The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
For a few seconds, which seemed more like hours, they faced each other; Tom staring into the unforgiving black marbles that were the corpse's eyes, and the corpse gazing back into his own.
And then Tom ran.
He wasn't sure he'd actually be able to do it until he found himself standing on his legs and bolting toward his bedroom door. As he opened it and charged into the loft, he heard the creature's juicy hand slap against the window again, just once, but surprisingly hard. Whatever it was, it wanted inside.
Tom was running too fast; as he came to the staircase and tried to turn down it, he slid on the smooth wood, hit the wall, and fell down half of the steps on his back before managing to stop himself. He sat up as quickly as he could, his back simultaneously aching from hitting the steps, and burning from sliding against them. He turned himself around and skittered down the last five stairs, hearing the thing smack the bedroom window again, as he did.
Fragmentary thoughts drifted through his head as he ran. On some level, he was trying to reason; trying to decide what to do, but part of him (a small, but maddening part of him) was screaming that this was simply another dream. Tom knew it was a real possibility, but still didn't think it was true. Either way, it didn't matter; he couldn't prove it either way, and there was no need to take unnecessary risks, especially when those risks included being murdered by a grinning corpse.
He tried to think. He was good at solving problems, but only if they were on a math or science test; practicality wasn't his specialty. He tried to answer the important question first: what was the thing here for? Tom thought he knew, but didn't know for sure. He thought the thing had come to eat his fucking brains.
And then Tom ran.
He wasn't sure he'd actually be able to do it until he found himself standing on his legs and bolting toward his bedroom door. As he opened it and charged into the loft, he heard the creature's juicy hand slap against the window again, just once, but surprisingly hard. Whatever it was, it wanted inside.
Tom was running too fast; as he came to the staircase and tried to turn down it, he slid on the smooth wood, hit the wall, and fell down half of the steps on his back before managing to stop himself. He sat up as quickly as he could, his back simultaneously aching from hitting the steps, and burning from sliding against them. He turned himself around and skittered down the last five stairs, hearing the thing smack the bedroom window again, as he did.
Fragmentary thoughts drifted through his head as he ran. On some level, he was trying to reason; trying to decide what to do, but part of him (a small, but maddening part of him) was screaming that this was simply another dream. Tom knew it was a real possibility, but still didn't think it was true. Either way, it didn't matter; he couldn't prove it either way, and there was no need to take unnecessary risks, especially when those risks included being murdered by a grinning corpse.
He tried to think. He was good at solving problems, but only if they were on a math or science test; practicality wasn't his specialty. He tried to answer the important question first: what was the thing here for? Tom thought he knew, but didn't know for sure. He thought the thing had come to eat his fucking brains.