I force myself to return my attention to the key. I’m on my tiptoes as I jerk the key loose and then shove it back in with enough force to bend metal.
The finger taps three times and then points. Could they somehow hear with their fingers? Is that even possible?
Another finger joins the first. They tap in a galloping cadence and pause.
I’m holding my breath and I’ve nearly forgotten about the key. The fingers are enduring the light from the truck fire. It’s not bright enough to keep me safe.
I twist the key hard enough to break it.
Somehow, I get lucky and the cylinder turns. The door swings inward.
I remember when I was chased across the roof. I had the distinct feeling that I was being herded towards the edge. What if that’s true now? What if the fingers are driving me inside towards something else that lurks in the darkness of the shed? There are no windows in this part.
Another long finger has emerged from a gap between different rocks. How many of them are down there?
That settles it—slip inside the shed and shut the door behind me, locking it again with the handle.
I’ve left the keys dangling from the outside knob. I’ll need those to get into the pantry. When I open the door again, the burning truck in the distance looks like safety compared to the dark shed. It’s difficult not to run across the dooryard and huddle by that fire. This must be how my ancestors survived predators, way back when. The allure is strong, but I ignore it. When I jerk the keys from the knob, I slam David’s door shut again.
There’s a tiny light down at the far end of the shed.
It has to be something battery operated, since the power is out. I don’t have anything electric down there though. The tractor is down that way, but it’s too old to have…
When the light shifts, I see that it’s actually two lights. They’re spaced apart the distance of eyes.
I turn and run for the pantry.
(In the darkness, they key finds the lock.)
In the darkness, the key finds the lock.
It’s pitch black and my hand finds the doorknob as my other hand drives the key in.
I couldn’t repeat that lucky move again if my life depended on it. I can hear something moving behind me as the key slips in, I turn the mechanism, and shove my way into the pantry. Ripping the keys out, I barely get my hand back through the gap before my body has slammed shut the door. It meets resistance before it latches. There’s something on the other side of the door, scratching its way down until it finds the knob. I’m trying to turn the latch as it’s trying to turn the knob. I can’t engage the lock until I get the knob spun back around.
It’s a battle that takes seconds. It feels like an epic struggle.
When the lock clicks and the knob freezes, I press my shoulder against the door to make sure it’s really shut. Pain shoots down my arm and throbs in my shoulder. Adrenaline keeps making me forget about the injury. Each time the pain comes back, it’s worse.
On the other side of the door, the scratching ends and tapping begins.
The shed felt like complete darkness. This is so much darker. I almost want to reach up and touch my face because it seems like there must be something covering my eyes.
The tapping descends.
It’s moving around the door, tracing the perimeter.
I move forward and to my right with my hands extended until I find the kitchen door and the broom that’s wedged in to keep it shut. I’m terrified that I might kick it loose and not be able to block the door again in the darkness.
What else is in here? I picture the pantry, taking a mental inventory of the space.
There’s a small stepladder against the opposite wall, hung on a hook. When I was a kid, Uncle Walt could reach most of the lightbulbs just by elevating to his toes. Towards the end of his life, he became hunched over and had to use a ladder to even get to stuff on the top shelf. Mom sometimes teased him about his posture.
I fumble my way over to the ladder and lift it from the hook. Careful not to disturb the broom, I discover that the ladder will fit on the floor between the door and the far wall with only an inch to spare. The door normally swings inward—if the broom breaks, the ladder will act as a stop.
With that done, I settle to the floor, press my back against the door to the shed, and drape my legs over the ladder. The tapping slows and then stops.
My eyes are open so wide that they sting. I force myself to blink and then I see a tiny glimmer. There’s a trace of orange light visible under the door to the kitchen. That’s the last of the truck fire burning down. That little crack beneath the door is my connection to the outside world. If morning ever comes, that’s how I’ll know. The kitchen gets the sunrise first.
I reach up to the shelf and feel around until I find a box of graham crackers. Uncle Walt used to have them on hand for his “sweet tooth.” When I was a kid, I thought they tasted like eating the cardboard of an old shoe box.
Uncle Walt would say, “The taste buds of an adult are less sensitive because they’re tempered by a million disappointments.”
He passed along a lot of wisdom over the years. He never once addressed what to do if I was trapped in the pantry by an unknown number of ravenous vampires.
I smile to myself in the dark.
Dark
(Sleep would be awesome.)
Sleep would be awesome.
It’s out of the question though. I have to
