Fauna, pt. 2

The house was steeped in darkness, morbid shadows cast around me by the porch light that streamed in from the clouded windows. A glance outside found no trace of the fox and no explanation for the footfalls that seemed nearly at my throat just before I entered the light. A murky haze of fog was boiling up from the rain-soaked ground twisting and rolling in the cold night.

I pulled myself from the window and shook my head, exhaling a deep breath I had not realized I had been holding. There is much to be said for the power of the human imagination, I resolved, trying to ignore the slight creaking of the house settling in its foundations or the whine of wind battering against the windows. Less at ease than I should have been, I ascended the stairs to my room, passing by the closed doors of my housemates; blissful oblivion already making them insensible to the profound sense of unease that seemed wed to this night. And yet, what sort of artist would I be if I could not derive some sense of inspiration from the startling and disturbing events that I had, perhaps, imagined so recently? I immediately set to work.

Hours passed as they only can when one is wholly consumed in a project. I found exhaustion creeping through my bones and eyes, awakening to the realization that I was only half conscious, and would soon collapse into slumber. Forcing myself up, I packed away my materials for the night. A powerful thirst parched me, drying my throat and irritating my eyes. Rubbing my head, I carefully slipped from my room and, taking care to slink quietly, I made my way downstairs, to the kitchen.

The kitchen, near the rear of the house, stood well enough away from the porch light’s muted illumination, that walls of darkness seemed to press close to me, impeding my progress. I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the deep gloom, until the room resolved itself into a spectrum of blacks that allowed me to find my way across.

In this state, I pulled a glass from the cupboard, and filled it with water from the sink. The kitchen sink was a low fixture, attached to the wall where a large, single-pane window looked out into the back yard. The lawn was hidden beneath a dull gray mist, and the trees that rose up like silent soldiers blocked off any light from the neighboring houses, leaving the yard even darker than the kitchen.

Raising the water to my lips, I drank it in, savoring the cold tastelessness. In a prolonged motion, I swallowed and gasped for air, setting the glass in the sink with a faint, crystalline sound. I turned from the sink, to head back to my room and enjoy the long-delayed sleep my body so furiously fought for, when I heard the strangest noise. It was like the gentle clinking and ringing of a wind chime that dragged out for several seconds. My first thought was that the pounding winds that had outlived the storm and even now screamed through the windows, should’ve made a frantic, jumbled noise, not the soft, graceful chiming that I heard.

My second thought was a realization that we did not have a wind chime.

Turning back to the kitchen window, the night seemed impenetrably dark- even the mist and fog had been rendered invisible in the blackness. Of the noise, there seemed to be no source, but, from the corner of my eye, I thought I spied a movement near the corner of the yard. Slowly approaching the window once more, I leaned in to the glass, squinting and willing my eyes to pick up some shape or object. And yet, the more I looked and the closer I got, the more opaque the night seemed to become.

Then, with a faint glimmer, two distant, faint red lights ignited like fitful torches. The light was so small and so distant, that I feared it must be an illusion. Surely our yard does not stretch that far back? And what of the trees, would they not interfere? A blur of motion to my side, and a large, heavy thing thumped against the window, jarring me, and eliciting a slight scream as I jumped back. Then, as the disparate elements of a portrait coalesce into a single image, I realized what was before me. The object that even now scraped with grim intent against the window was a clawed hand, thick and knotted and black as pitch. I was not looking out my window into a darkness-concealed yard, but rather, at some vast, black thing that stood inches from my window. And the twin red gleams were not distant fires, but small, smoldering eyes, staring into my house and holding me in the thing’s sight. The shape moved, its eyes flaring brighter as its hand drew deep, teeth-chattering gouges down the window glass.

My eyes wide, my mouth agape, and the pinpricks of blood surging through my body, I backed away, and turned to run. Not caring about the noise I made or the path I took, I took the stairs two at a time, and ducked into my room, throwing my door shut and pulling a chair against the knob. Trembling from the sight, I sat heavily on the edge of my bed and panted, my mind a jumble of thoughts and fears.

What was that creature? Was it related to the fox that pursued me earlier? Should I wake my friends? Can it get into the house? I looked around my room. The emerald light of my alarm blinked a steady pattern of 12:00. Had the power gone out at some point? Keeping my eyes on the door, I moved toward my phone, and listened to the dull, dead silence that it produced when I lifted it from the receiver. I flipped the light switch, its pained click failing to provide any light. A dead bulb? I looked back at the green neon that provided my only illumination, blinking and meager as it was.

I felt helpless, small, and terribly alone at that moment. Everywhere I looked, there seemed to be the cursed glimmer of red peering at me, but when I turned to it, the light seemed to fade away into nothingness.

Then, a faint, scratching noise, like tiny claws against plaster. I looked up. One of the corners of my ceiling, due to the slope of the roof, bends into three oblique angles. It was from this spot that the noise seemed to come from, a distant, though urgent scratching. Rats, perhaps, from the attic, I tried to assure myself. But there was no chittering or squeaking to give any indication of a natural tunneler. And, as minutes dragged on, my focus wholly consumed in staring at the green-lit corner, the sounds of the scratching grew louder and more frantic.

Then, silence a thousand times more oppressive than the scratching noise had seemed. I stared back at the door and at my veiled window. In a moment, the scratching returned, further along the wall. Whatever was behind my wall, it was making progress. Progress toward where I sat, I realized with an icy horror.

I stood even as I heard the splintering wood and shattering glass from downstairs. Something was in the house. I tried to scream, but found my lungs frozen with terror, all strength sapped from my lips. I held my mouth open and tried to force air through it, but I only succeeded in a wheezing gasp, more like a whimper than a warning.

I stood there, in that room, silent with fear as I heard some great, heavy force pound upstairs with a frenzied determination. I could hear the mounting horror of elevated screams as my housemates woke to see that terrible thing. The clanking of some great metal chains and the sickening sound of tearing flesh overtaking the high-pitched, dying shrieks that seemed more animal than man. I think I vomited just before I passed out.

And that was it. When I came to, I was already in police custody. The neighbors had called the police when they saw the ruin our front door had become, and- finding the bloody mess that remained, took me with them. The wretched fools thought I was responsible, thought I had taken some weapon to my friends and smash up our house. Did they not see the damage done? The horrible wounds? How could I have done such a thing?

Oh, they say they found blood all over me, but didn’t they also see the thousand of tiny bites that had pocked my body? That blood on me was my own, I tell you! The things in the walls must have descended upon me when I fell. I can almost feel their tiny fangs and claws crawling down my spine even as we speak!

So I say to you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am not the murderer. I did not- could not- kill my friends as brutally as they had been. Where is the supposed weapon I used to tear flesh from bone and spray blood about like a geyser of crimson stain?

But neither am I mad, you see. I did not imagine these things any more than you have imagined the evidence set before you. I do not know why it chose me, but I tell you quite clearly that the message has been received. Honorable Judge, patient members of the jury, and even you, horrified members of the audience; I know what they were telling me. The fox, the rats, even that lumbering monstrosity- they had a single purpose, a single message. And the lesson is as simple as it is profoundly terrible: Nature’s revolt.

We have tamed the plants, victimized the animals, and defied the elements. Mankind has grown indolent with its dominion and Nature will no longer tolerate it. There are dark things in the night, perversions of even the most humble creature. These are to be our executioners and tormentors. Death will ride on the wings and teeth of the Fauna and we will never know peace again.