I heard the sound again.

This time, I was sitting up; sitting on the edge of my bed. Wide awake. The first time I heard it I had been sleeping. It woke me. I wasn’t sure; maybe sound had been part of a dream (or a nightmare). But now I am awake. I am not dreaming. I heard that sound again.

Thud!

It is dark. I don’t know what time it is. I think it must be around 3 AM. I don’t know why I think it is 3, I just do. I cannot see the time that is on my phone. That is the only clock in my room…maybe in my whole house. Who uses clocks anymore? We have our smart phones to tell us everything we need to know. But I can’t see it. My phone is resting on the tiny black tray that sits on the small wooden hand of the little wooden butler who stands in the corner of my room. He has stood there since Christmas day; a gift from my children. He is a Smart-Butler. He stands about four feet tall, impeccably dressed in his black, carved out of wood tuxedo. Bent elbows are tucked tightly against his sleek torso, each forearm stretched at a slight angle, reaching out as if the lifeless servant had a desire to be hugged. A large nose, proportionally out of scale, rises from the middle of his wooden face. He has no mouth; smiling or frowning. Small beady eyes contradict the bulbous nose. Above his beady eyes, the brows his creator gave this Smart-Butler are comical in their length and thickness. They remind me of two over-sized woolly-bullies inching across a hot summer sidewalk.

In one hand the butler holds a shiny silver tray, where I can throw my loose change each night. In his other hand, the black leathery tray which now holds my phone. But this one is not just a tray, you see. All you have to do is place your smart phone on the smart tray held by Smart-Butler and it will recharge your phone for you! How ’bout that! You don’t even need to plug it in, just lay it there! I don’t understand these things, and I am too old to worry about how such things work anymore. I just let them…work.

Thud!

If he really was a Smart…Butler, then he would lift my damn phone so I can see the time.

Not that it matters. Sounds born in the night are no respecter of time. If it’s not three o’clock, if it was, let’s say… five o’clock…then I would just lie back down. Things aren’t as scary at five o’clock. Why? Because the alarm on my smart phone would be waking me at five-fifteen just as it does every day. I would hear the phone’s nice little song, I think it is Fandango; my daughter set it up for me so I can’t be certain, I would smell the aroma of coffee coming from the fancy new coffee maker that has its own alarm. My daughter set that up for me too.

If it was 5 AM I could forget about the sounds coming from down the hall. But it’s not, I know that. I have woken every morning for the past forty-five years at the same time; I know it’s not five. Just as I know the sounds I heard are not from some dream.

Thud!

Someone is in my house.

I close my eyes as if blindness will improve my hearing. I listen carefully. Where are the sounds coming from? The living room? The kitchen? Maybe from bedroom that once belonged to my son. Or was it from my daughter’s room? No. It doesn’t sound that close.

Thud-thud.

I look through the darkness at my bedroom door. It is closed. An old habit. I live by myself now (not counting my new Smart-Butler companion). Hell, I still close the bathroom door too. Don’t know why, no one here to offend except myself.

I am an empty-nester.

My children, a son and a daughter, have grown and moved on with their own lives. My wife died more than fifteen years ago, she was the first one to leave the nest. Then my son flew away. He joined the Navy six years ago, I’ve only seen him a few times since; this year he came for Christmas.

My daughter was the last to leave my nest. She stayed around after graduating from college because I got sick. Cancer. Stupid cancer, if you’re curious about what kind. I am better now. The doctor called it “In remission”. It is good to be “In remission”. There was no reason for her to keep staying around after I stopped the chemo treatments and such. I returned to work part-time to keep the insurance, you know just in case. So, it was time for her to move on with her life too.

Now they are all gone.

My nest is empty.

So, who is in my house?

I close my eyes tighter. I listen closer. I can hear the beating of my heart. I can hear myself breathing. I try to stop—I don’t want him to hear.

Thud-thud-mumble.

There is more than one!

I can’t understand what they are saying, it comes in whispers. But I know there is more than one. How many? Two…three…a whole gang?

