When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time in the closet.
In more ways than one.
I used to live in the same house as my grandparents. We had just moved to Washington from California and had yet to find a home we could afford. I had, and still have, insomnia. I often spent nights awake, watching the Backyardigans on my tiny Ipod. For some reason, probably because I was a weird hobbit of a child, I often spent my nights in the closet.
I had made a small den of sorts in the back of the closet; A pillow and a soft barbie blanket I had stolen from the living room. I often snuck out into the office/guest room to steal my Ipod.
One night, as I snuck out to the office, I heard a sharp scratching noise.
For some context, my grandparents house was set up like a large T. The living room was a the front of the house, and as you walk to the kitchen and dining room, there is a long hallway that ended in my room. The office was the first door in the hallway.
There was a large glass door that lead to the backyard in the dining room. I had assumed that it was my grandparents dog, wanting to be let back inside. As I walked past the office and through the living room, I saw my dog sleeping on the couch. So it wasn’t her scratching to be let in.
I was always a skeptical child, so my mind never went to the boogey man. I just assumed it was a branch scratching at a window.
I tip-toed like a cartoon burgler into the office. The Ipod was charging on the office desk. I grabbed the Ipod and shoved it into my pocket, cartoon burgler tip-toeing back down the hallway. Once I got into my room, I heard the same scratching noise.
I looked up at the windows in my room. They were oddly shaped and I could only really see the sky and the tree in the front yard through it. I was a short kid, so I had to step on a luggage suitcase thing to be able to even see the street. And I did exactly that.
I stood on my tip-toes and peered through the window to the street. The scratching didn’t come from the tree. The tree was a birch tree with very short branches. The scratching came from another window on the other side of the house.
A person wearing a dark gray/black snow parka was using a knife to try and pry open the small window that was at the top of the garage wall. I remember staring at the man trying to get the window open for so long that my tiny legs began to shake. After a while, the person seemed to have given up.
My interest had gone, so I stepped down from the suitcase, ready to get some Backyardigans in before sunrise. I remember looking down, watching my feet as I stepped off. I had fallen once before and was careful to not fall again.
I looked up once my feet were safely planted on the floor.
The starry sky was blocked by a pale face.
I froze.
The person was an older looking woman. She had a ghostly pale face, and long black hair. I vividly remember the eye bags under her eyes; they made her eyes look like they were bulging out of her head.
When I get freaked out, my eyes water. I remember the woman mouthing something through the window. It was muffled, but I’m pretty sure she told me, “Shhh, don’t cry.”
The scratching started again.
She was trying to get my window open.
I dashed to my closet, crawling to my safe haven. The scratching seemed to echo in my head. I remember wiping my eyes again and again, trying to prevent tears from rolling down my face. The scratching seemed to go on for hours. I curled into a ball, surrounded by my grandfathers shoes and my Barbie blanket.
I must have fallen asleep.
I woke up to my family frantically yelling for me and trying to find where I had gone. I quietly got out of my closet and saw my mother in the living room. She turned and saw me, running to me and hugging my tightly. I didn’t hug her back.
I was distracted by the large crack in the corner of my window.