Brian Kelly Irons

The rain falls merciless on the thatch of the thin roof. Sleep will not come now, though I never expected it to. The rain brings pain and torment in cold, liquid rage. The drapes are open at the window near my humble bed, and I catch a glimpse of your face as the torrent crashes against the glass. I squeeze my eyes shut to the world. You are not here.

Were you ever?

I leave sleep behind and venture into the small kitchen in an attempt to avoid the reality of my troublesome existence when a knock rattles the old door. A single knock. Not the friendly three or even four knocks that any friend would muster, no. It was the solitary knock of the lonely. The dread has returned and I shudder to myself as I step towards the foyer and the knob of the awaiting portal.

The kettle that I had set to boil announces its readiness as I open the door and peer out into the storm. There was no one there. Not a soul, as I had expected. It had to be the rain. No living creature would place a single knock upon the door of a stranger in a downpour such as this.

Get ahold of yourself, Roger.

The tea was hot and I was dry. Though the rain appeared to be increasing in strength and sheer will and determination, I had suffered much worse in my day. This was why I jumped when a rush of cold blew the candle out. Quickly, I reached for a match and ignited the wick. Once it took hold, the kitchen was yet again bathed in the faint yellow of the tiny flame, and I was no longer alone. A dark shadow moved swiftly around the room and settled in the corner near the stove, for warmth, I would imagine.

I gave my eyes a bit of time to become accustomed to the candlelight, hoping that it was merely a trick of the flame. I held up the candle and the shadow remained. The rain lingered. It appeared as though the land itself was moving. I turned to the sitting room and lit a few more candles. My home lit up like a roaring fire. I reluctantly glanced back to the window and the corner, only to see that the eerie shadow had not receded with the extra illumination. When I looked closer, I noticed that the thing seemed to be moving from within. Could it be alive? Hello?

“Wilbur.” It was only a whisper, but the sound of the voice undulated throughout the house, or perhaps it was only in my mind. Neither solution was comforting. I tried the direct approach.

My name is Roger. Roger Porter. Who are you

“Wilbur.”

The voice was somewhat feminine so I assumed that the thing was female. There was a texture to the voice as well, as if it were underground or in a closet; certainly not in my kitchen.

“Wilbur.”

To be continued…