Jonas

The frost in the glass had started to melt in this narrow, perfect streak, like someone had leaned in clothes, face pressed to the pane.

I could see the trail of condensation slowly sliding downwards, still wet like it had just happened.

I sat up and stared at it for a long time.

Next morning, Alma was already in the kitchen when I came in.

She was stirring cornmeal mash in a big black pot, steam fogging up the window behind her.

I told her what I saw, I thought I saw.

She didn't blink, didn't even turn.

She just said, if it knocks, don't speak to it.

No explanation, no concern, just that.

I wanted to ask more, but she didn't offer anything else.

So I sat down and ate quietly, trying not to think about it.

That evening, the wind picked up just before sunset.

Not a normal breeze.

It came all at once, loud and strange, like something had snapped loose from the ridge.

Branches scraped across the roof, and something heavy knocked against the siding.

The board groaned under the strain.

The house felt smaller somehow, like the pressure outside was pushing everything inward.

I tried reading a book I'd brought, but I couldn't focus.

The noises just wouldn't stop.

Right after I crawled into bed, I heard it.