Claws of Fear

Claws of Fear

“Who’s there?”

Krista shoots upright in bed at the frantic scraping sound in the hallway, just outside her bedroom door. It sounds like…claws? Heavy, determined claws, carving grooves deep into her new wood floors.

Her pulse pounds at a dangerous speed as she pulls the comforter up around her neck. She must have been dreaming. With eyes fixed on the door, she slides her leg across the bed beneath the sheet, searching for David’s warm body. But he isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. He moved out over six months ago. She’s alone.

The pain of the broken relationship, the lost love, spreads like black ink across her heart before the sound outside her room interrupts her thoughts when it begins again.

Dig. Scrape. Dig. Scrape. Faster and faster. Like a wild animal digging frantically.

Then silence.

Aside from her own frenzied breathing and the ticking of her old mechanical Timex watch on the nightstand, it’s completely quiet.

Her imagination is playing off her nightmare; that has to be what’s happening. There’s nothing out there. She doesn’t have a dog, or any animal that would have made a sound like that. She lives alone. And no wild animal could have gotten into the house unless it had a key.

Krista turns her ear toward the door for a better hearing angle.

Nothing.

She must have been caught in that hazy limbo before waking, and the scraping sound is a lingering remnant of a nightmare. That makes sense. Now she’s fully awake, and the sound is gone. She gives a sharp nod. That’s settled.

She lies back down with an exasperated sigh. She’s been uncomfortable being alone at night since the dog attack when she was seven. But at thirty-five, she should be past nightmares and able to live alone without turning every sound that arrives in the night into a threat.

It’s amazing how long the shadow of a traumatic event can follow you. As fresh as if it happened yesterday, Krista recalls the night, shortly after her seventh birthday, when a large, black, angry Doberman viciously attacked her. The dog, aptly named Slayer, hated children.

Krista and her babysitter were walking the few blocks between their houses one night when Slayer sprang out through a hole it had dug under the fence and ran straight for Krista. He chased her several yards, then clamped his powerful jaw around her tiny ankle and yanked her to the ground, slobbering and growling. Slayer shook her with enough force to tear tendons and snap tiny bones. He nearly severed her foot. Finally, a neighbor heard the commotion and shot the dog, killing it instantly.

Even now, hot tears spill down her face at the memory.

Staring up at the ceiling, she focuses on the airy, slender arms of the candle-style chandelier. In the light of day, with its white paint and clear, reflective glass beads, it’s her favorite feature in the room. Now, in the dark, its attributes are somehow menacing. Instead of faux candles and strings of beads, she sees long fingers with sharp nails and spider webs filled with tiny, wrapped bodies.

She exhales sharply. What she needs is a distraction. Nature documentaries always knock her out. But just as she reaches for the television remote, the clawing starts again. Faster and louder than before. Her heart beats in time with the sound as it grows more insistent, as if her fear is encouraging it.

That’s real. She’s definitely not dreaming.

Her eyes chase every shadow in the room, searching every corner. If she pulls the covers any tighter around her neck, she’ll asphyxiate herself.

Fear winds around her, squeezing like a serpent.

This can’t be real. Nothing could have gotten inside the house; it’s locked up tight. Once David left and the nightmares started again, she installed extra deadbolts on each door, set up an alarm service, and reinforced all windows with wooden dowels. Nothing and no one can get in without making enough noise to wake the entire neighborhood. It’s clearly a case of her overactive imagination. As usual.

“Ow!” Her body jerks when the scars on her ankle burn deep into her flesh. She rubs her hand over the rough, jagged area on her ankle.

“What the hell?” The skin is completely cool to the touch. “Am I losing my mind?”

She throws back the covers, then slides off the tall platform bed. Maybe if she sees for herself that nothing is behind the door, her imagination will settle down, and she can go back to sleep.

To ensure her night vision is sharp when she opens the door into a dark hallway, she doesn’t turn on the light. Instead, she retrieves the heavy metal flashlight she keeps in her nightstand drawer and walks barefoot across the creaky floorboards. The solid flashlight comforts her, sturdy enough to double as a weapon if necessary.

She reminds herself that she isn’t a tiny, vulnerable seven-year-old anymore. She may be a petite five feet, two inches tall, but she’s an elite Muay Thai competitor. She can hold her own against whatever is behind her door. Except for her imagination. She’ll need to deal with that another way. But first things first. Open the door.

Something sour churns in the pit of her stomach with every step. Fear is a powerful enemy—real or perceived. It twists reality until it has you in its claws.

She hesitates for several breaths, hand hovering over the deadbolt, before throwing the door open with a yell to catch whoever (or whatever) is on the other side by surprise.

Nothing. The hallway is empty.

With her heart still pounding, she points the flashlight at the floor, and her breath locks in her chest at what she sees: several deep gashes. It looks like something tried to dig a hole under the door. She presses her hand to her mouth, smothering a cry.

Then she sees something truly terrifying. Short, black hairs have settled in the grooves.

Her knees buckle, sending her to the floor.

Doberman hairs. As sure as she is that there’s a flashlight in her hand and the floor is beneath her body, she’s positive the hairs belong to a Doberman. She’d recognize them anywhere.

A tingling sensation runs down her spine as the hair at the back of her neck rises.

“No. It’s not possible,” she whispers, shaking her head. That animal died the night of the attack. She can still hear the crack of the gunshot. Plus, it’s been twenty-eight years; it would be dead now, regardless.

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the all-consuming fear to flee. Sweat beads across her forehead even as she’s shivering. There’s no way she saw what she thinks she saw. It’s impossible.

But when she opens her eyes, the gashes are still in the floor.

Whatever’s happening, she needs to get out.

She stands up on unsteady legs, but before she can move, she hears it.

A low, threatening growl behind her.