Dark Was the Night Read online

  Dark Was the Night

  Tania Lorena Rivera

  Dark Was the Night is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 Tania Lorena Rivera

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 979-8-463-79484-0

  To my parents, Walter and Margarita, who taught me to be brave despite my fears.

  Table of Contents

  Thursday, October 29th, 2009, 3:36 a.m.

  Friday, October 30th, 2009, 7:27 a.m.

  9:03 a.m.

  11:30 a.m.

  3:21 p.m.

  5:48 p.m.

  Saturday, October 31st, 2009. Halloween. 10:49 a.m.

  5:07 p.m.

  6:44 p.m.

  8:05 p.m.

  8:22 p.m.

  9:17 p.m.

  10:13 p.m.

  11:42 p.m.

  Sunday, November 1st, 1:35 a.m.

  2:23 a.m.

  3:17 a.m.

  3:53 a.m.

  9:37 a.m.

  Tuesday, December 1st, 2009, 10:33 a.m.

  Sunday, December 5th, 2009, 3:46 p.m.

  Saturday, February 13, 2010, 11:33 a.m.

  Tuesday, March 16, 2010, 09:07 a.m.

  Thursday, October 29th, 2009, 3:36 a.m.

  What was that noise? It pulled me out of a dreamless, deep sleep. Our old, white Sony alarm clock on my wooden bedside table and its red, flashy, bright numbers indicate 3:36 a.m. What could have made such a loud noise at this hour? Maybe something in our room fell. I push myself up on my elbows and scan the familiar surroundings.

  Despite the hour, our bedroom is bright. Our white cream curtains are clear enough to let the street lamp light in. Everything in our room is visible. I scan my white dresser with its black knobs first. Ugh, I need to declutter the top of that thing. But nothing has fallen on the floor. Beside it, my husband’s dirty socks lie in front of our white hamper. Again. The hamper is filled with dirty laundry I have chosen to ignore all week. The lid is no longer able to close. I better take care of that pile this weekend. Between the doors of our two closets, a lone wooden chair that was part of an old dining table is buried under a mountain of my husband’s clothes. According to him, these clothes have varying degrees of cleanliness. Therefore, they have no business in his closet or the hamper. Yet, he says, they are still wearable. I sigh. I never understood his system, but I have learned to pick my battles in over ten years of marriage. Both doors of our respective closets are closed, and our robes hang over the footboard. No. Everything is in its place. So, what made that noise?

  Outside, the wind howls like a ghost and makes the pine tree branches in our front yard brush against each other under its mighty force. A big gust of wind sends one of them whipping against our bedroom window, and I startle. Sudden and loud though it was, that is not the noise that woke me up. The baby monitor sitting on the table on my husband’s side of the bed is quiet. No red dots indicating noise coming from our daughter’s room. There it is again! It’s coming from Natalie’s room! The red dots are visible on the grey monitor. I sit up on the bed, waiting for her to call out, but I do not think she is awake. Yet, the noise is coming from her room, a repetitive banging. It is quite loud, but the noise does not wake Michael, who is still sleeping, on his tummy, like always. Only his thick, curly, dark hair is peeking out from under the white covers. How is he not awake? I shake him.

  “Honey? Sweetie, wake up,” I say.

  He growls and answers.

  “What?”

  “There is a noise in Nat’s room,” I tell him.

  “What noise?” he answers without opening his eyes.

  “I don’t know. Can you please go check on our daughter?” I ask him, caressing his hair.

  He will not like this request. He opens his eyes and stares at me for a few seconds.

  “Honey, you’re hearing things because it’s the night. Go back to sleep. If I go check on her, I’ll wake her up,” he tells me.

  “Michael, look at the monitor. It’s clearly registering a noise,” I insist.

  I rearrange my pillows behind me, cross my arms and wait for him to get up. He sighs profoundly but sits up on the bed and looks at the monitor.

  “Luce, that could be anything. You know how sensitive that thing is. It’s probably picking up the noise the wind is making,” he argues.

