Old Creepy

I run down the hallway, legs and feet circling at top speed. My bedroom door looms open, and searching for somewhere to hide, I skid through the doorway. My hands are wet with sweat, and my heart beats boom, boom, boom, so fast, too fast. I halt and stand stock-still, my ears peeled for unnatural sounds. All I hear is the tick-tock of the clock hanging on the wall. I clamber into the cupboard, slam the door shut, and sit with my knees up, poking into my chest. I am fifty-five years old. I had always known, sooner or later, I’d have to face this, just not tonight. It’s Old Creepy, he’s at my back door, and he is about to invite himself in.

Cancer, the words flashes neon green in my head, ovarian, breast, bowel, liver, no, none of those. I’d had my health checks, perhaps leukemia, early Alzheimer's, or a heart attack. Who knew when it came to Old Creepy spreading his sickness and death around on unsuspecting people? Everyone knew for minor illnesses, he liked to sneak down highways in the dead of night, poking his tentacles this way and that, tossing out cold, flu, and gastro germs. The following day, half the neighbourhood could be laid up in bed. Anyone could live with that, but when Old Creepy let himself into your home, your actual house, that’s when you knew when you were in for it, that’s when you might end up with a serious disease or injury.

I listen, total silence, except for that damn tick-tock of the clock. Perhaps Old Creepy had rattled my doorknob, found it locked, and moved on to another house. Perhaps tomorrow I wouldn’t crash my car on the way to work, break my leg in three places, be operated on, and spend months going through the motions of a painful rehabilitation. “Go away Old Creepy,” I whisper.

I slide open the cupboard door, just a crack, and peep out, and that’s when I smell it, decay, like a rotting piece of steak left outside on a boiling hot day. I put my hand to my mouth and gag, then gag again. Old Creepy, he is here, in my home!

My breath comes out short and sharp, I pull at my shirt collar, trying to breathe normally, and then the cupboard door opens wide, and he is there, Old Creepy staring in at me. He reminds me of an octopus, only black with thick, hairy tentacles. I can see big blue emotionless eyes bulging in his head.

He jabs one of his tentacles at my leg.

It feels soft and ticklish, then it starts to penetrate, and a burning sensation rips into my thigh. “No,” I roll out the cupboard door and grab Old Creepy by the neck, his tentacle breaks free, and I clamber to my feet and spin the attacking creature around in the air, thumping him into walls as I go. An image of a ceiling fan comes to mind. If I had one, I could turn it on and chop Old Creepy with it, slice him apart layer by layer. I imagine black, gooey gunk from his body dripping down on my head, sticky as tar, hot as hell, sickness reining all around. My knees shake, and I remind myself I have no ceiling fan, I am safe. With a flick of the wrist, I let go of Old Creepy’s neck and latch onto one of his tentacles, then spinning him like crazy I begin making my way towards the front door. When I reach it, I yank it open, tense my shoulders, give him one last twirl, and release. Old Creepy spirals off into the night. The injustice of death and illness rocketing away to do someone else harm.

Six months later, I am diagnosed with an autoimmune disease.

“No, no, Old Creepy, you are not welcome here. Stay away from my door.”

Ashley Noel 2023