Faint sounds crawls down the hallway.
The cold air causes the house to Creek. The sound persists. Light scratching upon a wooden door. A whistling wind calls along the window panes. A draft rushes to see its cousin outside.
Four paws stretch out. With a flip of a tail, Whiskers trots to investigate the sound.
The scratching of nails on wood grows. A sense of impatience in its tone.
The wind kicks up its heels and howls a bit. Dancing trees paint shadows upon the windows. Dim lights of a rustic living room hold them bsck from entering the house.
Whiskers sits in front of the door. His eyes fixed about a foot from the floor. His tail twitches with each scratch. The sound deepens and adds a thud before the scratch continues.
The wind dies quickly. The trees freeze in place. The thud becomes a knock. it ends with a deep scratch. Then repeats.
Whiskers scurries back to the hall. He turns back to listen. Watch, just in case.
The wind howls again. Trees dance their dance silently bare of leaves. The windows rattle.
The bang on the door commands attention. It’s tell tale scratch seems to come through the door now.
A muffled scream of low deep origin rumbles against the door. It emerges as a whail. Angry against the ears, sullen in the brain. It carries the weight of burdens and suffering. Cringing is the nature reaction.
Once more the knock comes with a sorrid scratch running down a larger chunk of door than ever before.
A flash of light drowns the porch. Shadows form and scatter. Long pointed fingers cling to the banister as they fade back into the night.
Tomorrow, or the next day yet may return.