. We advise all friends and personnel who know of any information about the incident to report it immediately. All personnel will be questioned starting at 3:00 PM.

As for their families, we will send an officer to inform the Talleys and the Connors of the news of their sons, and another to pick Avery Connors up from daycare; she will be living with Connors's parents.

I'd just hate to be the poor bastard who has to tell the little girl the bad news.