Thuds on the Roof

There’s something on the roof. Clipping. Clopping. I hear it step and step. The sun has just set and the world is still the hazy blue before it turns black. The trees are blots of ink against the clouds, no stars out, and no eternal night quite in place. It walks across the way, over to the bay window to my left. It sounds large and heavy. It’s pipes I will to myself. But I know there are no pipes in the roof. They are all underneath, in the crawl space that I keep locked and latched. It’s thumps continue, then stop. I glance to the window. Will a man leep from my roof and run away into the approaching dark? Will some wild animal leap free? We have a number of them.

I hear a loud sigh like an exhausted man exhaling. My dog raises her head and stirs from her pile of pillows. Her ears prick up as she looks at me. And, I look at the eave as black claws hang over and wrap around. The creature leans over and peers in at me wearing a hideous grin. It has the piercing eyes of a goat and the horns too. Its teeth are all sharp and deadly like a wolf and his snoot and face are all covered in the thick fur of a bear. His ears curl up, long and pointed like a lynx. Though I cannot see it, I am sure he has a tail. I gasp and he chuckles, the sound low and guttural like a raven’s cackle.

Then he is gone, back on the roof.

Thudding. I hear his hoofed steps above my head. As a kid I prayed for those sounds in the winter, prayed for Santa. And now I pray for silence. My dog rouses further and jumps into my arms. She whimpers and licks my face. Gone are her usual prestiges of strength and flair. Above me, I hear a sound that has roused me from sleep many times when my dog is sick. The beast gurgles deep in his belly and belches empty air over and over before spilling vomit. I squeeze my dog, fighting my own waves of bile. What would a creature like that have eaten? What boney content has been hurled up upon my roof? I’m sure it is oozing and spreading and a pale pink.

It is an eternity that I am frozen there in shock, my brain thinking only of what he must have ate. Then my dog stirs and horror floods through me like a warm rush of spring.

The doors. Did I lock the doors?

I jump to my feet, knocking my poor dog into the floor. I dash through the house, from door to door turning the lock, pausing at the windows as I go. The last door, the back door, waits for me. I am sure it is unlocked because an hour before I was only just standing in the yard throwing the ball for Bella.

That is when I see him through the window. I am not sure when he left the roof, but he’s standing in my yard shoving handfuls of clover and violets into his mouth to soothe an aching stomach. Long leather wings are furled behind his back and a long skinny goat tail droops. He turns to me, his yellow eyes lit with knowledge. We both race for the door.

I slam into the thick glass and turn the lock just as his claws curl around the handle. He jostles it. His snout curls into a displeased scowl, and he hisses at me through his teeth. Grass cling to the white razers, but the green does not hide the chunks of pink flesh also caught in them.

It is dark now in the yard. Pitch black so thick I cannot see beyond the motion sensor of the porch light. He vanishes into that dark in three quick bounds. Then my breath comes in all at once, racing with my pulse. I fall to the floor hyperventilating and trembling. My dog comes to comfort me and burrows her body into my arms. I hug her tightly and press into the sweet oatmeal smell of her fur. And then I hear it. A screech in the attic like a vent ripping free. He’s inside my house. I hear shuffling and thumping in the ceiling.

I RUN. My legs burn with the sprint as I tear down the stairs. I trip as I go. My fingers fumble at my safe as I fervently type in my code. Steady now, my hands shove the shells in. I have loaded this gun a hundred times and fired it a hundred more.

The crawl space near me jostles as something bangs at the door. But I do not have time to fret over those monsters tonight. No, the crawling creature that dwells in there seems hardly a concern. Tonight, something bigger has come down from the mountain. Scrap, scrap, screech echoes from the attic. He’s closer. He’s almost found the door. Fear and panic take over. I forget how to use the gun. Forget everything except how to hide. I call my dog over and yank her with me inside the safe. I pull the door shut quick and sigh when it clicks into place.

He can tear the lock mechanism off. But no beast is ripping through the metal shell. There is a thump as he lands on the floor above me. The stairs creak and groan under his weight. I count each one as he slinks down to me. When he reaches the first landing, I hear his hooves click on the hard floor twice, then he is on carpeted stairs again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

He is here, in the hall with me. He must be staring at the safe. I hear him snarl and grunt. He guffaws and sniffs loudly. His claws drag across the door with a chalkboard screech.

The air in here feels too thin. Like it’s not enough. The dog whines in my arms. He growls loudly in response then bangs on the door.

“Knock, knock, knock,” he chortles in a rough voice. Like a bird imitating speech. I press my eyes shut. If I concentrate hard enough perhaps this will all evaporate like a dream. “I will wait,” he resigns.

The air in the safe feels thin and thick all at once. It is hot and oppressive yet there is not enough of it. I gulp down several inhales. Even if he must leave with daylight and flee back up to the mountain, I am wondering how I will escape. My phone is still resting beside my seat on the couch. No one will come looking for me before the air becomes too little. And, if they did no one has the code.

It is hot. So very hot. The hours press on and on. I sleep and wake. My dog is in my arms, panting and kicking to get comfortable. I think of the guns in there with me. Would shooting from within the safe work? It seems unsafe. If I tell the beast the code, will he set me free only to consume me? I am sitting in pitch black. With no light, can I feel to see if there is an emergency open from the inside in case a kid shuts themselves inside? I reach up and my hands find nothing in their search.

A headache has formed. I am dizzy, so dizzy. The world is blotchy with spots. My dog is sleeping. Sleep. It sounds like a good idea. The blackness of it is warmer somehow, but in a good way. The panic is melting away. Maybe if I sleep now someone will find us. Maybe. Sleep is gentle.