Closet

Closet

The still of the night comes apart.   A little scratching noise carries faintly through the room.   An black ink haze.  A swirling ceiling fan with a certain wobble.  Those ate the only things that belong.   The veil of sleep lifted just enough.

Scratch, scratch, scratch….

I lie half awake.   My mind ponders what things could exist in the room with me.   My conscious tells me is nothing.   My anxiety tells me get up now!

Scratch, scratch, scratch….

It repeats. A coded message from a dark closet.  There’s nothing but clothes and boxes.   But they don’t scratch.

My mind twos me to turn on the light.   The heart says no.  Whatever I see can then see me.

What would come into the room this way.  What could not see the closet and not get out?  It’s a ghost.  A spectre.  Nothing worldly would be trapped by a simple door.   It’s scratches call me out of sleep.   Beckon me to behold is unnatural form.  I have seen the stories.   It’s has to be evil.   No way anything good would be hold back by a door.

Scratch, scratch, scratch….

My mind is turning fast.   My heart races.  I pretend I can sleep.

Scratch, scratch, scratch….

It wins.  It wins.  

My hand reaches for the light.   My eyes are saucers.   Big bold black holes.   Peering into the depths of the room.   Nothing is there.   The scratching finally stops.  My eyes shrink down in size.  My heart returns to normal.

The light goes out.   So do I.

Scratch, scratch, scratch….

My heart is in my throat before my eyes open.   I’m in full panic.   It’s back.   It’s louder.

Scratch, scratch, SCRATCH….

I can’t do this all night.  There’s noone else here.  I’m an adult.   Ghosts don’t really exist.   They are just bad reality TV.

SCRATCH, SCRATCH, SCRATCH….

I ignore it.   I turn on the light.   It stops. I grab a book.   I’ll club anything that moves with it.   So help me…it is a paperback.   Ok I’ll just scare it a bit.   Either way.  It’ll have to deal with me.

Scratch, scratch, scratch…..

Oh god..it’s still going.   I reach for the closet.  I’m ten feet.   Then five.  Then touching the handle.

One, two, three… What if it runs out?

OK this is silly.   One, two, three.

I throw the door of the closet open. I step back. Book ready  to swing like a bat.

Mr Jones, the cat walks out.

“What are you doing in there?!” I ask.

He doesn’t reply.

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