The Things That Watch Us

The dark arrives.

It comes swiftly and quietly, blanketing all.

She is sleeping. There is peace, and there is quiet.

The moon peeks out from behind the curtain-covered window, just enough to cast wisps of light on the dresser and the closet door.

A lamp in the corner casts a blue glow across the copper hair sprawled across a pillow.

Her form curves beneath the covers as she gently shifts.

Time ticks faster. Numbers move forward.

The moon arches higher in the sky.

Breathing runs shallow.

She is dreaming now,

dreaming of distant lands and deep colors,

colors that still hold her in the depths of slumber.

No one stirs in the empty house,

except her.

She doesn't even know

how far her dreams stretch.

She never looks behind her.

A knock suddenly sounds.

She feels it before she hears it.

Her eyes flutter open.

The movement is almost unnoticeable, but she is wide awake.

They scan the room quickly.

She pays particular attention to the closet door and the bedroom door facing her.

How funny that she searches everywhere except behind her,

never noticing the velvet-dark haze around her.

A heartbeat passes. The sound lingers in her ears.

Goosebumps snake up her arms and neck.

And just as quickly as her eyes opened, they shut.

She knows better.

She's heard this one before.

She knows it's me, waiting behind her.

We are old friends, she and me.

And she's smart enough to go back to sleep,

choosing to return to the land of the

unconscious.

When she wakes up, she'll pass it off as merely a bad dream.

But she will know.

She always knows.

That even though I'm gone now,

I'll be waiting.