It’s Week 2. You’ve made it. We’ve made it. The second Saturday in April! Wait… Anywho, welcome to the second installment of Horrah Novembah! This week, we have a trigger warning about home invasion. (Mom, I don’t think you’ll like this one either.) Also, writing this story definitely did NOT give me, myself, and I nightmares. Enjoy!
Knot
The town built the fence. The fence between my backyard and the four-lane road I coast along every single day. The road with the middle school, the huge stadium, and a parking lot to match. The only road that leads into my neighborhood.
The fence has long since lost the scent of wood, washed away by countless thunderstorms. The wood is faded and rough to the touch. The first time I touched the fence, a memory rose to the surface like blood from a paper cut. I was dancing on the back deck of our old house and heard my dad’s voice, “Don’t drag your feet, you’ll get a splinter!” Then, the inevitable needle and tweezers, blurred as if seen through tears.
My yard is covered in soft, green grass; the kind that’s made for bare feet. A large wooden pergola shades half of the yard. Half the ground under the pergola is a patio, puzzle-pieced together with pretty pink bricks. The kind with those little flecks of sparkly stone that glisten in the sunlight. And the trees! Oh, the trees. There’s the tall English oak, towering and strong. And two crepe myrtles with pink blossoms that float down around my head like cotton candy snowflakes.
I like to sit out there. I write out there, think out there, run away from bees out there. I’ll sit on the patio and drink a cold beer on a hot day or drink hot tea on a cold night. I’ll lay in the grass or play fetch with my dog. Her nails click on the bricks like a song.
But whenever I look out in my yard, through the expansive windows or the glass of my back door, I don’t notice the trees or the bricks or the bees or the flowers. I notice the fence. I have to pry my eyes from it.
Today, just before I pull my eyes away from the fence, I notice a hole. Had it been there before? I don’t think so. No, it definitely wasn’t there before. It wasn’t even there yesterday. We had a big storm last night. One little-bitty hole caused by that great big storm? I throw a tennis ball for my dog and walk toward the fence. The hole is high enough that I’m not sure I’ll be able to reach it. There had been a knot in the wood. The storm must have popped out the middle piece.
I look for a smooth space to place my hands on the fence and stand on my toes, willing my spine to extend an extra inch. I’m surprised to find I’m able to look through. I see – my house? My backyard, the same oak tree and the crepe myrtles. The same brickwork on the house. Through the windows, I can see my yellow couch in the living room and my grandpa’s lamp in the bedroom window.
I lean away from the fence and look around. I’m still in my backyard. I taste something metallic in the back of my throat.
I raise myself up to look again and there, staring back at me, is a green eye.
I scream and whoever is on the other side screams too.
My hands slip and I pull them away from the wood as quickly as I can to avoid a splinter. I stumble backward and tumble to the ground, my tailbone ringing up into my ears. Annie thinks I’m playing and licks my face.
I scramble back to the fence and shoot to my tiptoes again.
Cars rush by. A child leisurely rolls past on a scooter. The middle school sits off in the distance.
I stare for another moment before dropping back on my heels.
I take a step toward the house before a chill catapults through my veins like the cold metal sphere of a pinball machine. I allow the fear to wash over me like a wave. Like saltwater, it seems to leave a residue. Something tangible hangs just outside my awareness.
Annie’s jingling collar brings me back to the yard. She leans into my leg as if to say, “It’ll all be okay if you throw this ball again.” And so I do.
The day turns to night and grogginess overcomes me. Snuggled in my bed, in the dark, with Annie curled up beside me, I think about the fence and the eye. Was it real? I think about the scream and how it echoed with familiarity.
That’s it! I’ve seen her before. I mean, yes, in the mirror every day. But also, when I was little. The same house with the splinters. My room was a refurbished attic with slanted ceilings that made two small cubby holes on each side. It always felt like a fairytale room to me. It was just my size. The old door had a keyhole that I used to look through from time to time. I’m not even sure why I looked. But one day, she was there. We had talked. Albeit briefly, but we had talked. What did we talk about?
Whimpering.
I don’t remember falling asleep but I must have. I feel around the bed for Annie but she’s not in her usual spot. The bed is warm so she hasn’t been gone long. I turn on the light.
Whimpering.
I hear it again. It seems to be coming from down the hall. Maybe she’s at the window. Maybe she saw a rabbit in the garden or heard a low rumble of thunder. I grab her thunder shirt off the nightstand and make my way toward the front of the house.
The door of the office is closed. I hear her whimper from the other side.
The hair stands on my neck. I hear a shuffle behind me.
Sudden unfamiliar hands around my torso. I hear myself scream and hear Annie’s bark from the closed room. I kick and flail against strong arms. I feel a searing heat across my abdomen. My hands are wet now. It’s harder to move. The arms let me go as if they’ve done what they came to do. I fall to the ground. A shadow stands above me. Watching, waiting.
I don’t move, hoping I can wait out the monster, but my energy is waning. I can’t just lay here and do nothing. I begin to crawl toward the living room. I hear the squish of slow footsteps behind me. I smell a candle I had blown out hours ago and taste copper.
I reach the couch and pull myself up. The floor is slippery.
The back door is so close. I try to run but he catches me again.
I swing my arms and make contact with his throat. He smells like chemicals. He stumbles backward.
I pull the backdoor open with so much force that the window in the door shatters. Time seems to slow as the glass sprinkles the ground. If twinkle lights made a sound, that’s what it would be.
I’m outside now and I feel like I’m walking in mud. I don’t know why it’s so cold in June. The sparkle of the bricks, the dimly lit trees, the smell of a summer night, the backyard is beautiful in the moonlight.
I move toward the fence. My breath gurgles in my chest. I take as deep a breath as I can, lift myself up and scream through the hole, “Wake up! He’s coming!”
I slide down the fence and into the soft grass. The patio light is blotted out as the shadowy form approaches.
“She was first,” he says.
Her scream rushes out of my memory like water over a waterfall. That day, at the keyhole, her father had pulled her away. He wore a lab coat. He didn’t look angry. He looked scared. Someone else stood behind him. I couldn’t see them, but I had heard a shuffle.
“You and her,” the shadow pointed at the fence, “would have connected us all.”
My breathing slows and the world fades to black.