Drip. Drip. Drip. Probably the kitchen sink. You walk downstairs to turn of the faucet, but that isn't the source of the noise. Drip. Drip. Drip. This time it's louder. A flash of light from outside, makes the furniture cast eerie shadows on your walls. Why did you tell your friend you would be fine home alone for a few nights? Drip. Drip. Drip. Maybe it's upstairs, you think. You turn on your heels to face the staircase and the floor creaks. It's too loud, too long, and you jump. Is someone there? You tell yourself to stop being such a baby, but suddenly you are aware of every sound the house makes. Drip Drip. Drip. You can feel fear making it's way through you. Before you can think, you sprint upstairs, and slam the door to your room. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound won't stop. It gets louder, and louder. You put on headphones and hug your knees to your chest, feeling safe under the covers of your canopy bed. But the louder you turn your music up, the louder the dripping gets, until it feels like your head could explode. Suddenly, you feel something wet on your arm. Before you can react, the wet feeling spreads over your body. It clogs your throat. You begin to choke. Looking down at your arms you see nothing. You claw at your throat and beg your lungs to work, but nothing. There is simply no air. As your vision clouds, you look at your arms for the source of wetness: nothing. There is nothing there. You begin to shake. Your muscles seize, but still there is no air. Your heartbeat sounds in your ears, but the rhythm sounds off. Kind of familiar... like Drip. Drip. Drip.

He’s just a little boy. What does he know? Six years old. Scared of the dark like the classic child. He’s been watching too many horror movies. He wears glasses, too. He’s probably just seeing things. He comes to your room every night, calmly explaining his fears and emotionlessly describing the monstrosities that creep from his closet, the crooked voices that cackle in his ear, and the ghastly ghouls that haunt his hamper. Usually, you’d only laugh and tell him to go back to bed, but, something is different about tonight. You see his lip quiver and a tear struggling to stay within his eyelid. This time, you let him climb into bed with you because you know he’s been traumatized. An abused autistic child. Why on earth did you accept the responsibility to take custody of him? It's because you’re soft, that's why. You had no idea what you were getting into, though, because these first two weeks have felt like forever. As he slips under the covers, he closes his eyes, but his face doesn’t change. You can’t help but stare as you try to imagine his horrible past. He needs love. He needs care. He’s imagining too much. As you attempt to push your worries aside and go to sleep, you hear a rapping from within your closet door.