  He rubs his eyes, yawns, clumsily caresses my cheek and lays down to sleep again. Am I overreacting? The red dots are still coming and going. Toby is awake too. Did we wake him with our voices, or did the noise wake him also? He is looking straight at me from his wicker basket nestled safely between our dresser and the corner wall. His head resting on his front paws, he is the picture of calmness. If somebody were in the house, he would start barking, wouldn’t he? But then again, he is no watchdog. I shake Michael again with a little more force this time.

  “Michael?” I say.

  He growls even louder than the first time, kicks back the covers with his feet and rolls out of bed, grunting.

  “Awrright already! I’ll go. But keep that damn dog from following me. Don’t want his claws making noise all the way to Nat’s room. Enough with this horror movie floor we have,” he says.

  “I’m taking him to the vet tomorrow. I’ll ask him to trim his nails,” I assure him.

  “Why don’t you just ask him to put him to sleep?” he says.

  “Really, Michael?” I answer, furrowing my brow and shaking my head.

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  “I’m just saying. That dog has run its course. It would make sense to just get rid of it,” he answers.

  “To get rid of it? Who are you? The Godfather? I’m not getting rid of Toby just because you don’t like him,” I argue.

  Michael sighs, cocks his head to the side and rubs his forehead with his hand.

  “You know that’s not the reason why. You know that, Lucie. It’s true, I don’t really like the mutt, and if it weren’t for the fact that the fleabag was your mom’s, I would never have agreed to him, but you know as well as I do, it will only get worse from here on out. So, don’t make me out to be the bad guy here,” he replies.

  I know. Michael is right, and I hate that he is right.

  “Look, I don’t want to argue about this in the middle of the freaking night, okay? Just, please go check on our daughter and would you do me a favor and pick up your freaking socks from the floor!” I throw at him.

  I motion Toby to the bed by tapping on it. The small beagle gets up from his bed, wagging his tail, jumps on our bed and lays down right beside me, quite content with this unexpected privilege. My husband glares at us and shakes his head, passes beside his dirty socks without picking them up, and disappears into the dark corridor.

  Oh no! He forgot to close the door behind him! Should I call out to him? No. I might wake up Natalie. Should I just close the door myself? Yes. I can do that. Come on, Luce. Don’t be a wimp. Toby is right here with you. It’s okay. You’re okay.

  I take a deep breath and get out of bed. Keeping my eyes pointing towards the ground, I make my way towards the door.

  Just don’t look at it, Luce. There’s no need to look at it. Keep staring at your feet. Don’t look at the darkness and quickly close the door. You’ll be fine.

  A few feet from the opened door, it happens; my chin quivers, and my breath shudders. This is stupid. There is nothing there. There is nothing there, Luce. Just close the door! I reach for the white door and make the mistake of glancing once at the darkness in the hallway. In that split second, my eyes
make out something I know is not there, a shadowy figure staring right back at me. My chest tightens, and I freeze, unable to move. Unable to do anything but stare into the darkness at something I know is not real. But cold beads of sweat form at the base of my neck, and I shudder. I know I should look away. I know it will all end if I just avert my eyes. But I keep staring, and the more I gaze, the more defined that figure becomes, and for a moment, I think it is smiling at me.

  Toby, perhaps sensing my adrenaline rush, whimpers, and I snap out of my trance and close the door at once. I lean against it, and I close my eyes, hugging myself. My hands are cold and clammy. I climb back into bed and take Toby into my trembling arms. In response, Toby licks my face.

  Luce, when are you going to get over this? There is nothing there! Absolutely nothing. You nutjob!

  Damn floorboards! Michael is in Natalie’s room now, and our old floor is making an eerie and cringe-worthy crack under Michael’s every step. The red dots on the baby monitor register his every move. Please, Nat, don’t wake up! It is one thing to wake my husband up at night but another to pull my daughter out of her sleep. I know she has grown used to it. Waking up in the middle of the night and seeing her father checking her room. My only consolation for putting them both through this ritual is that Natalie has never been afraid. She always smiles back at her father and goes back to sleep.