We never had gangs in this little town of mine until lately. The world is going to hell in a picnic basket and has no intention of leaving this little community behind. But what can you do? Pray? Run? Hide?

Something crashed to the floor. They must be in the kitchen. It sounded like a coffee mug meeting the tile floor unexpectedly. Someone laughs. Oh, dear God, they don’t care if I hear them.

I am so afraid. Like a little child in the darkness of night…but I can’t cry out. Who would hear me?

They would.

Maybe they don’t know I am here. Maybe they think no one is home; a family gone for the holidays. The tree and all the decorations have been taken down and stored away for another year. No smattering evidence of a family celebration. Nothing telling them that someone is home.

And my truck? My damn truck!

It’s gone. The driveway is empty. All the lights are off. My house looks vacated. My house looks like an easy target for a would-be thief. My nephew borrowed the truck. He is moving into a different apartment this week. He asked to borrow it, I said yes. Hell, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Stupid! If they had seen my truck parked in the driveway—my truck with a gun rack in the back window, my truck with the NRA stickers on the bumper and the rear window—then maybe this gang, (how many, five or six?) would have just moved right on past my property. They would have carried their pants-sagging little…

My gun. Where’s my gun?

Think old man! This is exactly why you bought it. In case of some punk decided to…; to protect your home…to protect yourself, that’s why. Where is it?

I open my eyes and consider the darkness. The gun is in the closet on the top shelf behind all the board games that collected there over the years. We use to play a lot of games. Me and my two kids. Every Saturday night was game night; until they got too old to want to do such things with Dad. That’s alright, they’re good kids. I wish they were here now.

I think about getting the gun. But I don’t. I am too afraid. I can hear them moving around. Moving around in my house! What the hell do they want? There ain’t nothing worth taking. I was a single parent for most of my children’s life. I worked hard to keep this roof over their head and food in their little bellies. There wasn’t much left to buy things worth stealing.

The board games. Those were our luxuries. But you can’t have those either, you son-of-a... Their mine! And behind them is a gun. I need to get that gun. That’s what I need to do.

A bump. A thump. How many are there? Eight, nine? I don’t know. I’m afraid to know so I quit counting. There might be too many to count anyway.

I think they are everywhere. Except in here. My sanctuary. In here, in my bedroom, it is only me and the Smart-Butler. A lot of help he is; he couldn’t even reach the top shelf to get the damn gun.

If I can get the gun…the magazine holds seventeen rounds and one in the chamber. That would be enough to shoot most of them. The others would probably run. I think they would. Yeah, they would run. I hope.

More mumbling. A door opened.

Quiet. They might hear. If they hear they might come in.

I am so afraid. An old man acting like a little child. What’s wrong with me? I stop the tears before the travel down my aging cheeks, wiping them away with trembling fingers; fooling myself.

A bump. It’s coming from beneath the floor.

I think they are under the house. It’s tight down there. I’ve been under this old house more than once. You got to crawl on your belly like a snake. It’s low. Really low. You can feel the floor boards scraping across your back. And It’s dark, darker than a coal mine, even in the middle of the day. Things live down there; crawly things. I don’t like them. Once, I felt something crawling down my shirt, I screamed like a little girl. I never crawled so fast…

There’s two ways in and out of the crawl space. One’s outside, below the back porch. I don’t lock it. Never thought there’d be a need. The other?

The other is a trap door…in my closet.

I can’t get the gun. I know my house; from where I am sitting, if I stand up, the floor is going to screech louder than a night owl. It always has, always will. If I make it to the closet door…they will hear. They will come.

“Walk lightly” the Smart-Butler suggests.

What the hell does he know? He hasn’t lived here long enough to know that I can’t step lightly. My feet hurt so bad that half the time I can’t tell if I’m walking heavy or walking on egg shells. It ain’t from the cancer. That took up residence a long way away from my feet. It’s the chemo. Chemo destroys everything in its path— good stuff, bad stuff. It doesn’t care.

Crash!

Something else hits the floor. Someone laughs. It was a girl! A girl laughing.

I can’t shoot a girl!

“You can’t shoot anybody. You can’t get your gun, old man.” Smart-Butler reminds me.

