IF IT CATCHES YOU

IF IT CATCHES YOU

Tim awoke drenched in sweat. It had to be at least 100 degrees in his apartment. He knew that ancient window air conditioner was on its last legs. Plus, he’d had that horrible nightmare again. He was certain the beer he accidentally mixed with Vicodin didn’t help matters either. Tim rolled out of bed and dropped to his knees on the floor. The pain meds wore off.

It was at work, on the frame of the 23rd floor. Tim was alone, taking measurements. He was more than comfortable with great heights. Tim was exhilarated. That’s why he loved his job building skyscrapers in Chicago.

When he was finished, he took a moment to stand on the edge and enjoy the panorama, to let the ever-present wind ruffle his hair. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw the same red glowing eyes from his nightmare about four feet away. It scared him. He lost his balance and fell off the edge. His safety cable jerked hard, slamming his body against the building frame repeatedly.

And that is why he was home, taking Vicodin, and struggling to get up off the floor. “I need a shower!” Tim told himself and limped to the bathroom. The hot water felt good on his hurting body. He was thankful that his shower came with handrails, since he was laboring to stay vertical.

As he was rinsing, he thought he heard something in the living room. He turned off the water to listen intently. Nothing. Probably His imagination. He was definitely on edge. Tim turned the water back on and finished his shower.

But as he was drying off, he heard something again. It sounded like a… scratching. Tim wrapped his torso with the towel and rushed to the living room, where the noise was clearly coming from the apartment door. Someone, or something was scratching on the door.

“Who’s there?” Tim called loudly. No answer. The scratching grew more desperate. “I said who is there?” Tim yelled.

Tim dropped to his recliner. His body and nerves could no longer stand it. The assault on his door was almost deafening now. He expected at any moment the beast would burst through the door and devour him.

“Go… Away!” Tim screamed at the top of his lungs.

Then suddenly the scratching stopped. Was that a good thing? Or a bad thing? He wasn’t sure.

“Are you okay in there Mister Tom?” Mrs. Gilligan, the elderly lady from across the hall.

“Man, I must’ve been really loud. She’s mostly deaf. That’s why she never gets my name right.” Tim allowed himself a nervous laugh. Then his eyes locked on the door. It was unlocked. How could he be so careless? Anyone or… anything could get into his apartment. He rose from his chair, almost collapsing to the floor as he’d forgotten his condition. He staggered to the door. Before locking it he couldn’t resist opening it to see if there were any scratches on the door. There were no marks. He closed and locked it.

Tim’s first reaction was to laugh. It had obviously been his imagination. But then he became concerned. He was awake, and yet the whole thing seemed so very real to him. Was it the drugs or was he losing his mind? Maybe this was still a dream and he wasn’t really awake. No, that wasn’t right. His head was spinning.

Then he realized he was wearing only a towel. “I should get some clothes on. Good thing Mrs. Gilligan didn’t see me. Course she mighta liked that.” He went back into the sauna that was his bedroom and put on pants. He decided he didn’t need more than that. He wasn’t going anywhere.

When he came back out, he opened the three windows in the living room to let in some air. It was about 80 degrees outside, but that was a lot cooler than in this apartment, especially with the wind coming in.

Tim sat down in his recliner and lit a cigarette. The pain was getting overwhelming right now. He opened the bottle and popped two Vicodin in his mouth. He knew a trick to quicken the effect: he held the pills under his tongue for as long as he could tolerate the taste before washing them down with water that he kept on the end table for just such an occasion. He didn’t remember bringing the pills out from the bedroom, but that didn’t really matter. In about ten minutes, his pain had subsided, and he was buzzed.

As he smoked a few more cigarettes, he thought about the nightmare. Every time he’d fallen asleep, whether in bed at night or napping in his chair watching TV, he had the exact same dream. He was sure that wasn’t normal.

Tim was high. He realized the TV was on though he didn’t remember turning it on. He turned it off. He wasn’t paying attention to it anyway. He thought he might be chain-smoking. And his vision was a little blurred with sparkles around the edges.

That’s exactly how it is in his nightmare! He’s in a long hallway with several doors on both sides. He knows somehow all the doors are locked. The carpet is blue. Wait- aren’t dreams supposed to be in black and white? He wasn’t sure. He’s running down the hall but struggling to make his body move. He’d heard somewhere that’s a common dream that people are trying to run but can’t. Maybe that was what he was dreaming about.

But he’s running because he’s being chased. A… beast of some kind is after him. Tim dare not look back. It would pounce on him and kill him. Probably eat him.