  Our rooms are on opposite sides of the house, separated by a long corridor. Ours faces the front of the house, and Natalie’s facing the back. Had I known I would turn out to be this neurotic mess, I would have bought a different place.

  Michael’s return is announced thanks to the damn creaking of the floor. The tightness in my chest releases, and I can let out a big sigh. He did not wake her up.

  “She’s fast asleep,” Michael says, entering our bedroom.

  “The noise that you hear is coming from outside her window. The wind blew down our trash can, and now it’s rolling on our balcony. I’ll go and tie it down. I’ll be right back,” he explains.

  He puts on his brown, plaid robe and looks at me. He furrows his brow. I still must have a petrified look on my face for all my best efforts to conceal it.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, taking a step towards me and examining my face.

  I hesitate. It is bad enough I sent my husband on a fool’s errand, yet again. How do I explain I had another “episode” as well?

  “You—you forgot to close the door,” I say, steadying my voice.

  His eyes widen and then close, and then he shakes his head. I hate to make him feel guilty for my irrational fear. The one who should be feeling guilty is me for putting him through this, but my heartbeat is still thumping inside my ears.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry! I didn’t notice. I really didn’t. No wonder you look like you just saw a ghost,” he says, sitting on the bed.

  Maybe I did.

  “It’s okay. I closed the door. I’m okay,” I tell him, giving him a slight smile.

  He reaches for my hand, grabs it and sighs.

  “You’ll get over this, okay? Many people conquer their fears, and this guy you’re going to see tomorrow, he comes highly recommended. We’ll get through this. We will,” he says, squeezing my hand.

  “I know,” I answer, forcing another slight smile.

  But the fake confidence is working on me too. My heartbeat has gone back down to a normal rhythm, and it is easier to breathe. I take a deep, long breath and squeeze back my husband’s hand. His head resting against the headboard, he is nodding off.

  “Honey?” I say.

  “Yeah?” he answers.

  “The trash can,” I remind him.

  “Oh! Right,” he says, yawning.

  He gets up from the bed, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, walks towards the door, and looks back at me.

  “Will you be alright?” he asks, fighting back another yawn, but he locks eyes with mine and waits for my reply.

  I smile at him and nod my head.

  “I’m fine now. Thanks, sweetie,” I tell him.

  His face softens into a smile, he winks at me, and he leaves the room shutting the door behind him.

  Friday, October 30th, 2009, 7:27 a.m.

  “Momma, why don’t you wear a costume to work?” asks Natalie, who is putting different coloured pieces of fabric on my mannequin. My measuring tape is around her neck, and a pencil is tucked in one ear. She circles the model, examining her creation, pursing her lips and squinting her eyes.

  Sitting in front of my mom’s old green Singer, I sew the last couple of patches on Natalie’s Halloween dress. This year, she asked to be a witch, and she was particular about the details of her costume: all black with multiple patches of colour all over.

  Cutting the last thread attaching the fabric to the sewing needle, I lift the garment and examine my creation. I cannot help but smile. I do not impress much in the kitchen, but I can hold my own as a seamstress. The black satin fabric glistens under my sewing room’s white, neon light. The patches of colour and the purple tutu sticking out from underneath give the skirt a 60’s flair.

  Every year, I sit at this machine, and I make my daughter a Halloween costume. The first year, it was a bumblebee, then a pumpkin, followed by a princess and now a witch. Of course, it would be easier to just buy a costume, but I grew up to the sights and sounds of my mom sowing. On nights where the Sandman could not find me, I would fall asleep to the buzzing of this machine and to the brushing of fabric on her wooden table. It was soothing, and it still is.

  “Mommy is not wearing a costume because Mommy is not going to work today. She needs to take Toby to see the vet, and then she has some errands to run,” I answer.

  She stops turning around the mannequin and faces me.