Somewhere far off I hear thunder. Just perfect.

I don’t think there was rain in the forecast. I watch the ten o’clock news every night. Well, that’s not true. I fall asleep during the news every night.

More thunder. More thumps. More bumps.

A new sound.

“What is that?” I whisper to the little butler.

It sounds like gurgling. A low gurgling sound you might expect to hear coming up from some dark sewage pit. It’s not a sound you should ever hear in your home.

In the middle of the night.

In your home.

When you are all alone.

I am so scared.

I try to remember how to pray.

I use to pray all the time. I could talk to God just like he was an old army buddy. I’d tell him whatever was on my mind and he would listen. There were times when I would ask him for help. And then there were times when I just gave him praise. Then he took my wife, and I quit talking to him.

Oh, I still went to church, I ain’t a heathen. My kids needed to learn about God and Jesus and all that important kind of stuff. I took them; I just didn’t talk to God. My daughter sang in the choir. She had a voice like an angel. She still does. I would give everything I own just to hear her sing right now. Maybe she would sing me a lullaby. Put me right back to sleep like a little baby. Then I wouldn’t have to hear them. I wouldn’t have to hear that gurgling sound.

Another door opens. It sounded like the front door. Maybe they’re leaving.

I began to pray. I asked God to make them leave.

The door shuts. More talking, more mumbling. I can hear them.

God didn’t hear me.

The gurgling sounds get louder. It sounds like someone doing the jitterbug over the backs of a thousand frogs. Squish—gurgle—squish—gurgle. What the hell is that sound?

I am scared to death. I need to do something. I need a plan. Yes, that’s it! A plan.

I look to the Smart-Butler as if he might have a plan of his own that perhaps, he might like to share with this scared old man. He doesn’t say anything.

A light comes on. It’s the hallway light. The awakened energy of the 60-watt bulb tries to crawl under my bedroom door. Eighteen feet. That’s how far away they are. I know this because I carpeted that hallway all by myself. I bought the new carpet, I cut the new carpet and I laid it down…all by myself. Eighteen feet of carpet.

And now someone is walking on it.

I don’t know what to do! Maybe if I can scoot myself across the bed, I could stand up on the other side. The floor doesn’t creak over there. Well not loudly anyway. Then I would be within arm’s reach of the little wooden butler. I could get my phone. I could call 911. The sheriff’s office is less than ten minutes from my front door. They could get here quickly if I can get that phone. They could get here and shoot the little…

I look down at my hands. Between the darkness and cataracts, I can barely see them. But I know they are there. And I know they are trembling. Shaking like leaves on a tree. I am so afraid.

I remember the first time I took my son hunting; he was just ten years old. His mom wouldn’t have approved, but she had died that summer, so I just asked her memory to trust me. I don’t know if the dead hear us or not, but it made me feel better to ask. Anyway, we were sitting in the blind; it was colder than frozen peas that day. A nice eight-point buck walked right into the clearing and just stood there looking out at his world. He didn’t look like he had care or like he had any other place to be. I tapped my boy on the shoulder and pointed at the buck. I reached over and picked up my rifle and then silently offered it to my son. He was scared. I saw it in his eyes. I looked down at his hands and they were just a shaking like crazy. Like leaves on a tree. He took the rifle from me. I looked at that old buck and knew he didn’t have much to worry about at all.

I put my hand on my boy’s shoulder and that hand shaking eased up. Not all the way mind you, but it was mostly gone. That old buck still got away with all its parts in tack, but later that morning my son dropped his first doe. On the way home that afternoon, my ten-year-old son looked me right in the eyes and said, “I owe you one Dad.”

I wish he was here right now. I would redeem that promise. Maybe then my own hands would be still.

I closed my eyes and tried to get an image of my plan. I saw myself quietly scooting across the bed. Then I saw myself standing up. The floor was quiet as a church mouse. I stand still, like a statue for about two minutes. Just listening. No new sounds. I take one step closer to the little butler. I reach out and touch my phone. My hand is still shaking but I manage to pick it up. Just dial 9-1-1. Easy as pie.

