Jonas

But the steps kept going, passed under the window, paused near the porch.

Then I heard it.

This light scraping sound across the front door.

Like something rigid, maybe a nail, maybe a stick, was being dragged across the wood in one line, careful stroke.

I didn't move.

I didn't even breathe.

The scraping went on for thirty seconds, maybe more, then stopped.

I stood there in the dark for ten minutes before I turned in the lights.

I kept every bulb in the house burning and left the TV running all night.

I didn't even pretend to sleep.

Next morning, the circle on the porch was made of coins.

Rusty tarnished things all laid heads up like someone had flipped them on purpose.

That's when I booked a room at a motel.

There was a place in Level about 20 miles out, just behind an old diner.

It had one of those neon signs with most of the letters burned out.

I paid for three nights and brought a duffel bag and my wet clothes.

The first night there, I had a dream that I was lying in a field flat on my back.

All around me were birds, not flying, just sitting, watching.

Their heads turned slightly, eyes fixed on me.

They weren't dead, and they weren't moving.