The End of Mortal Fear

The night I found what I had been looking for I came to wish that I had never searched. I discovered the gulf that separates simple fear from absolute terror. Some things which are hidden should be left hidden; there are dark places into which no mortal soul should pry.
The fear, no the certainty that I had been discovered, began as a sensation on the back of my neck. It felt bare; exposed. I threw a look over my shoulder; my heart began to pound to a new hectic beat. There was nothing in sight but I did not allow myself to trust my eyes.
The fear spread from my neck. My pace quickened as my shoulders and back tingled, as cold sweat surfaced; as my whole body grew light in expectation of some shock of impact. My insides churned and my legs quivered. The clouds scudded across a hunter's moon and I took two long steps into a run. Some residual reason, quite misplaced, brought me back to a walk, but soon I speeded up again. I had become the quarry.
I passed the last street light and plunged into the darkness of the lane. The moon betrayed me and settled once more behind a rolling bank of autumn cloud.
I was close to home now, and with that my urgent fear increased; with every pace I felt more vulnerable. My feet hammered on the road as I ran. I demanded more of my unwilling body even as my lungs burned and my breath came in desperate gasps. In the distance I heard a car and I clung to a meagre hope, but with a squeal and a thrashing roar the sound receded. I could expect no lucky rescue.
Even as I convinced myself that eyes in the darkness had found me, I had to slow to a walk so that I could search for my keys. For a long moment I thought I had lost them, I pulled and tore my pocket inside out. The keys fell to the road, my money with them. I fell to my knees and searched in the gloom. With every moment I expected death to rush me from the blackness but nothing came. I scraped the keys from the tarmac, left the money and jumped into a run again. My mind flew ahead of me to my front door.
By the time I saw it my side had pulled into an unforgiving stitch; my knees ached and my head rolled with each agonising gasp for life. The outside light was on; how everyday it looked and how prettily the porch sat against the little cottage.
The mundane mocked me; simple rural charm assailed my sanity and shook my grasp on my own identity. Still fear drove me on. I pushed my body to new heights of pain.
My keys were in my hand but I could not manipulate them. My fingers shook. I stared at my hand not believing that it was mine. Something darted across the garden path and with that my hand opened. The keys seemed to fall for an age.
My mind took in the cat that had so startled me and once again I was on the floor trying to retrieve my key ring. But for my scrabbling around the door mat and the suicidal thumping of a moth against the dome of the outside light, all now was quiet. I knew my senses were lying to me. I knew the night was not as tranquil as it seemed.
I did not even rise to unlock the door but forced the key and turned it even whilst my knees still pushed on to the unyielding ridges of the door mat. I fell forwards as the door opened, turning and desperately tugging to recover the key from the lock. I rolled and kicked the door shut behind me.
But for a little diffuse light from the tiny window the hallway was dark. As well as my wheezing breath I heard the clock in the sitting room. It was steady, as peaceful now as it had been on the day it was made. I could smell the polish on the wooden floor and the flowers on the telephone table. I detested this hallucination of the normal, this polite lie, these myths to send ordinary folk into restful sleep.
Somehow I found the strength to rise and hastily I bolted the front door. Such was my urgency, that even as the top bolt slid home I trapped the flesh on the edge of my palm. I recoiled and rammed my hand into my mouth, cursing my luck and tasting blood.
Two bolts and a yale lock seemed precious little against what was surely coming. I cleared the hallway dresser with a sweep of my forearm and pushed it against the door with a reassuring thud.
As I stood looking at the barricade, quite inadvertently I reached out my unhurt hand and turned on the light. My eyes ached in the sudden brightness but the house appeared as normal as any empty house can, except for the dresser askew against the door and the terrified man who stared back at me from the mirror; an abominable version of me, chest heaving, bloody hand in mouth and his face a picture of mortal panic.
This time I put both hands to the light switch and plunged the hallway back into darkness. I stood and listened. All I could hear was the clock and my pulse racing in my ears. Half a minute of light had made me night-blind again. I stood in desperate need of the light but somehow comforted nonetheless by the cover of darkness.
