Peter had always been afraid of the dark, even as he matured. He could still remember those late nights in his bed, his blonde hair matted to his forehead and his light blue eyes staring into the dark corner of his room. His body would remain motionless beneath the sheets in hopes that he would not attract the countless monsters that his childhood imagination was able to dream up. Even though no ill-harm had ever come to him, night after night Peter could be seen under the sheets, his terrified eyes staring out from the covers.

Time moved on, and of course Peter aged. His blue eyes remained the same, even as his blonde hair slowly turned dirty and then finally to full- out brown. No longer was he the pale, skinny kid that once cowered in fear of nameless terrors. He had grown into a fine young man, the captain of his school's football team and the star pupil of all of his classes.

It was finally the weekend, and after a hard week's worth of school, Peter was looking forward to sleeping well. He had made note of a football game he was to attend the next morning, and had set his alarm clock accordingly. The young man went through his nightly routine of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and combing his hair. Despite being close to twenty he still held a teenager's vain attitude about his body, and was sure to inspect his face and hair in the mirror every morning and night. Peter's long strides took him into the bedroom he'd had since his childhood. It wasn't the same as before. The walls were covered with posters of star quarterbacks and women in bikini's, the covers of his bed showing a pattern of footballs. Having long forgotten his childhood fears, he flicked the lightswitch off and climbed into bed, laying on his side and pulling the sheets over himself.

Though he couldn't remember much from his past, he would often catch his eyes drifting towards the corner of his room and settling there. Peter shrugged that off this night, as he had for many years now, and drifted off into a quiet slumber. His sleep was broken later in the night, however, and a quick glance at his clock showed that it was 2:30 in the morning. The young man's head immediately turned to football and he concluded that he had a little over six hours left to sleep, and as he layed his head down upon the pillow, he was suddenly reminded of the thing that had woken him up. A steady sound had awoken him, what sounded like troubled breathing. It was raspy and deep, as if the person had a sore throat. Almost subconciously his tanned fingers clutched the sheets closer, drawing them up and over his head, his body immediately freezing. He listened in a terrified stupor as all of the childhood fears he had came back with a vengeance.

As the minutes slowly ticked into hours, Peter felt his pulse slow down to a dull thump, and his eyes began to relax. With a start he realized that the breathing had stopped, and then laughed to himself as he came upon the conclusion that the labored breathing had been his own, began by a nightmare. His eyelids became heavy and he felt them close, smiling in amusement as he felt sleep beginning to fall upon him again. Before the young man knew it, he was asleep again, and stayed that way for the rest of the night.

The next day was the picture-perfect image of a Saturday. The sky was dotted with whisps of clouds and it was a brilliant blue. Sunlight poured onto the ground in torrents, though it wasn't unpleasantly warm. A light breeze blew through the neighborhood, and Peter was loving it. He had just finished with his football game and was in a good mood, having dominated the other team twelve to three. Looking skyward, he observed the clouds for a moment, a tanned hand reaching up and brushing a few strands of his dark hair from his face. His gaze then shifted back to the sidewalk, his sneakers whispering softly against the concrete with each step. Within a few moments Peter found himself at the door of his house, opening it and walking inside. He immediately heard the sound of dinner cooking, the food in the skillet crackling and popping.

Peter's mother had fixed his favorite meal, a rarity these days because he never had the time for a proper dinner. His gaze began to linger from his plate, coming to rest on the window and watching as the sun set behind the trees, its last golden rays extinguished as night took over. A yawn escaped his father's mouth and they all turned to look at the clock. It was almost seven. The family usually went to bed early on weekends, thinking that it would help rest them after their respective hard week's work. Peter climbed the familiar steps to the upstairs hallway, walking into the bathroom and brushing his teeth. The youth ran a comb through his hair once, then wet a cloth and ran it across his face. Satisfied with his appearance, he walked out of the bathroom.

As he did the last night, Peter climbed into bed and stretched out, his hands grasping the sheets and pulling them over himself. He pivoted over onto his side and his eyes went the familiar route to the corner, sleep falling over him. The young man woke up some hours later, once again glancing at the clock and seeing it as 2:30 in the morning. He blinked once, his fingers rubbing his eyes drowsily as a long yawn escaped his throat. A sudden sound caused him to bolt upright, the color draining from his face.

Scritch..scritch..scritch.. It sounded as if there was some wild animal in the room, running its claws along the wall. His blue eyes glanced around the room slowly, the full moon reflecting in them. Then, the sound came again.

The hellish sound seemed to be getting louder and more frantic, and Peter felt the first swells of true terror beginning to close around his heart. He listened intently, trying to determine from what direction and where the sounds were coming from. His breath was held, and even as he slowly let it out he heard the same labored breathing as the night before. This, coupled with the sound of the scratching, was enough to send Peter over the edge. He began sobbing hysterically, the tears running down his face. His despair, however deep it may have seemed, quickly gave way to anger, and he leapt from his bed, standing in the middle of the room, his bare chest heaving as he looked around. The terrified youth raised a hand to his brow, clearing it of the sweat that had collected there, a deep breath rattling his frame as he tried to calm down. Almost immediately his ears picked up the sound of the scratching again, and his eyes darted to his bed, then lower, pointing directly at the space beneath it!

