Jonas

By the fourth night, it wasn't just a front anymore.

I heard knocks from the back two.

Three up front.

Then a pause.

Then three behind a house like it was circling.

I lay there still as stone, sweat pooling under my arms and along my spine.

The room felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath with me.

Then came the slap.

One shot hit against the side of the house, wet, heavy, like a handful of mud hitting the boards.

The next morning, I told Alma I wanted to leave.

She just looked at me and said, it's November, you brought it with you.

I stared at her, waiting for a joke, or anything, but she turned and walked out the back door.

Later that day, I went to the outhouse.

When I saw the prints coming from under the house, long, narrow, bare feet pressed deep into the mud.

The toes looked too far apart.

Each step left a gouge, like it was dragging something behind it.

That night, no knocking, but I heard something worse.

Whispers, not outside, from inside the walls.

They weren't loud, but they were clear.

And they said my name, only it was my name, exactly.