Dark. Funny. Probably Cursed.

Author’s Note:
This story is separate from Nightingale’s Lullaby and marks the first of what I hope will be many standalone tales populating the Lone Wolves wing of Tanglewood Manor. It was one of my earliest attempts at “serious” horror—so it’s missing the playfulness and absurdity that color the Nightingale universe—but it still holds a place in my heart.

It came from a flash fiction exercise I tackled alongside my middle school creative writing students (circa 2017). The assignment was to write a complete story in 30 minutes, with a clock playing a central role. “The Thing That Comes Tomorrow” was my offering. It’s remained mostly untouched ever since. It’s a little rough around the edges, but I still appreciate the mood it captured—and how it reminds me that sometimes, when you’re open to it, the right story just shows up. Enjoy! –KC

What the—?!

I startled awake mid-dream, a crushing weight compressing my chest. I couldn’t breathe.

Stupid cat, I thought as I moved to brush him off.

Except my right hand wouldn’t move. Nor would my left hand, or either leg, or even my head. Raw, unfiltered panic snapped me wide awake in an instant, my breath rapid and intense. Mercifully, I could still shift my eyes in any direction I chose.

Lying with my head tilted slightly to the right, I focused my eyes on the ancient digital clock resting on the nightstand. The hour burned red in the darkness: 3:07.

Just between the clock and me lay a dark shape. I shifted my eyes a little and there sat Ash, the family cat. The family cat I’d thought was weighting down my chest.

But if Ash is over there, then what…

That’s when I heard its low, echoing growl, a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard before. I felt its uncomfortably hot breath on my face and neck.

With horror, I stared up at two glowing, misshapen “eyes” that resembled coals freshly plucked from a raging fire. Its mouth twisted into a hideous grin which blazed with the same discomforting shade of reddish orange, as if its very insides contained the fires of Hell itself.

The crushing, suffocating weight on my chest intensified. I felt a subtle tickle as beads of sweat—generated both by the heat emanating from the shape above me and the unbearable sense of terror raging through my mind– rolled down my forehead and face.

The presence reached down, and I reflexively attempted to recoil in horror. I labored in vain; paralysis held me fast. I’d describe its hulking form as black, but nothing could adequately describe the extent of the darkness that had imposed itself upon me. Its outline shifted and morphed; it grew intermittently fuzzy, bent, twisted, as if the figure had literally consumed what little light remained in the darkened room. Only the savage, burning eyes and gleeful demonic grin remained still.

Dark claws pierced my skin. A searing pain seized my body, as if a white-hot needle had pierced every tiny pathway in my nervous system, all at once. The claws slowly, agonizingly carved three yawning gashes above my eye as everything inside me screamed in silence. Blood erupted from the wounds, mixing with the profuse sweat pouring off my head and face, and ran freely into my eyes— transmuting the indecent sheen of the abomination above me into a richer, darker shade of crimson.

The ordeal felt as though hours had passed. Once again, I turned my eyes.

3:07, the clock glowed—HOW?

At long last, the crude digital display transitioned to 3:08; I lay there in terror and disbelief. My gaze returned upward, and the obscene presence atop me smiled, a fiery, hellish grin almost entirely consuming its nightmarish face.

“Tomorrow,” a reverberating echo of a whisper declared.

The searing breath of its whisper singed my lashes and brow, instantly drying the blood that flowed freely into the folds of my outer ear.

Its already-amorphous shape took the form of dark mist, then receded into a tiny black dot as if drawn by an invisible force. The dot lingered a fraction of a second, then vanished into nothingness with an appalling “CRACK!”

The following night, I’d resolved to fight sleep with every ounce of willpower inside me, but ultimately resigned myself to the fate that awaited me.

I don’t think it matters what I do. Or what I don’t do. If it wants to come, it will come…

So, I silently recited the 23^rd Psalm to myself, prayed feverishly to a God I hoped was listening, and trudged upstairs to accept my fate.

Sleep took me almost immediately. I dreamed of trick-or-treating with my daughter, walking with her hand-in-hand down bustling sidewalks on a crisp autumn evening. She was facing away from me, observing something in the distance as she held my hand.

Without warning, my daughter’s delicate grip grew vice-like in intensity, threatening to crush my fingers. Even in a dreaming state, I’d have sworn the pain was real.

She slowly turned to face me. I realized she was no longer wearing The Catwoman mask I’d painted myself weeks earlier. In its place was the horrifying visage of Hell itself that had borne down on me the night before.

I sat bolt upright in bed, stifling a scream so as not to wake the little one asleep in the next room.

Unexpectedly, I realized: I can MOVE!

Jubilation filled me, knowing the sleep paralysis and its demonic hitchhiker hadn’t returned.

Yet, I cautioned myself.

I turned my attention to the luminous red display on my alarm clock.

6:47, it read. Almost sunrise. Made it.

With relief, I rose to greet the day. Walking to the linen closet for a fresh towel, I first poked my head into my daughter’s room, as I often did, to admire her beauty as she slept.

An explosive shock of helpless terror filled my soul.

I collapsed to my knees, choking on a silent scream.

The shadowy figure with the burning grin loomed over her, its ember eyes leering hungrily…