The image blurs. It turns snow white. It reminds of the old RCA television we had when I was a child. Snow would fill the screen every time the rabbit ears lost their signal.

Slowly the image clears. It makes me dizzy; the constant changing. I see my hands pick up the cell phone. I see one crooked finger press the “9”. My hands start to shake again. They are shaking worse than ever. I drop the phone. It hits the floor. The sound fills the house. It fills my mind. I hear footsteps running down the hall. Then my door opens…

I open my eyes. I haven’t moved.

“Time for a new plan.”

Smart-Butler is a smart ass.

Thump. Gurgle. Mumble, mumble.

Only the mumbling isn’t all mumbled. I can hear someone say “Check over there.” Someone else, the girl, says “Okay.”

They are so close. I am so afraid. My bladder allows a trickle of piss to escape.

I begin to cry again. I am like a little baby. A little-bity scaredy-cat. Almost sixty-five years old, sitting on the edge of the bed that my wife and I shared before God took her home. The old undershirt I sleep in is soaked through with sweat. I don’t know what to do. I can feel the hot tears rolling down my wrinkled cheeks. I can taste their saltiness on my lips.

Silent crying. Thank God for silent crying.

“What are you going to do?” Silent-Butler whispers.

“I don’t know.”

My chest tightens. I realize I just spoke aloud. I broke the silence. My heart thumps, thumps, thumps in my chest. But I know it is not my heart I hear. It is them. They are running. All of them. Running down the hallway. Not running away. Running towards my bedroom. Thump, thump, thump. They are coming to get me.

“God help me!” I cry. I don’t care if they hear me. I want God to hear me!

The door knob turns.

For one moment, the world is silent. I stare at the door.

The door begins to open. I turn my gaze away. I am so afraid.

The door is open.

“Hey!” someone yells.

“Oh God! I am so afraid.”

#

“Dad! Wake up. Dad, are you okay?”

I hear my son’s voice calling me. They are in my room, my son, my daughter, and the Smart Butler. They are all looking at me.

“Daddy, you were screaming. You scared us. Did you have a bad dream?” My daughter sat on the edge of the bed, placing her soft hand on the side of my old cheek.

An old memory flooded over me—middle of the night—a bad dream—crying—I was sitting on the edge of my daughter’s bed, soothing her, placing my hand on the side of her small cheek.

I sit up, looking at them. “Yeah, I guess I did.” I clear the sleep from my throat.

“What was it?” May son asked, “Do you remember?”

“No.” I lied.

“The doctor told you that this new treatment would have possible side effects. Maybe nightmares are one of them.” She stood up.

The cancer. How did I forget that it had come back? A new chemo; won’t lose your hair this time. Too late, Doc. How could I have forgotten the cancer growing in my belly?

Because of the dream. Because of the people that were in my house. Because they were more frightening than the thought of death.

“You are leaving today?” I asked my children.

It was time for them to go back to their lives. One would fly east, the other west. The would fly away, they would leave my home—an empty nest. They would leave me alone.

Alone with my dreams.

But they’re not dreams. You know what they are!

It’s dark outside. I heard a sound.

Thump.

“What was that?” The little butler cries.

Someone’s in my house.

End

Sitting around the dinner table,

talking about our different lives.

Uncle Drake with his slow easy drawl,

Cousin Louise lauding her children,

and Aunt Abigail, over a hundred, mumbling something.

Conversations about work,

about farming,

about school;

then came family history.

Two revelations came about,

both surprising to my ears.

Grandparents were first cousins.

That explains this family's dysfunction.

The other had me thinking,

back to days I so wanted to forget.

But the story told made me realize,

I am not my father's son.

Mom fooled around.

 “It’s forbidden to go down that path.” Once more, the storyteller repeated what he had been telling the children for weeks; weeks that had simply made their eight-year-old minds ever more curious.

“Pleeeeaaaaaaaseeeeeeee,” the four of them begged, putting on their best puppy-dog faces.

