Trickeries of the Night

The scratching against the window, the sound of sharp clawed fingers scraping against the glass. Scritch. Scratch. 

I fear looking toward the window to settle my suspicions.

With each scritch scratch I hear, temptation and curiosity give in and I look.

The long-ragged shadow of a long arm with bony fingers waving outside my window.

It is only the shadows of tree branches, I convince myself.

The glimpse of a shadow passing by, its presence so fleeting, I wonder my sanity. If what I saw was real. 

I freeze in fright. Not tree branches! 

That shrilling, howling voice I hear in the distance. A sound that chills me to my core. 

Just the wind? Or the sound of a phantom crying out in distress, their cries going on for centuries, for a closure they'll never find. 

I'm afraid to look, to listen. Is it only the shadows of the familiar? The trickery of the night? Or is there really something out there?