The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
He gazed through the window at the foot of his bed, looking at the dark rain splattering upon the roof, washing it clean. He had an idea that he wanted to close the curtains, just in case someone was lurking out there; he didn't know what good it would do, but he wanted it done just the same. He sat up, preparing to perform this action, and that's when he heard it. It was a dull, and somehow wet, thumping noise, followed by the unmistakable sound of something being dragged across the shingles of the roof, scraping each one hard enough to make Tom's teeth grind.
He was frozen. Inside his head, sirens were going off and voices were screaming at him to get his fat ass in gear, but he couldn't. His body was locked up, and for the time being he was a prisoner, sentenced to hear the horrible pattern of wet thumps preceding the sound of meat scraping shingles.
"Thump! Scraaaaatch! Thump! Scraaaaatch! Thump! Scraaaaatch!"
Tom listened, not wanting to, but doing so anyway, as this hellish beat led the way for the noise made by the rain and the thunder. He was attuned to the fact that whatever was on the roof was coming towards his window. He was certain that his heart would explode; it was already hitting on his chest like a reckless fist. He would see whatever was coming to his window, and then his heart would explode. And thank God if it did, because Tom didn't think that it was a bluebird or a robin scraping toward him; he had an idea that this thing was much bigger - the size of a man, perhaps.
He listened to a few more thumps, a few more scrapes, and then... silence. He still couldn't move. He was sitting right in front of the window, breathing in air that felt too icy (air that also suddenly stank rotten), and he could not, for the life of him, move.
Suddenly a gruesome hand slapped the window. It was so loud that Tom thought for a moment his heart had exploded.
He was frozen. Inside his head, sirens were going off and voices were screaming at him to get his fat ass in gear, but he couldn't. His body was locked up, and for the time being he was a prisoner, sentenced to hear the horrible pattern of wet thumps preceding the sound of meat scraping shingles.
"Thump! Scraaaaatch! Thump! Scraaaaatch! Thump! Scraaaaatch!"
Tom listened, not wanting to, but doing so anyway, as this hellish beat led the way for the noise made by the rain and the thunder. He was attuned to the fact that whatever was on the roof was coming towards his window. He was certain that his heart would explode; it was already hitting on his chest like a reckless fist. He would see whatever was coming to his window, and then his heart would explode. And thank God if it did, because Tom didn't think that it was a bluebird or a robin scraping toward him; he had an idea that this thing was much bigger - the size of a man, perhaps.
He listened to a few more thumps, a few more scrapes, and then... silence. He still couldn't move. He was sitting right in front of the window, breathing in air that felt too icy (air that also suddenly stank rotten), and he could not, for the life of him, move.
Suddenly a gruesome hand slapped the window. It was so loud that Tom thought for a moment his heart had exploded.