Tinfoilhat95

Tinfoilhat95: I’ve considered the possibility of a psychotic breakdown, believe me, but I don’t think that’s what's happening.

I type away at my keyboard, completely unaware of the time of day. I’m pretty sure it’s Thursday. Almost positive. Which means I haven’t slept in… two days, maybe three?

Finally ungluing my eyes from my computer monitor, I glance at the decrepit grandfather clock in the corner of the den. 2:50 am. Shit.

I don’t know why I even bother to check. The frigid surge in my blood alerts me to the time. It’s time for my visitor.

Tinfoilhat95: If it’s back again, there’s no WAY it’s a coincidence. I’ll let you know.

Mr_Roswellllll: Best not to keep him waiting. Be a good host and offer him a drink!

I rolled my eyes. Some of the people on this site are real nutjobs.

Standing, I wince at the pain shooting down my spine. I’ve sat here hunched over a keyboard like a pervy internet troll for God knows how long. Pouring a splash more than a shot of whisky into my glass, I brace to go into the upstairs bedroom.

My body and mind feel fragile as I walk up the steps. My knees vibrate and I consider not looking up, but something possesses my chin to lift anyway.

My visitor perches on the windowsill and stares at my pathetic figure. He has a cinnamon colored halo of feathers framing his face, and black marble eyes dramatically void of light. These eyes invite me into my own bedroom. I step forward.

“Hello,” I utter, and cackle an unbecoming squeal. Sleep deprivation has finally gotten the best of me. I have to admit I would find this visitor beautiful, if I wasn’t entirely petrified by his presence.

Our very first encounter happened when I was just a boy, eight years old. My brother shook me awake with a wild sense of urgency one night. He was just a year younger than me, but intelligent well beyond his years.

“He’s back, I promise, you have to come look!” he whispered excitedly. “This is the third time this week,” exclaimed Dylan.

I had to check it out for myself, only half believing the poor kid. When I looked out the window I was greeted by our visitor, an enigmatic barn owl.

We observed him for several moments. I found him unsettling. Before I could say anything, Dylan raised his hand to his face, catching drops of blood from his nose. This kid always had something wrong with him, so I wanted to dismiss it.

“I don’t feel good,” he whimpered. I looked down. His pajama bottoms were flooded with urine.

Before I could decide whether to laugh or show genuine concern the grandfather clock downstairs began to sound loudly.

*Dong*

I covered my ears to escape its sheer volume. Every other sound seemed like it was being gradually vacuumed away. I heard my brother's screams travel upward, as if being dragged through the ceiling.

*Dong*

I shut my eyes tightly, but couldn’t completely eclipse the warm, bright light intruding through our window. I could still make out an orange flashing glow behind my eyelids.

*Dong*

I called for him in desperation.

“Dylan? Dylan I’m scared. Please stop. Dylan, please stop!” As if he had anything to do with the torment we were enduring.

Finally there was relief. I stood paralyzed for several moments before opening my eyes. I knew sound had returned to normal when I heard my shuddering breath. This is the memory I hate most. This is the moment I realized I was alone.

I remember the funeral so vaguely. Seems like a funny thing to forget, my own brother’s funeral. But then, I never accepted his “death.” He’s not dead, just gone. Unfortunately, there were exactly zero people on this earth who believed what I saw that night. Dylan was reported missing, but after spending less than six months searching my deadbeat parents convinced themselves he was probably abducted by some creep. I suppose they were half right. He was presumed dead. I was knighted as the family psycho.

It pains me to think about it or, God forbid, talk about it. The only way I talk about this now is through anonymous online forums. I regrettably became very active on these sites just last week, when my unwelcome childhood friend reappeared on my windowsill for the first time in 20 years. Every night, he returns.

I never remember what happens directly after greeting the creature. One minute I’m viewing the catalyst to my deepest trauma, and the next I wake up in bed. I estimate it only takes a couple minutes after locking eyes with it before I black out.

Tonight, I brace myself to lose time once more. Like clockwork I'll wake up in my bed with no recollection of how I got there; no idea who, or what, put me there. Most importantly, no idea what it does to me while I sleep.

I wait several minutes, clutching onto my drink to stabilize me. Maybe if I pinch my eyes shut hard enough I can make it go by faster. But to my surprise the moment I wait for never arrives. I’m conscious, I’m here. Tonight must be different. I’m not so sure that’s anything to celebrate.

I jump when I hear the sound. The sound of the grandfather clock that has been dormant for 20 years, erupting. Three tormenting bells later I realize I’m crying. What follows is an electric whirring so piercing it makes my cavities buzz. The light that makes even the sun look dull illuminates the room. I pray whatever is about to happen goes quickly. Just put me out of my misery.

A sharp sting. I’ve shattered my drink in a terrified grasp. Blood trickles down my trembling arm, and shards of glass drop to the floor, piece by piece.

I dare myself to look up, reluctantly willing to surrender control to whatever powerful force is torturing me so relentlessly.

The enigmatic barn owl had been replaced by a different visitor.

“Dylan?” I shuddered.

My baby brother stands before me. Someone I’ve missed greatly. The grief that never came finally hits me.

A giggle that hardly resembles human laughter emanates from his mouth. In a few ways he hasn’t changed. His body hasn’t grown. His cheeks are still round and childish. He’s even wearing the same flannel pajamas he was wearing the night they took him from me.

Yet I can tell this isn’t going to be the brotherly reunion I’ve spent 20 years yearning for. I can tell by his eyes, which are now black and vacant. The teeth beneath his smile more closely resemble an apex predator than a child.

My confused sobbing seems to entice him. Dylan contorts his body into a predatory crouch. Cocking his head he locks eyes on my throat.

“I’ve missed you,” I cried.