Jonas

I heard the heat up, the generator chugging along in its box outside, and I was curled up on the old couch reading a Clive Barker novel around nine.

I heard what I thought was an animal outside, some faint sound in the porch, real soft.

I paused, listened again, and realized it didn't sound like an animal at all.

It sounded like footsteps, not the heavy thump of boots, more like bare feet, blights, low spaced out, pacing almost like someone was trying not to be heard.

The porch creaked a little under the way just once.

like a board shifting.

I didn't move at first, just sat there listening, holding my breath without meaning to.

Then I leaned forward, picked up the shotgun from beside the couch, and stood up.

My hands were shaking a little, not from fear exactly, but from adrenaline, that old instinct waking up in the back of my spine.

I opened the front door, no one was there, not even tracks in the wet leaves, just that sharp pine smell and the sighing sound of wind between the trees.

I scanned the woods, waited a full minute, then went back inside, locked the door, double-checked the windows, told myself it was a raccoon or a bear, maybe even when pushing branches against the siding.

Next morning, though, I stepped outside and saw something strange.

Just off the porch, in a little patch of bare earth near the steps, someone had laid out a small spiral using smooth white stones, not natural placement, this was arranged tight and deliberate, curling imperfectly, I stared at it for a long minute, it didn't look like something an animal would do, it looked careful, patient, I crouched and brushed it away with my brute and stood up fast, looked around again, still no one, no signs of other people, no tyre tracks, no wrappers, no beer cans, nothing.

That afternoon, I was digging through the closet in the back bedroom, mostly boredom, and found something else I hadn't seen before.

A portable CD player, real old school, the kind with the clunky buttons and the lid that barely stayed shut.

Still had batteries in it.

Next to it was a cracked jewel case with Otis, 1972 deno, written in smudge black mark.

I thought maybe it was something Cal had recorded, like an old garage band demo.

He used to mess around with guitars, so who knows.

I figured I'd give it a listen.