March 6th, 2017.
I was sitting alone in my room. It was a particularly normal evening at the start, all things considered. The fan I always had on was spinning at its normal speed, its undusted blades whirring like the faint buzz of a mosquito flying right next to your ear for a split second. The white, bleak light stained my room in what I considered to be the worst possible lighting conditions for photos– anytime I made a project for my Digital Media class, I had to take the photos outside. And, of course, my sink, dripping water ever so lightly. It was noticeable enough to where I could hear it, but too insignificant to call a plumber. Not that they’d fix it, anyway.
The rain began soon after sunset. It pounded against my window, and every so often the wind would pick up enough to lift the attic door a little, making a slam sound each time the wind died down.
There I was, flipping my way through one of my favorite books, Ready Player One. It was a little bit of an old book by that point, I had bought it when it first released. But that book never failed to strike me in some new way each time I read it.
I was halfway through the second set of chapters when I heard a knock at the door. I didn’t think anything of it, since large objects slammed against the door when the winds picked up this much. After a second though, I heard it again, and I started to worry. Who could be out there at this hour? Especially with all this weather?
I began descending the stairs towards my front door. I figured it was some underpaid Amazon delivery driver waiting to drop off his last package. I did choose to have me sign the package at the door after some package thievery in the neighborhood, so it wasn’t unlikely, but then again… I don’t remember ordering any packages.
I brushed the thought off and began to turn the handle.
Then, all of a sudden, I stopped.
Something felt wrong.
If I hadn’t ordered a package, then that meant it was most likely a beggar or a missionary of some kind. I took my hand off the handle, leaving the door shut. Then the knock pounded again, harder this time. This person clearly wasn’t here for a drink.
I grabbed my shotgun and loaded it. The state I lived in was a stand-your-ground state, meaning you could defend yourself at your own free will if an unwanted presence was on your property. If this person tried to break in, I could legally shoot them regardless. Knowing this gave me comfort, especially because the area was so crime-heavy.
As I chambered one of the shells, the knock pounded one last time, this time being one of the hardest knocks I had ever heard. I broke into a cold sweat. Grabbing the trigger, I kicked down the door and…
Standing at my door was a little boy, his face hidden in his coat. I lowered my shotgun to my waist and put my hand on his shoulder.
“You alright?” I inquired. He didn’t respond.
“Come on, get inside.” I ushered him in, with little resistance. Closing my door, I turned to the kitchen. “Come, let’s get you some warm hot chocolate.
The boy lowered his hood. He was on the younger side, around 7 or 8. He had dirty blonde hair and diamond-blue eyes, and the facial expression of a ghost. He stared blankly at me for a few seconds, then walked towards the couch and sat down. Whatever has this boy been through? I thought to myself.
I put a hot chocolate pod into the coffee maker and began to run it, an extra large cup in it and a reasonably-sized straw not too far from the coffee maker. I walked towards the boy and crouched, his eyes still
“What’s your name?” I asked. “What were you doing out there in the rain?”
Again, no response, but his gaze broke and he looked towards the window. Lifting his finger, he slowly pointed towards the house across the street. Maybe my neighbors were his parents, I thought. I turned back to look at him, but his gaze was back on me, his eyes almost… colder, like I had done something to displease him. I jumped up in surprise, then shook myself out of it. Then I fully stood. As I did, the coffee maker finished, and I went to grab the hot chocolate.
When I returned, the boy was gone, and my door was wide open. Nothing was missing, so he hadn’t stolen anything, but he was just… gone. I walked up to the door, but he was completely gone, like he had vanished into thin air. The house across the street didn’t even have a light on. It was around that hour, anyways.
Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I froze. I didn’t know what was behind me, but whatever it was, I knew it wasn’t human. The skin that tapped me was ice cold, almost like an icicle stabbing into my shoulder. I reached for my gun slowly, and as I did, I felt another ice-cold hand grab my shoulder and begin to pull me away.
Immediately, I kicked backwards, feeling something soft be pushed away and the hand flying off of my shoulder. I picked up my gun and keys and ran to my car. I heard a scream as I got into the car, and as I started the ignition it jumped into my view from NOWHERE.
Then I got a glimpse of it.
Its skin was a pale white. Its arms and legs and fingers were all abnormally long, longer than any human was capable of growing. I slammed my car into drive and rammed it, not looking to see if it was dead. I drove out my driveway and turned onto my neighborhood road and RAN, not looking back until I had made it almost six miles out.
Still out of breath, I pulled over and stepped out of my car. Looking around, I noticed there wasn’t a single car on the road, like it had been abandoned. The rain pit-patted against the gravel, and the flickering light hummed loudly. I set down my shotgun and slept in the car, the window wide open to let the cold night air in.
I waited until almost noon the next day to go back to my house. I spent my morning hours calling every local wildlife company and police department I could think of. I even drove to the gun shop and bought another box of shells for safekeeping, because I really wished I had used them.
When I arrived back, my door was open, and cones and yellow tape covered my driveway. A corpse outline was painted onto my driveway, and the flash of sirens lit up the sides of my house in a corporate red-and-blue.
The police said that last night, the body was found in my driveway, and they wanted to have me take a look at it to see if I knew who it was. As they opened the bag, my eyes widened.
There, in the bag, was the boy from the previous night. I didn’t recognize it at first, but when I did, I sank. I didn’t run over the boy, I ran over its replacement… thing.
I told the cops I didn’t know what happened, and they let me off scot-free. As I walked into my house, I set the box of shells down and began to walk to my bedroom. As I opened the door, I noticed my mirror was stained with blood, and I had to use a shirt to wipe it off.
As I looked into it, I noticed something behind me. I turned around and saw my wall, painted with brown, old blood, the last thing I wanted to see. Something that made me realize that the previous night wasn’t a dream or a drug-induced hallucination.
Something that made me sick to my stomach.
There, written on the wall:
You’re a coward, Mr. Cohen