He hears large paws thumping on the carpet behind him. It sounds like sometimes this thing is on four feet, and sometimes, somehow, on two. It follows so closely behind him he can feel its hot breath on him. It reeks of the stench of blood, sour saliva, and… dog. But its not a dog.

The monster could catch him anytime it wanted. But it’s toying with him. It’s trying to incite as much fear as possible from Tim.

He’s approaching the end of the hallway. There is a door with three 000’s arranged vertically on it. In the same way that Tim knew all the doors along the hall were locked, he knows this door is his escape. He charges into it with a bloody crash.

Tim rips at the double doors with bloody fingers. The monster seems to stop and watch. When Tim finally succeeds and the doors open, he is free.

This nightmare had haunted him for two weeks. What did that mean? Did it mean anything? No, it had to mean something. Maybe he should talk to somebody about it.

Did the dreams actually have all that much detail, or was his imagination embellishing them?

The phone rang and he jumped out of his skin.

“Hello?” Tim answered.

It was his boss, Henry. Henry had brought him home from the hospital that morning. “Hey Tim, I’ll be over tomorrow after work with the Workers Comp papers. Ya gotta fill ‘em out in the first forty-eight hou’s. I’ll bring th’ beer.”

“Okay” Tim agreed. “Hey don’ forget, ya gotta use th’ service elevator. Th’ reg’lar one’s still oudda o’der.” Tim wasn’t from Chicago. He was from Pennsylvania, but he found it easier to communicate with people in this city if he talked like them.

And the conversation ended without goodbyes. Henry was a good guy and a good boss. Tim was looking forward to returning to work.

Tim was hungry. It was 8:30 and he hadn’t eaten all day. No wonder he was starving. He stumbled to the kitchen, which was open to the living room, designed so he could watch TV or socialize with friends while cooking he guessed. A peanut butter sandwich sounded just right.

He stood at an open window, eating his sandwich, and enjoying the breeze. He lived on the seventh floor and also enjoyed a somewhat panoramic view of a not-so-bad part of the city. Chicago earned its nickname of “The Windy City”. There were always gusts whipping and whistling around and through the streets.

But suddenly, Tim heard a different wind. It swept down and jostled the canopies on 34th and 38th streets. That wasn’t unusual, but this wind seemed to step over everything between. Tim could hear the wind roar as it toppled street trashcans. This wind was strong, swift, and specific. It seemed to have a destination. It was coming straight down… Eleanor Roosevelt Boulevard… where Tim lived.

A sudden disturbing thought smacked him seemingly from out of nowhere: “Can werewolves fly?” Had he just said that out loud?

The wind, or monster – he wasn’t sure now crouched by Fedora Park and leapt directly at Tim’s apartment building.

A loud crash in his bedroom. It was here. He dropped his sandwich and stumbled to the door. Movement in the bedroom as he fumbled with the lock. He heard it exit the bedroom as he exited the apartment.

Tim was in the hallway of his nightmare. He heard the beast coming out of the apartment. He had to run as fast as he could. His injured body didn’t want to run, but he had to run. Just like the dream, there were doors lining both sides of the hall. He knew they were all locked. There was no one to help him. He should have told someone about the nightmares but now there was no one to help. He ran. It chased. It was close.

Same as the dream, he couldn’t look back. Pausing would mean certain death. It could actually catch him anytime it wanted. But it was satisfied with chasing so very close. The monster wanted him as afraid as possible. It enjoyed the smell of his fear.

And Tim could really smell the monster this time. Blood and death and spittle, which was splattering on his back. He heard its jaws chopping. He heard its large paws thumping on the carpet. Just like in the nightmare, the beast was sometimes on all fours and sometimes walking upright on two legs like a man. This was a werewolf.

Suddenly he slammed into the metal doors marked with the vertical triple 000’s. He bashed his head hard and blood was pouring into his eyes. He knew this door was his escape.

They were double metal doors and he was going to have to force them open. He grabbed the edges with his fingertips and pulled. His fingers bled. He couldn’t give up.

The werewolf just stopped and watched. Tim still couldn’t look back at it. He was certain if he did, it would attack and kill him. This door was his freedom from the beast.

Tim started to pull the metal doors open. Adrenaline surged through his body. He could see only darkness beyond the doors. He pulled harder.

As he opened the doors wide enough to wedge his body through, the paper “OUT OF ORDER” sign fell off the door and dropped to the floor.

He was free. The last thing Tim Gold saw as he fell to his death was a pair of red glowing eyes watching him from the open doors.