Suddenly I thought of the back door. It was half glass and habitually I left the key in the lock. Even hurrying in the dark I would not stumble in my own hallway. Sure-footed if still gripped with panic, I reached the back door on the other side of the kitchen. I pulled to check that it was locked and removed the key. Madly, as if it would make a difference, I pulled down the blind.
On the spur of the moment, smearing blood on the blind, I moved it aside just enough to afford me a view down the garden. The top of the hedge swayed a little in the wind; I fancied I saw an unfamiliar alongside the shed. I dropped the blind again as if it was red hot and dropped to the floor. I crawled from the kitchen clutching at the hope that whatever I had seen had not seen me.
On hands and knees I listened intently to the night; still nothing out of the ordinary. I climbed the stairs using my hands on every other step and once I reached the landing ran, crouching, into my study.
Here I was surrounded by the chaos of what had become my work, my overriding preoccupation. Even in the near blackness of the little room I could make out the piles of paperwork across the floor; the sheets, photocopies and diagrams pinned to the walls and the board on the desk with its shiny pins and lengths of thread crazily seeking connections, a model to represent the deductions of my terror driven mind.
At the desk I pulled open a bottom drawer. My hands shook so violently that the whole desk shuddered noisily. Not so much heedless of stealth as incapable of it, I emptied the drawer by baling it out with both hands. There, at the back, was the box I wanted.
There were not many of these in my sleepy corner of the Home Counties. All the time it had been there its presence had played subtly on my mind. I realised then that somehow I had known all along that in time I would find myself here, pulling my automatic pistol from its hiding place. It rested in my uncertain palm, its harsh lines picked up the least light and it glinted like an alien artefact.
I do not know how I managed to load it. I still found time to wonder at what had happened to me, at how I even had this heavy thing. Wrapping my hand around the gun did nothing to reassure me; my palm was warm and sweaty, even the pistol grip slipped on my glistening skin. I felt barely able to carry the weapon, let alone raise it to shoot.
I remember the deadly click of the magazine and I remember daring to hope that in the absence of either noise or direct assault, somehow the danger had passed me by; that by some miracle all of my fears that night would come to nothing. I remember as well how sick I felt in the instant when my whole body reacted to the next sound I heard.
There was something on the roof; a tile shifted and I heard what might have been some inhuman footfall. Seconds later, downstairs there was a noise at the front door, the gentlest tapping on the knocker; this was no random effect of the breeze.
My throat seemed to close. I was in the tenebrous depths of a nightmare and even had I wanted to, I could not have screamed. Fresh waves of terror crashed over me; I sweated freely and ridiculously wondered whether I would for long keep control of my bodily functions. Faced with death or something worse I worried because I had not been to the toilet. One should always be torn to pieces wearing clean underwear I mused.
And that was it. A smile crossed my face then. Hopelessness, terror and flight were transmuted in that odd moment into a determination to sell my life dearly.
The acceptance of imminent death lent me courage I did not know I had access to. Quite upright I walked to the top of the stairs; the front door still juddered oddly and I heard the window in my bedroom rattle. As if I would simply walk to the door and open it to meet a visitor I went down the stairs.
Instead though I stood a few paces back from the panelled door and raised the pistol I had never fired. I waited for the next taunting tap and then squeezed the trigger.
It is not so much accuracy that marks out a trained man, as fire discipline. I showed none. Every round in the pistol went into and through the door. It splintered explosively. My ears rang and my eyes focused only on the door. Each spent cartridge seemed to tumble slowly through the air in my peripheral vision.
An empty click brought the fusillade to an end. Partially deaf and weak at the knees, I had only a moment to reflect on my folly. Upstairs a window frame cracked and gave way. I turned feebly and looked up towards the landing, but as I did so the back door did finally crash in. Glass and wood flew across the kitchen floor.
I lowered then the empty gun; let it hang down by my side. There was to be no escape and no heroic end. I knew the last then of the mortal fear that had driven me; I waited with each nerve ending charged to report the agonies to come. My mind raced but went nowhere. I could change nothing now.