Sometimes I hear it stalking around outside my window as I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep. I try to ignore it. It is neither quiet nor loud, but it is there, pacing back and forth quickly, as though it has four legs. For the longest time, I believed that it did have four legs, but one night I saw it. I stood up out of my bed and approached the window and I saw it prancing around in my front yard. It was jumping around, sort of like a monkey with its hands hanging low and its legs bent at the knees in a crouching postition. It was making more noise than usual.
It has long, malnourished limbs and a miserable, hunched stature. Its skin stretches over its body like a suit two sizes too small. Its face looks to be in a state of constant anguish—its mouth hanging motionless and its sunken black eyes darting around in wide-eyed horror. I don’t know what it is doing here, and I don’t know what it is. I don’t think it is human and I don’t think it belongs here.
It began appearing in October. I was afraid when it first came, but not so much anymore. I heard it outside my window for forty-two consecutive days in a row. I remember because I documented it in a journal. I document every time it appears in a journal. I try to document for how long it stays before strays back into the woods from whence—I assume—it came. Occasionally, I fall asleep before I can make an accurate assessment of the duration of its stay. Those nights are rare.
One time, at about one-thirty in the morning, it tapped on my window. Too afraid to stand up, I stayed in my bed and watched its beady eyes dart around. Its eyes met mine and for a single solid, precise moment we shared a gaze. Then, it stumbled away to continue walking aimlessly around my front yard. I don’t think it saw me. I think it is blind. But I know that it knew I was there. I don’t know how it knew, but it did. Maybe it can sense fear.
Another night, I heard it crying. I, once again, exited the safety of my bed and walked to the window. It was in a fetal position, rocking back and forth and weeping quietly. It was so clear; the sound seemed to come from inside my bedroom. I almost felt sad for it. Such a pathetic existence it bore. But my fear got in the way of my sympathy.
I live alone. I don’t have neighbors. Nobody knows about it except for me. Now you know, I suppose. If you believe me, that is. I think that if I were to tell my family or my friends, they would think I were a nutcase. I wonder if it has only revealed itself to me. I wonder if I am the only one who knows about it.
I still hear it stalking around outside my window as I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep. I never see it when I get up in the morning. Maybe it is afraid of the sun. I don’t know what it is or where it came from or what it is doing here. I’m not too sure I want to know anyway.