Hesitation. That was what flickered across his face. Hesitation and an almost yearning to give in to their relentless pleading, once and for all. He knew the dangers, the risks that came along with going down the forbidden path. Or, rather, he had heard about them in stories. The same stories he was now telling. And yet…

“Alright…just this once.” He replied, pushing off the rocking chair.

Cheers erupted. Smiles gracing the kid’s faces as they excitedly hopped to their feet. Was there a bit of fear? Of course, but the excitement they felt far outweighed any fear they felt about the situation.

“Just stay close to me.” His gaze met those of each kid, making sure that each of them would take his words to heart. “The woods are pretty big and I don’t want anyone wandering off on their own, do I make myself clear?”

Each one nodded, but it was evident that they were far more focused on getting on their merry way. One of the boys took the lead, bolting towards the front door and out it before the rest of them. The other three were rather quick to follow with the storyteller taking up the rear, a hefty sigh finding its way through his lips. Regret washed over him briefly, but he did his best to quell it as he caught up with the children.

“You go first, if you’re so brave,” he heard one of the girls say to the boy who had run out ahead of everyone.

All of them had come to a halt at the beginning of the path that led into the woods. It was mid-afternoon, the time when the sun would’ve been highest in the sky, but today the clouds obscured it from view. Patches of blue sky could be seen in the distance, but it was evident that their main source of light would not be making an appearance in their area any time soon. Despite the lack of sun, it was still a relatively warm day. A bit of a breeze at times, but thankfully it wasn’t a cold one.

“Follow me.” The storyteller said, pushing through the line they had formed at the entrance. “Stay close. There’ll be no running off like that once we get in there, alright?”

There were murmurs of agreement from the children as they scurried after him, staying close to the older man’s side. Trees stretched along either side of the path they were on. Some were short. Some were tall. Some were green as an emerald and some were rather bare. Bushes stretched across both sides, some that had an assortment of berries and some simply covered with leaves.

But that wasn’t what most people paid attention to when walking this particular path.

The ‘Red Path’ was the nickname given to this particular path. Not because of the red flowers that grew along the sides of it or the red berries that grew on some of the bushes, but for the unusual shade of red that the path itself was. There was no explanation for it. No logical answer for why it was the shade it was. Sure, people had come up with all sorts of theories for it— hence the stories that had been passed down over generations—but there wasn’t an actual answer for it. And, perhaps, there never would be. Most people would simply avoid the ‘Red Path,’ unless they truly needed to go on it. Given how long it stretched on for into the woods, it was nearly impossible to not stumble across it at some point. It was practically inevitable.

In the event of coming upon it, those who heard the tales would find another way around. Those who hadn’t heard the stories…well, they were the reason there were so many stories about the path.

“What—what is that?” It was one of the girls who had spoken up in a frightened voice.

They had been walking for some time and the part they were on currently was one of the wider parts of the path. Bushes, much higher than the ones at the beginning of the path, stretched along either side.

Nature was silent. The trees were still. While eerie, that was not what caused the group to be so unnerved. It was the growls and the snapping of the twigs coming from the bushes on their right side that had triggered the uneasiness. The storyteller, especially, was on edge. He had told the children some of the tales over the years, but there were those he had always elected to not speak of.

With another snap of a twig, this time on the left side in the bushes, the storyteller had reached his breaking point.

Without warning, without uttering a single word, the storyteller turned on his heel and took off in the direction they had just come. He didn’t even bother looking back to see if the children had elected to follow him. He simply ran without a single thought in the world…except to get back to the cabin.

The children stared after him until he was no longer in their line of vision, fear rooting them to their spots. It wasn’t until the growls in the bushes seemed to somehow grow closer that they finally got their feet to move. They weren’t fast enough to catch up with the storyteller on the path. By the time they got back to the cabin, however, he was already there. On the stairs. His shirt was torn to shreds and blood was cascading down his body on to the steps beneath him. Giant claw marks were the best explanation for the wounds he sustained. Fear was etched across his features as his gaze stared at the woods they had all just come running out of.

Raising his hand, he pointed his index finger towards the trees and uttered one, single word just as the children’s parents arrived to pick them up and before succumbing to death, “Run.”