Here They Come

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

If you walked up close to the window, you'd see a shadowed silhouette of its long, thimble, wax body on the wall behind it. The flickering of the fire would dance on the glass of the window, its reflection the only light in any direction.

You'd try to see what's inside, to see the color of the floors, to see what was left in that old cabin, but all you could make out was the dark red color of the wall behind the candelabra.

You'd put your face to the window. The tip of your nose will go cold from pressing against it and you will cup your hands on the sides of your face as if it will help you see into the dark abyss of the room.

You will fail to see anything yet again except for the red, red wall and the lonesome, idle candlestick with its striking bright flame violently flickering back and forth, back and forth.

However, you will fail yet again - but unknowingly - as you miss to see how the flame will stop flickering and will instead stay upright, absolved of all violent movement.

You will walk around the cabin and its modest, square-sided structure, and notice there are no other windows. You'll walk around it one more time, in case you missed something, and you will. But you won't miss the fact that it only has one window. You will miss to see that the cabin has no door.

You will come back to the window and look at the woods surrounding you. You will see no path, no trodden soil, no used timber or littering of any sort. You won't see a ladder. You won't see tools. You won't see anything that indicates a human being had lived there.

You then would try to put your ear to the icy cold glass, to see if you could hear the faint whistle of the wind against the old walls or a pin drop of noise inside. But alas, you would hear. . . silence.

And then you would realize the woods would be silent. The leaves on the trees above you will have stopped their soft rustling. The crickets and the small creatures on the floor of the woods will have hushed their movements. No branches will crack, no animal will cry, no noise will be heard but the slow draws of your own breath.

It would then take you another moment to realize that the candle flame had gone out. You notice its demise, but not quick enough to see who - or what - put it out.

The woods around you are now black. No light in any direction on the moonless eve, not even the faint glow of stars could penetrate the deep canopy of the trees above.

You press your hand against the weathered wood of the cabin to steady yourself but catch a sliver. You gasp in pain before you become overwhelmed with the smell of iron. The smell seeps through your nostrils, burning your eyes.

You stumble. Feel the small drop of blood on your palm. The minute trickle casts an overpowering odor you think you have lost more blood that you can feel.

In the dark you pat yourself down, feeling for intact limbs, cuts, scrapes or bruises. It's in your ears. You feel the river of blood pooling in your eardrums, like a broken dam it pours onto your cheeks, running down your neck, under your clothes, between your toes.

You scream. All you can hear is the running of blood. It's migrating from your brain, to your ears, to your face. The smell. Oh god, the smell. It's overcoming you. The smell is so strong. You open your burning eyes to feel blood pouring down them. You cry out again.

Over the echoes of your screams and the orchestra of blood flooding from your orifices, you don't hear Them coming toward you.

You don't see Them coming closer. By the time you feel the omnipresence behind you, it's too late. Because Their cold, sinewy fingers begin wrapping themselves on your arm.

They're here.