Backyard Nightmares

I wrote this roughly 4 months ago as an experiment in suspense in a story. I tried to keep as much detail about the specific genre from the story until the very end. Hope you like it.

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I was always afraid of the forest just outside of the old rotten fence of my dad’s house. During the day I could see as far into the trees as the daylight allowed but when night came there was only the shadowy tendrils of the branches crawling across the backyard grass. When I was a child I would stare into the night and watch the forest, waiting to see if any red or yellow eyes would be staring back. I never saw any but it always felt there was something out there.

From what I was told a neighbor found my dad in the backyard, sitting in a fold-out chair. The neighbor said they saw him early in the morning, about 4-ish, when they were walking the dog. They said he was still looking out into the forest when he died, like he was trying to see something but couldn’t.
The chair was still there when I entered the backyard.

I don’t know why but I sat down in the chair and looked into the forest. For some reason I wanted to know what he saw or think what he was thinking about, and remembered a conversation he had with me, back when I was younger.

My father was strict, someone who lived a life of military discipline even though he had been honorably discharged years ago. Dad was a god-fearing man, even though it didn’t mean much in today’s world. He kept his life orderly and decent, the type of gentleman who wore a tucked in collared shirt, never with short sleeves, always matched his belt to his shoes, and knew how to groom his beard when it was time to grow one.

But that night I had woken up from night terrors. The screaming would last as long as the kid would be in REM. The worst part of it is that as hard as my dad tried I wouldn’t wake up from the night terrors. But when I did I would have no memory of them save a sharp pain in the back of my throat, from the screams.

Sad thing is I still have those sharp pains in my throat.  I guess the night terrors never really stopped.

The nightmare would always start with me waking up from in my twin-sized bed that most likely was still in the same room up on the second floor of the house. I would throw off the sheets and be overwhelmed with gusts of freezing air. When I looked down to my feet I’d see myself wearing the same green plaid pajamas and realize I was a child once again. We’ll, it wasn’t so much a realization as it was a reminder, like I had gone to bed as a child was expected to wake up as one.

I would stand and look around the room. The window would creak slightly from the corner of the room, blowing more wind in. My hair would stand on end when I heard the sound fill the room, my heart would race faster than I thought humanly possible, and in moments my skin would be coated in a frozen sweat.

That’s when I would look to the forest outside, its tendril-like branches against the overcast night sky, the only light glowing from the clock at the other side of the room.

It was flashing 12:00, as if there was a power outage during the night.

A movement from the window would tear my attention away from the blinking red numbers and in horror I would watch the seemingly distant tree branches crawl towards me. The black fingers would wrap around the window sill until the black tentacles would creep towards my feet.

I would snap awake immediately after a hand-like branch wrapped around my ankle.

My dad would be there, standing outside of the door, waiting for me to wake up. I would be gasping for breath in my bed as he would walk in with water and a wet towel.

He would never say anything. Dad would simply sit next to me and wait until I could catch my breath. He’d hand me the water and I would chug the glass as he gently place the wet towel on my forehead.

After a few minutes he would pat my shoulder and smile. “What ever’s in there,” he would say. “Will always stay in there, no matter how real it might seem.” The words always seemed to comfort me, not because of any logic that dad spoke with but because of how he said it, like he understood from some sense of familiarity. The words were like a promise to me, that he would protect me from my own nightmares.

Needless to say, when I moved out I left with some anxiety.

“Are you family of the deceased?” I jumped slightly in my seat, heart racing from the sudden voice from behind me.

“I am. And you are?” I saw an older man, uncut facial hair that grew to the base of his neck. Around the man’s eyes were layered wrinkles that shouted wisdom back at me. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, gray streaks following the strands across his temples. He shifted his weight to his back leg and pulled his black leather jacket, revealing a badge. And a gun.

“Detective Louis Gatts.” He tipped an invisible hat to me. “I’m guessing you are the deceased’s son.” I nodded. He continued. “I was the detective assigned to your father’s case.” He stuck out his hand. His nails were stained underneath. “Call me Louie.”

I shook. “Jonathan.” I said, still getting used to another person being in such a personal place and interrupting my thoughts. “Can I help you with something?”

“Do you know how your father died, son?” The man’s voice shook from old age.  My brow furrowed and I gave a slight sigh. I didn’t like where this was going.

“I figured it was a fatal heart attack, Detective.” Louie grimaced at the formal title, a proper response for calling me ‘son.’

“Jonathan,” the man said, spreading his legs slightly like he was carrying something heavy. He rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a heavy sigh. “Your father was strangled to death.”

A familiar cold sweat overwhelmed my body as the words leaked across the yard. My heart began to race. And an overpowering urge to scream boiled within my gut.

But in silence all I could do was stare into the forest that sat just outside of the fenced yard, waiting to see red or yellow eyes, staring back at me.