I remember meeting him. It was just after midnight when the tapping started on my door. I tossed and turned, struggling to shake the noise. The tapping grew louder. It echoed through my bones. Still I tossed and turned, struggling to shake the vibrations. Then the voice, the soft low hiss, “let me in.”
I shot up into the darkness with a ball of fear sinking into my gut. The rapping grew louder, the hiss grew softer, sinister, “let me in.” It wasn’t a question or a request. The fear, a pulsing rolling ball, settled low in my stomach. Then the scratching, like a cold dog, feverish, “let me in.”
The light outside burned bright as the rapping and scratching filled my head. I struggled to shield my ears from the noise now bouncing off the walls, “let me in.” I jerked this way and that as warm tears threaded down my cheeks. Then the cold breath, like an arctic wind scraping your cheeks, “let me in.”
The cold fills my chest as I finally do as he requests. The warm tears carve paths down my face. “There. There. You let me in.”
I remember meeting him.