The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
So he needed a weapon. Finding something to use seemed like it would be an easy task, but Tom kept drawing blanks. His mother had never kept any guns in the house, and even if she had, Tom had never fired a gun in his life. He doubted if he'd even be able to figure out how to load one. There were plenty of sharp knives too, but he wanted something with range. The only objects he could think of were his acoustic guitar, the broom, and an old hockey stick. The guitar would be more trouble than it was worth, and the broom handle (though it was light) was made of plastic. So that left the hockey stick, which was in the basement.
Tom suddenly became aware that not just his hands, but his whole body was trembling, and probably had been for some time. He didn't want to go in the basement, but what choice did he have? The hockey stick was the only tool available (it would never occur to him that he had an old baseball bat lying in the spare bedroom a few feet away), and he wanted something. He made his way back through the thin hall, his heart thumping rapidly. He tried to make each step as quiet as possible, and he stood ready to run if the strange corpse should show itself.
The kitchen was still empty, as Tom had supposed it would be. He rotated the beam of the flashlight around the room, illuminating the winding counter-top, the sink by the window, which was slowly dripping water as it sometimes did, the tall white refrigerator, and finally an antique grandfather clock set at the end of the wall. It was the grandfather clock that convinced him he wasn't dreaming; he had known he wasn't since first seeing the thing's face, but he had also still held onto some weak vestige of hope that he was. Dimly seeing the constant movement of one of the hands on the clock, combined with the faint ticking, erased this hope. No dreams were that detailed.
The basement door was a few yards beyond the kitchen in another hallway. It was positioned perfectly, so that the steps leading down from it were aligned beneath the staircase leading up into the loft. Tom approached it, twisted the handle as quietly as he could, and allowed it to swing open in an acute angle. Looking down, he took a short moment to decide if he really wanted to do this; after all, he could easily be trapped down there.
Tom suddenly became aware that not just his hands, but his whole body was trembling, and probably had been for some time. He didn't want to go in the basement, but what choice did he have? The hockey stick was the only tool available (it would never occur to him that he had an old baseball bat lying in the spare bedroom a few feet away), and he wanted something. He made his way back through the thin hall, his heart thumping rapidly. He tried to make each step as quiet as possible, and he stood ready to run if the strange corpse should show itself.
The kitchen was still empty, as Tom had supposed it would be. He rotated the beam of the flashlight around the room, illuminating the winding counter-top, the sink by the window, which was slowly dripping water as it sometimes did, the tall white refrigerator, and finally an antique grandfather clock set at the end of the wall. It was the grandfather clock that convinced him he wasn't dreaming; he had known he wasn't since first seeing the thing's face, but he had also still held onto some weak vestige of hope that he was. Dimly seeing the constant movement of one of the hands on the clock, combined with the faint ticking, erased this hope. No dreams were that detailed.
The basement door was a few yards beyond the kitchen in another hallway. It was positioned perfectly, so that the steps leading down from it were aligned beneath the staircase leading up into the loft. Tom approached it, twisted the handle as quietly as he could, and allowed it to swing open in an acute angle. Looking down, he took a short moment to decide if he really wanted to do this; after all, he could easily be trapped down there.