Glancing around, he finally grabbed a yardstick from the corner of his room, deciding that if he had to he could at least stave off whatever animal had invaded his room. Peter's grip tightened around the stick, and with a stern resolve he made his way to the edge of the bed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. In one swift movement he dropped to his knees, his keen eyes gazing into the darkness of his bed. The world seemed to stop, almost in slow motion, as he gazed upon a hunched form beneath his bed, veiled in shadows. As a cloud passed over the full moon, the direct rays of moonlight ceased to fall into the room, casting it into total darkness. Gathering his will, the young man drew the yardstick back and drove it forward at the side of the form. The charge of the yardstick was halted however, as if it had struck a solid wall or object. He tried to pull the stick back, but found it unwilling to move, and that was when the cloud over the moon finally drifted aside. The white rays poured into the room, illuminating the entirety of the area beneath his bed.

Peter's hand instinctively tightened around the yardstick, his eyes widening to massive proportions as he stared in utmost horror at the thing holding the other end. A single, gnarled hand was clasped to the end of the stick, the skin torn and scarred, colored brown with a hint of red, like the petrified skin of a mummy. His gaze slowly traveled from the hand, up the like-wise scarred arm. He saw the tattered and white sleeve of a nightgown draped down the arm, and as his gaze reached the creature's face, he let out an involuntary yelp. The skin was pulled taut over its visage, the skin of the lips pulled back in a straight line. Already very noticable was the blood seeping from the cracks and tears in its face, but most noticable of all were the creature's eyes. Where usually there were eyes, there were instead blood-caked sockets, hollowed out to huge size. The noze was small and ended in a point, and from high above the forehead was a massive of tangled, dirty red hair. In the midst of his terror, Peter realized what color the hair was. It looked the brown of dry blood, and was about the same consistency. The white nightgown flowed down the woman's (thing's?) body, which was horribly deformed. Her spine appeared to be twisted and warped, the seam of the gown having split down her back, revealing more of the scarred and ripped tissue.

Until this point, the abomination had been loathe to move at all. In a single lurch it had somehow flipped itself onto its knees, the spine grinding against the bones inside of it. The rattled breathing began again as she slowly began to crawl towards the shell-shocked youth, ugly, dirty fingernails running across the floor.

Unaware up until now, Peter finally let go of the yardstick, but by then it was too late. The thing had caught ahold of his wrist in her fist, squeezing it with unholy strength. It pulled its way from under the bed, coming face to face with the boy. A dry, cracked tongue snaked its way from her mouth, running across the side of his nose and down to his mouth. He could smell her putrid breath, the stink of sewers and of the grave. As the tongue slowly slid into his mouth, he vaguely heard himself beginning to scream as all that he knew and had known shattered.

It was now ten years later, and that night, Blackfield Asylum had been restless. The inmates were screaming worse than ever. Their cries and pleas fell on deaf ears as usual, but the sound of screaming was not heard from one cell. Down several dark corridors, past rusted doors and bars, was the door of Peter Carnigan. He had been commited ten years ago, his parents waking up at the sounds of his frantic screaming and babbling. Unable to get a coherent response out of him, they had panicked, calling 911. Several days later, they signed the papers for him to be commited, hoping against hope that he would be helped. Unfortunately, this was not the case. He spent many long nights in his cell, staring blankly at the dull grey of the ceiling, illuminated only by a single lightbulb that dangled from the center of his room. Each night, around 2:30, he was visited by the same sounds he had heard for every night since that fateful day.

But tonight was different. He no longer cowered in the corner of the room, staring at the space beneath his pitiful excuse for a bed. Peter laid upon his bed this night, his arms crossed calmly across his chest, and he waited for the sounds to begin. As they had every night he heard them come, but the sounds, like he, had changed. They were ferocious, loud, and desperate. He could feel them through the mattress, as if the thing was trying to claw through to his very soul. Terror wrenched his chest yet again, but even then he did not move. Peter laid upon the bed, sweat running from his face, and his eyes closed. Slowly, his right arm raised itself to his face. The man looked upon it, tracing the intricate lines with his eyes. He began to whisper a prayer to himself, and even as he did the scratches became more insistant, more intense. Opening his mouth, he placed his wrist in it, and with one final scream, he bit down.

Pain wracked his body, but the former football star continued. Blood sprayed from his torn wrist, staining his face and body, even the walls. He was found the next day, laying spread eagle on the floor of the room. The room stank with the stench of blood. The guard tipped his body over with the toe of his boot and screamed. Peter's arm had fallen limp as he had turned over, the wrist torn open, already colored black from loss of blood. He had been able to work through the other as well, finally throwing himself into the wall, sending his mind into unconciousness as he bled to death. The guard quickly radioed the main office, his heart fluttering as he felt himself ready to faint, both from the sight of the grisly scene before him and the accompanying stench. As he turned to walk from the room, he could have almost sworn he had heard one last sound from the room, extending out from the bed in the corner.