By: Ren King and Violet Hirman

Note: This is a student generated work of short fiction

The darkness is impenetrable, filtering through the open window and fluttering the curtains. My body is frozen firmly in place, limbs stiffer than boards of wood. The demon emerges from the shadows, pushing them out of the way like heavy, wet blankets. I can’t close my eyes, fear and the sheer force of the sleep paralysis propping them open, the only movement possible being my pupils following the progress of the shadowy form. He creeps closer, his slender form so sure of every step, his smile splitting his face so wide that the skin on his lips cracks and bleeds down his chin when he reveals his preternaturally perfect grin. I can only assume what his bloodshot eyes must look like, since he wears half a paper bag over his head, the eyeholes cut crudely into the brown paper sinking into shadows.

Fear strikes deeply like ice freezing my blood in place, and I begin to hyperventilate despite telling myself over and over again not to worry; it’s not real. But then his knees brush the edge of my bed. He hangs his head over mine, releasing a high pitched giggle that shatters at the end, his bleeding smile dripping with a mixture of the crimson liquid and saliva. I can’t shrink away, only stare up at his leering, smiling, giggling form as the substance splatters across the bridge of my nose. He lifts his hand slowly, long, slender fingers hovering above my face. Then he taps my nose thrice, and I let out a gasp as my body unfreezes.

Any minute now, I tell myself, scrambling out of bed with my chest heaving and hands quivering like dead leaves. But the demon stands where he was, gazing at me, his giggling interrupted every so often by delirious hiccups. The doctors told me it would disappear once I fully woke up! Once I could move again! So why is it still here? The childish laughter escalates into a maniacal cackle as I fumble to reach the window. The demon takes his time, stalking closer, husky breath rattling around his ribcage and his limbs jerking randomly as if he were a marionette. His head whips to the side, the bone cracking violently and a small sob escapes my throat before I steel my nerves and turn my back to him, hoisting myself out of the window. Every hair on my skin sticks straight up a nanosecond before I hear his anguished yowling, feel his gnarled fingernails digging into the skin on my back. I scream, tearing free and landing painfully on the lawn about four feet below.

My friend lives just across the street, I’ll be safe if I can reach his house. The road in question feels like I am taking a year to cross it, and I pound on the door, vividly aware of the screeching of my demon getting closer by the moment. I rap again, this time calling my friend’s name out hoarsely, panic and nausea making my voice weak and tortured. On the third smack of the wood, the door flies open, and I howl in defeat. My demon stands in the doorway, giggling and overflowing with so much excitement that he starts tearing at the skin on his face. Hooking his fingers into the socket of one empty eye, the other clawing at his indefinite smile, stretched so tightly now that the lips have split right down the middle.

In a flash I sprint back across the street and into my own home again, diving under the covers of my bed, shaking uncontrollably, telling myself over and over again that this will be over, that this is a dream.

Some time later, I open my eyes, blinking rapidly in the growing daylight, the birds chirping and seeming otherwise undisturbed in their tiny tree homes. Last night comes back like the repeated blows of a sledgehammer, and I press my nails into the palm of my hand to keep from panicking. I calmly get out of bed and walk to my friend’s house, not even bothering to change out of my plaid pajama pants and pale blue sweatshirt. He answers immediately, and assures me everything was fine last night.

Back at my house, I shiver at the memories, then tug my shirt over my head to change. I freeze, noticing for the first time the stinging pain accompanying the four faint scars lining my back, an everlasting reminder of the danger of my own imagination.

By: Ren King and Violet Hirman

Note: This is a student generated work of short fiction

“It’s a gift.”

The familiar curve of a smile lines her cheeks, and I stiffen as she places the small wooden box in my hand. “From Don and me. To remind you to keep wishing.”

“Thank you, mom.” I would’ve gladly accepted a gift from my mom, but her deranged, middle aged lover, Don? He sickens me, and as my hands trace the detailed woodworking of the box, a glimpse of the desire to crush the box grips me.

“Don’t waste it, kiddo,” Don warns. Hate burns in my chest. He doesn’t even love my mom, just enjoys the attention. Something in his eyes makes my stomach turn again, a threat.

As soon as possible, I retreat to my room where I toss the box onto my bed and pull on my shoes. If I’m going to stay sane, I need air. Dinner was more tense than usual, the only sound being forks scratching plates. I’m almost out the door, but something tugs at me. At the last moment, I grab the box again and leave.

The sun has already tucked itself away behind the trees by the time my house disappears from view. I release a captured breath and let myself breathe freely.

The breeze is warm, running small fingers through my tangled hair, dancing between the trees and tracing my face. When the air stills, the sounds of frogs and crickets fill my ears. The lake on my right glitters underneath the moon, warping its reflection.

I sit on a ledge overhanging the lake’s shore, feet swinging lethargically. The box in my hands is heavy, solid. Its intricacy catches my attention—really catches my attention—for the first time, the grain swirling and dipping over the surface. I unclasp the latch and flip the lid up. Inside, the box is lined with velvety fabric, cushioning a single penny.

“I guess it’s the thought that counts,” I mutter. I twirl the coin between my fingers and glance at the moon. It’s full, so full it looks like it’s about to burst. And it’s close. The stars twinkle, gently earlier, but now with a harsh bitterness usually left to the sunshine.

My mother’s words return to me, the words about wishes.

“Worth a shot.”

With a wish in my head, I squeeze my eyes shut and hurl the penny into the lake. It lands with a tiny splash, skips twice, and disappears beneath the waves. Time slows, pulling at my consciousness. Everything sharpens, coming to razor-sharp focus. I feel the weight of my eyelashes as I blink, the hair brushing the back of my neck in the wind, the feel of my clothes on my body. And then it returns to normal. Like nothing happened at all.

A sort of excitement grows in my stomach, sweet and sick all at once. I take a slow, deep breath of air and jog the entire way home, anticipation squirming under my skin like a caged animal.

My hand pauses over the door handle, but I push my way inside nevertheless.

“I’m home!” I call. The house is dark. I couldn’t have been gone that long, could I? I bound upstairs, box in hand, and peek into my mom’s room. She’s alone, and asleep if her breathing is any tell. Is he gone? Did he leave? Did the penny work?

I retreat again to my room, hope struggling against the bonds of disbelief. Sleep is quick to find me and tuck me into its safe space inside my head. I dream of coins, moons, and water.

The following morning I nearly fall down the stairs like a kid on Christmas morning. But the person in the kitchen makes my heart drop to my toes. Don. He’s still here. Why?

“Mornin’ kiddo. I see you used your wish.” His voice drips with honey-sweet malice. I take a step back. My mom sits in the adjacent living room, rocking away and humming to herself under her breath.

“Mom, what was that? What was that penny?” I ask, panic rising. She doesn’t answer, only continues rocking.

“She can’t hear you,” gloats Don. “I suppose I should feel upset that you tried to get rid of me with my own gift, but I’m flattered. After all, it’s the thought that counts, right kiddo?”