Crawlers

Crawlers, part 1

They come when the moon is full.

Not being an astronomy buff or anything, I don't usually pay much attention to the phases of the moon, so it's usually the dogs' barking that reminds me. Oh, yeah, I think. Must be a full moon.

And then I go to the window and sit. And watch. And wait.

I don't know who they are or what they want, but I don't think they would hurt me. They don't seem to be aware of me. They never look up, anyway. They keep their faces turned toward the ground. And they just... crawl. They creep around the yard, the patio, even up the sides of the fence and the wall of the neighbor's garage that forms one side of our back yard. They move like crabs or cockroaches, thin limbs scrambling around, tinted cool blue by the brilliant night light.

I think they're children, but I can't be sure. They look like children.

I don't know what they want, or who they are, or why they're here.

All I know is that they come when the moon is full, and they crawl.

And I watch them.

*

"Annica?"

The red numbers on the clock read 1:57 AM. One side of my face is being gently caressed by my mother's thin hand. The other is pressed against the pages of my AP Calculus book. The stiff seams of my jeans cut into my legs. The lamp is on, and my mouth is cottony.

"Sweetheart, get into your pajamas."

I push myself up and rub my eyes. "I haven't finished my homework."

Her expression is almost pleading. "You need your sleep. Just wake up a little early. You won't get anything done like this."

The dogs bark.

"Okay," I say, even though waking up "a little early" means hauling myself out of bed at five instead of five-thirty. "I had so much homework today."

"I think it's ridiculous, how much they assign now," Mom says. She's always quick to jump to my defense. Even when I'm wrong. "When I was in school... oh well."

"It's no big deal," I said. "I can skip lunch and work on my AP chem report in the library."

Mom sighs. The limp, gray-blonde ends of her hair brush across the shoulders of her old flannel robe. "I wish you didn't have to."

"It's not forever," I say, pulling a faded tee-shirt out of my dresser. "Anyway, I'm going to bed."

The dogs bark again — louder this time.

"What's wrong with them?" Mom asks.

"I don't know," I say. "Must be a full moon."

Her footsteps grow fainter, and then they're silenced by the soft closing of her bedroom door. She forgets that there's nobody here but us. That Dad is a hundred miles away, getting his second chance at being young and interesting. That Ben is at college. She could slam the doors and nobody would care. But it's not in her nature to slam doors.

The dogs crowd into the bathroom with me while I try to brush the fuzz out of my mouth. They whine and wiggle, casting worried glances at the window.

"Shh," I tell them. "It's fine. It's no big deal. We're safe in here."

Still, I find myself glancing at the high bathroom window, wondering how many of them are out there. What they're doing. Why.

But all I can see is the pale white circle of the moon against the black rectangle of sky.

In my bedroom, I set my alarm for five, shove my math book into my backpack, and force myself to get under the covers without checking out the window. The dogs huddle against my back, little hot doughnuts. They sigh and lick and then settle down and are silent.

I can't sleep.

I get out of bed and walk to the window.

The first whisper of movement is a pale flash of blue from the shed to the shrubs along the neighbor's wall. The second travels along the edge of the flowerbed and then up the fence. They do that — move in any direction as if it were nothing. It makes me think of lizards, who have suction cups on their feet. But these don't look like lizards.

I don't know what they look like. There's nothing to compare them to.

Except, no.

They look like babies.

Just not human babies, exactly.

They move around in patterns that I know to be normal — from here to there, from there to here, away over the fence and then back. One climbs halfway up the trunk of the crape myrtle tree, then changes its mind and goes back down. From time to time, they seem to brush against one another. Each time this happens, there's this sensation in the air — like the briefest hint of electricity, a strike of lightning too nearby. The hair on my arms stands up.

Then it passes.

I wonder, can they even see each other? Or am I the only one that can see any of them?

Maybe their own existence is just as much of a mystery to them as it is to me.

Finally, I go back to my bedroom and lie down. As I'm closing my eyes, a shadow passes over the window above my head. I can see it on the wall opposite me — thin, spindly limbs, a narrow body. A head that's too large to be anything but a child's head.

I sit up, but I don't turn around. I feel wide awake, and a little angry. This isn't part of the deal. They don't come here. I don't try to scare them away, and they stay down in the yard. Away from me. From my room.

I hold my breath, staring at the silhouette outlined on the wall. Its head tilts to one side, then the other. And then it scurries away.

I turn around. I close the curtains.

I get out of bed. I walk through the empty bedrooms, closing all the curtains.

I don't sleep.

* * * * * * * * 

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