  “Is Toby sick, Momma?” she asks.

  I get up from my chair and walk towards her and help her into her costume.

  “No, baby, Toby is just going for his annual check-up and vaccines. Toby is just fine,” I tell her.

  I kneel and pull out the purple tutu from underneath the black fabric. I complete the look with Natalie’s black witch’s hat on her head, but it slides down over her eyes.

  “It’s too big, Momma!” she says, laughing and pushing the hat back up.

  “I know! And we bought this last year. You see what happens when you don’t eat your vegetables?” I ask her, stifling a chuckle.

  She throws a side glance at me, and she furrows her brow.

  “What?” she asks in return.

  “Your head shrinks!” I answer, suppressing a laugh, but she sees right through me.

  “No!” she retorts, laughing.

  I secure the hat on both sides with bobby pins and rearrange her black curls on each side of her head.

  “There! Well, you, young lady, are the prettiest witch I’ve ever seen!” I tell her.

  She giggles and runs to admire herself in front of the big, full-length mirror hanging on the wall. She twirls, beaming at her reflection, then stops. She wrinkles her face and talks to the little witch staring back at her in the mirror in a scratchy voice.

  “I will put a curse on you!” she says.

  I laugh, and I pick up my purse and her backpack glancing at my watch.

  “Well, wicked witch, we better hurry up if we don’t want to be late for school,” I announce.

  Every morning, I drop Natalie off at daycare on my way to work. But today, I have the day off, so I bring her straight to her class. Miss Tiffany Brooks, her teacher, is at the doorway greeting the children as is her custom. She, too, is dressed like a witch, much to Natalie’s delight, who runs towards her upon seeing her. Wearing a black dress that falls to her ankles, she braided her long, brown hair to one side and added blue glitter to her nose and cheeks, which brings out her caramel eyes. If it were not for the black hat she is wearing, I would guess she was dressed like a fairy.

  “You’re a witch too, Tiffany!” my daughter says, j
umping up and down.

  Natalie is grinning from ear to ear. We really lucked out with Ms. Brooks, or “just Tiffany drop the Ms.,” like she informed us to call her on our first parent-teacher meeting. It makes the children feel more at ease to be on a first-name basis, such was her reasoning. I cannot help but agree. According to Michael, our daughter beams every morning at the sight of her beloved teacher. And today is no exception.

  “So, I am,” she answers, all smiles and curtsying to my daughter.

  Natalie giggles and curtsies back.

  Tiffany leans to my daughter’s level and touches her nose with her index finger.

  “But your costume is much prettier than mine,” she says, flashing a smile worthy of a Hollywood star.

  “My Momma made it!” my daughter tells her, grabbing the front of her dress and extending it forward so Tiffany can have a better look at all the patches.

  “Very pretty! Run along now; class is about to start,” Tiffany tells her.

  My daughter turns to me, and I kneel in front of her, and I hug and kiss her, and I rearrange her lopsided hat.

  “Now, you have a great day, and I’ll be here in the afternoon to pick you up, ok?”

  “Ok, Momma!” she answers, nodding her head.

  She hugs and kisses me back and goes off to join her classmates. I stand up and glance at Tiffany, who is watching me with a furrowed brow. I guess what she is thinking.

  “My husband flew out on a business trip today, and I have the day off, so that’s why I’m here, dropping off Natalie,” I explain.

  She nods her head and replies with a polite smile, but the furrowed brow still wrinkles her forehead.

  “Oh, I know. Your husband mentioned yesterday that you would be the one dropping Natalie off this morning. Since he was going out of town and his flight left pretty early,” she replies.

  Really! Michael is always in a hurry in the mornings. Sometimes forgets to give me a kiss goodbye but somehow finds time to converse with the pretty teacher. This bothers me for some reason. No, it is not jealousy. I am not the jealous type, and Michael is not one to flirt. Still, I can see how a man of his age would want to impress an attractive girl like Tiffany with a conversation about his important business trips.