Bag of Bones

Bag of Bones was one of the most well-written stories I have ever read... it was also one of the most disturbing. Seldom do I get genuinely scared from reading books. Yes, that sense of unease creeps over you in much the same way that walking through a deserted house will upon a dare. Was that creak in the floorboard behind you a restless spirit or just a mouse taking cover? Is that the wind making the branches of a tree scrape across the window, or is a pale bony hand dripping with decaying flesh eager to join you inside as it claws at the dirty windowpane? That’s what a good book does. It stirs your imagination into one big stew of possibilities.

Like any story, it had its pros and cons. First off, it was difficult listening to the main character. There were plenty of times I looked at him and thought “Seriously? Did you have to tell me about your hard-on again?”

One night I looked up from the book and checked the clock, it was closing in on three in the morning. My eyelids were getting heavy and I could feel my lungs taking in deeper and deeper breaths of air. I wanted to stop... but I couldn’t. The story was wrapping up, but as it did it became increasingly distressing. So distressing, in fact, that I didn’t want to take it with me into the dawn. If I could avoid having daylight spill across the pages again I would, because there was no way in hell I wanted to keep reading such a tragic tale any longer than I needed to. Maybe all Maggie wanted to do was dance, but all I wanted to do was sleep and dream about anything other than that book.

Daniel slumbered next to me. His snoring was a comfort for the first time in all the years we’ve shared a bed. The presence of our dogs helped as well. All that life helped keep all that death at bay.

By the time the clock struck four, I was done. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan cast eerie elongated shadows across the wall, I could feel the weight of the hardcover as it lay on my chest like an unconscious child. I walked into the kitchen and caught my reflection in the dark window over the sink. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to nod off now. I grabbed two Ibuprofen PM’s from the cabinet and took them with a large glass of cold water. It was another twenty minutes before sleep even began to overcome me, but when it finally did, I was grateful.

As I climbed into bed I remembered I had not put the book back on the bookshelf. Frodo Waggins, one of our dogs, has great taste in novels. In other words, he chews as many as he can. The medicine was already well in effect and the living room seemed about a thousand miles away. Nevertheless, I looked over the side of my bed and saw the book laying there helplessly. I thought about how funny it was that we found the book without the sleeve. It had been removed. Like skin from bone....

It’s pale form lay exposed (but not entirely lifeless) in the light of the reading lamp. Next to it were some bits of dust bunnies that had escaped from underneath the bed.

(It’s my dust catcher)

“Fuck it,” I thought as a chill ran through me. I rolled over and shut my eyes, trying not to imagine a long white hand creeping out from underneath the bed in search of its book.

I didn’t even bother turning off the light.