The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
As Tom pissed, he looked outside seeing an occasional flash of lighting and hearing the thunder, which followed. He washed his hands, briefly, turned the knob labeled "C" until it stuck, and then wiped icy water onto his face. He still felt tired, but better.
When he came back to the room, he plopped down on the bed again, and thought about this strange, eerie day. He didn't want to think about it, not really, but his mind insisted. He had thrown up, and had a bad dream. That was what it came down to, from a practical standpoint, but he thought there was more. He had felt, almost tasted, that feeling of wrongness. It had felt like he was being watched, though Tom had looked carefully and seen no one.
You looked carefully in the woods, said a smartass voice inside his head that wasn't quite his own. You didn't bother to look behind you.
"That's ridiculous," said Tom aloud, feeling a little odd (he hadn't actually talked since his mother had left). "I had to walk on the porch, to get to the lawn; if anybody had been simply standing there, I would've -" he stopped, horrible realization flooding into him.
"The ladder," said Tom.
He was referring to the silver ladder that had been leaning against the cabin, just in case a fire happened to get started downstairs. Sitting there, looking so natural, that Tom hadn't given it a single thought in ages.
He gave it a thought now; he gave it one hell of a thought. One part of him insisted that he was crazy for even examining the possibility that someone was stalking around the house; even if (by chance) somebody was out to kill him, what evidence did he have? A nasty gut feeling? Another part of him, a part that remembered exactly how it had felt, assured him that, yes, a gut feeling was all he had for evidence, and that was enough.
When he came back to the room, he plopped down on the bed again, and thought about this strange, eerie day. He didn't want to think about it, not really, but his mind insisted. He had thrown up, and had a bad dream. That was what it came down to, from a practical standpoint, but he thought there was more. He had felt, almost tasted, that feeling of wrongness. It had felt like he was being watched, though Tom had looked carefully and seen no one.
You looked carefully in the woods, said a smartass voice inside his head that wasn't quite his own. You didn't bother to look behind you.
"That's ridiculous," said Tom aloud, feeling a little odd (he hadn't actually talked since his mother had left). "I had to walk on the porch, to get to the lawn; if anybody had been simply standing there, I would've -" he stopped, horrible realization flooding into him.
"The ladder," said Tom.
He was referring to the silver ladder that had been leaning against the cabin, just in case a fire happened to get started downstairs. Sitting there, looking so natural, that Tom hadn't given it a single thought in ages.
He gave it a thought now; he gave it one hell of a thought. One part of him insisted that he was crazy for even examining the possibility that someone was stalking around the house; even if (by chance) somebody was out to kill him, what evidence did he have? A nasty gut feeling? Another part of him, a part that remembered exactly how it had felt, assured him that, yes, a gut feeling was all he had for evidence, and that was enough.