My shoes are in the kitchen, next to the door. I slip them on and tie them tight.
I snatch the keys and retreat through the pantry, wedging a broom against the door to the kitchen.
(It feels like quiet safety.)
It feels like quiet safety.
I wonder if all barns feel so secure. Maybe this one just feels so peaceful because I’m remembering the way that it used to be. In the summer, Uncle Walt would bring in the cows, sheep, and goats at night. They would munch on hay and sleep. He had one cow that would snore when it slept. The barn would smell sweet from the hay and grain. The atmosphere always made me sleepy when I would come out to fill the water buckets one more time before bed.
I leave the lights off—no need to advertise my position—and I climb the ladder into the loft. I have to be careful up here. There’s a trapdoor over the horse stalls. I shuffle around that and find the short ladder that leads to the hatch in the roof. I push it open, catching it before it can slam down on the deck.
The stars are a dotted blanket above. This would be a perfect night for the telescope. It’s still pointed at Mr. Engel’s house. The lights are all off over there now. I wonder if the police remembered to turn off the breakers before they left.
Standing on the hatch, I try my phone.
It shows one bar, but I can’t get a call to go through.
It’s amazing that I have gone my whole life without having to dial 911, and now it has happened so many times in such a short period. I pace the deck, trying to find if the signal is any better. I have one bar and then none. Setting the phone down on the railing makes the bar come back. I try a call on speaker phone. For a moment, it sounds like it’s going to ring and then “Call Failed” appears on the display.
I try sending a message and it bounces back immediately.
I climb the railing, lifting my phone high. I know it’s a long shot.
With the phone on speaker, extended as high as it will go between my pinched fingers, it starts to ring.
A new sound draws my attention though.
It’s the sound of the hatch rising up behind me. I turn and see a hand slip through the gap. The door creaks upwards and I can see the eyes.
As soon as I lock onto them, they’re the only thing I see. This is just like Mr. Engel’s cellar. Those eyes were so captivating that I didn’t get a good look at what else was in the freezer. Now, the rest of the world disappears and my focus is completely dedicated to the subtle glow of the eyes that are emerging from the darkness. Maybe they’re just reflecting the starlight, but I don’t think so. I think that they have their own internal source of light, and that light pulses, synchronizing perfectly with my thoughts.
I’m aware of my cellphone tumbling from between my fingers and then disappearing below.
My rigid body is balanced on top of the railing as a head pushes the trapdoor out of the way and the second hand emerges from below. It’s in the shape of a human, but I hesitate to describe it as a person. It’s staying close to the ground, moving almost like a spider as it pulls its way through the hatch.
I’m swaying slightly. Even with no conscious control of my muscles, my body wants to stay upright, but the railing isn’t cooperating. It has picked up a sway beneath my feet as my legs adjust to compensate.
The figure slips its last foot through the hatch and the door falls shut behind it. Now, it’s rising up on its legs. The hands are reaching for me. My eyes are still locked onto its eyes. They pulse and glow. They’re violet with veins of lighter purple through each iris.
When the lips part, I see that the teeth must be glowing too.
My foot slips, and I fall.
(The fall is a blessing.)
The fall is a blessing.
Sense returns to me as soon as the fall breaks my eye contact. I hit the shingles and roll. The whole front part of the house is clad in a metal roof. The barn and the shed are all shingles. It’s a good thing, too—I think that a slippery metal roof would have ushered me quickly towards the ground.
Instead, I scrape a patch of skin from my arm, roll over and skid to a halt a dozen feet below the deck. I can hear it up there, moving around on the planks. It makes a hissing sound. When I glance in that direction, I see its hand extend over the side of the deck and I look away quickly before its eyes can capture me again.
In my mind, I construct a quick map of my surroundings. This side of the barn roof ends with a severe drop-off. On the other side, I might survive the fall from the edge of the roof. On this side, I’m not so sure. We had to replace the cedar shingles one time and I remember using Uncle Walt’s longest ladder to do the top row, and securing the feet of the ladder on loose rocks below.
The good news is the shed. On my left, the barn attaches to the shed and that roof is probably only a five foot drop. It could be more. I try not to think about it too hard as I inch my way to the left. The pitch
