Nightmare Fuel is a project created by Bliss Morgan on Google+. Every October, we spend 30 days writing creepypasta based on image prompts posted to us. It now has a community on G+, which you can find here.

Image Credit: 

Insomnia by Demon Flame
From DeviantArt at http://demonflame.deviantart.com/art/Insomnia-178609421
Shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License

 

He sits down on that rickety old porch swing, and I watch as he lights up another cigarette. Jake’s already had one in the kitchen—earlier, when he was plying me with coffee—and now again outside. I want to tell him those things will kill him. But after everything he’s seen, everything I’ve now seen, I don’t think that’s quite the case.

Jake props one ankle up on the opposing knee, using his knee and shin as a rest for his elbows. He sucks in another drag. I find myself eyeing the horizon, anxiety bubbling up as the sun slips ever lower.

It’s a red sky. And Mama always said: red sky at night, sailor’s delight, red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.

It’s taken years, but I know, now, what the red sky brings. Morning or night, it doesn’t matter.

“Jake…” I want to hurry him along, but he’s always so easily agitated. I don’t want to upset him more. Noise draws them in. And if Jake had an episode, if he started yelling…

“Easy, Lizzie. Take it easy.”

He settles back, smiling as he takes another drag, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. Jake flings his thin arm out to the side, grasping at the two by four that serves as a post for his modest awning. There’s a new attachment on it. A light switch. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s like a beacon of hope. One long finger flicks the switch up, and the porch is suddenly awash in incandescent light.

It’s now, in this harsh light, that I can see how exhausted Jake is. The bags under his eyes are so dark, I think maybe he’s been fighting again, but I’m quickly reminded by the crows feet at the corners and the deep lines etched on either side of his mouth that he’s not eight anymore.

My baby brother looks so tired, and I can’t fix it. I can’t tuck him into bed, because I know what’s coming, and I know he can’t sleep through it. Truthfully, I don’t understand how I slept through it for so long. It’s been months, now, since their migration.

“Come on, sis. Sit down.”

He pats the empty spot next to him, and I find myself moving before I realize it. I’m a bit stiff when I finally settle on the porch swing, but Jake’s arm snakes easily around my shoulders, pulling me against him. I rest my head on his bony shoulder, not minding the top of the joint in my ear at the moment. At least it’s feeling something.

The grind and soft whoosh of the zippo lighter takes my attention from the sunset for a moment. Jake is lighting a cigarette for me. I don’t refuse when he hands it over, either. I take it, and throw seven years of having been quit down the drain, fixated on the last line of red hanging above the mountains.

I see the wings first, between tendrils of smoke curling up from the end of the cigarette. Another drag, and I looked down at Jake’s worn jeans, as if by not looking, I could delay their approach. But, no, when I look up, the wings are larger. There are more of them. One giant, undulating mass of leathery skin and veins, sharp teeth and shiny claws, primal screams ripping from humanoid mouths.

He lights up another smoke. They’re getting closer, and it’s not long before screams are heard from the outskirts of the city, where people who were too slow about getting indoors before sunset now suffer the consequences.

“We should help them, Jake. Help the others,” I say, taking another drag, noticing my hands are shaking.

“No. We shouldn’t. This bulb will only last for so long.”

I let the screams lull me to sleep, Mama’s words echoing in my head.

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Sailor, always beware.

 

 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.