The Witching Hour

A tremendous squall woke me that night, a gust of wind so strong that it pummeled the oak trees outside the house, causing the branches to scrape with incessant clamor against my bedroom window. A hazy glimpse at the clock told me that it was three o'clock in the morning, mere hours past the time I had stumbled upstairs and plunged into the pleasant comfort of sleep.

No matter what I did, I could not seem to drift back into the tranquil slumber I'd just departed, back into the ambiance of dreams. A torrid thirst had taken over my mouth and throat, and I craved the relief of a glass of cold water.

I flung aside the heavy covers, damp with perspiration. Loose tendrils of hair adhered to my forehead and the back of my neck. I sat up and let my feet touch the cool floor, rubbed my tired eyes, and arose from the bed with drowsy reluctance.

It was then, when I ventured into the hallway, that I heard the tapping. Faint as it was, the tapping was clearly discernable over the turbulent gales outside, and over the hammering of my heartbeat. The first place I checked was the closet at the end of the hallway.

On hot days, when the house would relax, the closet door would sometimes open without a sound, startling me as I reached the top of the stairs to see the barren closet gaping at me like a mouth, open and ready to consume. On days that were much colder, when the house expanded and grew stiff, the door would remain closed, nearly impossible to open. Through the space at the bottom of the closet door came a constant icy draft, no matter what the temperature outside.

I had, upon moving into the old house, wanted to nail the closet shut to keep it from opening on its own and frightening me into madness. But the prospect of extra storage space was too good to pass up. It didn't matter that I had yet to store anything inside.

Tap, tap, tap. The night was cold, and the closet door stubborn, but I finally wrenched it open and peered inside to see what I always saw; nothing but a small, empty space of unfinished wood. As I gazed into the dark closet, I heard the sound again, this time coming from behind me, down the hall near the bathroom. I shut the closet, firmly pressing against it with my whole body until I heard the latch click.

I reached the bathroom and switched on the light. Tap, tap, tap. I thought perhaps the faucet was dripping, but that was not it. I thought there might be a rogue branch of a tree drumming against the window, but there was not. I looked inside the back of the toilet, listened down the laundry chute, and even peered into the bathtub drain, but I found nothing peculiar.

Frustrated, I spun and stood just outside the bathroom door to listen. Tap, tap, tap. Again, the sound came from the hallway closet, and this time I was certain. I crept toward the closet, soundless and stealthy like a mouse. I was mere feet from the closet door when I heard it again, much louder this time; a knock instead of a tap. Knock, knock, knock.

My thoughts went back to the previous house I'd lived in, to the family of squirrels that had snuck in through a crack in the foundation and made a cozy home for themselves in my basement. It was because of them that I'd moved here.

Knock, knock, knock. I took another soft step forward. Of course, that was it. Another squirrel had gotten into my house and was making a home somewhere within the walls of the closet. I took another step and stopped short when I heard the quiet click of the latch, and the closet door eased open with a painfully slow creak. I stared into the darkness before me, terror-stricken and suddenly freezing, my body rigid with fear in the deafening silence of the hallway.

When the sound came again, it rattled my bones in a rapturous cacophony, a pounding strike against something hollow. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. The house itself shuddered at the din and I found that my feet would not propel me from where I stood, no matter how I urged my body to run. I was fixed halfway between the top of the staircase and the open doorway.

A pale face appeared in the shadows of the closet, a stain of white paint on a black canvas, and I felt the scream rise in my throat. I opened my mouth, but no sound would come. The face grew clearer and I could see endless tunnels of darkness where the eyes should have been. Again, I opened my mouth and took a breath, closed my eyes, and tried to scream.

Then, I woke. A savage wind whistled through the trees outside. I was still in bed, covered in sweat, my heart racing. I threw off the hot covers and sat up, rubbed my eyes, and felt the cold floor beneath my feet. I let out a mighty sigh and squinted down at the clock.

Three o'clock in the morning.

Tap, tap, tap.