Kindling

Waking was akin to clawing his way through a tunnel of cobwebs only to break through a soggy layer of mildewed cardboard. That is to say; it was grossly unpleasant. His eyes were closed still, but he let the night seep into his ears. There were no sounds of cars on the nearby street, no late-night flights skimmed the roof. It must have been that mysterious time between bar close and when the city resumes its relentless hamster wheel cycle of a new day.

When his eyelids cracked open, he only registered black and grey tv static. In a few seconds, dim outlines started emerging from the darkness: familiar shapes, a dresser, and the slightly lighter rectangle of a window near the bed’s end came into focus. Rolling over, he wondered why he was awake at all. That’s when he heard it and knew the answer with sickening clarity.

There are universal sounds that set a person’s teeth on edge. Like nails on a chalkboard, the skree of twigs against a window had interrupted many people’s restful sleep. The problem was, there was no such foliage near his windows. Thinking of his home’s perimeter, there was absolutely no reason for this noise at all. What the hell was going on?

He held his breath and strained his ears. His eyes open wide now, not blinking, went to the window near his feet, The noise came again and was prolonged this time. It almost sounded as if it traced the window casing. Accompanied now with a scraping or scratching at the window sill, came an odd rustling sound. There had to be something to defend himself from whatever this could be. His mind ran, scanning his memory, for where he might have anything that approximated a weapon. He started to slide across the bed, away from the window. The bed creaked and the rustling and scraping outside stopped abruptly. He froze.

The bedroom was in the back corner of the house with no streetlight to illuminate the surroundings. The moonlight (or was it the coming dawn) was just light enough to show the shadow of something as tall as the window itself slip back and he heard that strange rustling follow the side of his house towards his back yard. That twiggy sound scraping across the siding. It kept contact as it followed the corner and continued to the window on the adjacent wall. The window that he was now standing in front of. Feeling woefully inadequately prepared for this invasion he backed away slowly as the shadow filled the second window. The scraping began again.

This time it was frantic. The branches (as he kept thinking of them) attacked the window like they were trying to pull it out, like a tooth from its socket. He screamed out some unarticulate, high pitched, and wholly unrecognizable sound. That scream only seemed to intensify the attack on his window and he was in the doorway now when a new and more ominous sound silenced both him and the branches. The floor of the house shuddered. The sound reminded him of distant thunder but so much louder. No lightning crash preceded it and when the intensely loud thunder boomed again the tremor it caused was strong enough to take him completely off his feet. He sat in his doorway watching the window and the shadow behind the curtains that hid whatever had been attacking his home. The scratching had stopped altogether and the rustling noise was now paired with a bloodcurdling owlish screech. Once more the floor shuddered, knocking a painting off his walls and the glass of his window cracked. The shadow appeared to lift into the air. Inexplicably there was a creaking as the owl scream intensified and raised in pitch until he could only cover his ears with his hands and scream in sympathy. What sounded like an explosion and then a barrage of shrapnel (?) twigs(?) peppered his house and broke into his room. He scooted backward out of the room and reached to the doorknob to pull it shut with all of his might. The thunder and shaking started again. He was now standing holding the door, bracing himself against the doorframe. His fingers ached and shook with the intensity that his grip had. Once, twice more, the thunder rocked his house, and then it was silent.

He stood there wincing, holding that doorknob, using his body weight as full leverage to keep that door closed for all he was worth. When he realized that the sounds hadn’t started again, the silence deepened, he slowly let up. He stood in the hall outside of his bedroom and sagged against the wall. He let himself slide down that wall until he was sitting in a small crumpled mess on the floor. The adrenaline wore off with a shock. He was exhausted and must have somehow passed out right there in the hall.

When he woke up/regained consciousness it was obviously morning. There were all of the usual sounds around his house. Birds chirping, cars trundling down nearby roads, a random dog barking, the normal morning chorus was present. Other than waking up stiff in his hallway it appeared like any other morning. He might have convinced himself of it until he opened the door to his bedroom.

The window was broken. A morning breeze blew the curtains back and sunlight highlighted splintered twigs on his bedroom floor. He made his way tentatively back into the room and pulled back the curtain. The back yard was littered with sticks and twigs that were shattered into splinters.