"Who knows the thoughts of a child?"
-NORA PERRY-
"Summer afternoon, Summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald-
"People can die of mere imagination."
-Simone Weil-
Prelude to a nightmare
A child stands alone in a dark room staring out a window at the moon rising up behind a dark webbing of trees like a huge pale coin looming in the star filled skies and for the first time of many in his life he notices the bright sparkling purple eyes staring back at him from the cold shadows.
He shivers but doesn't move, barely breathing, not making a sound at all. The eyes are far away in the trees but still too big for an owl, too big even for a cat that got too curious in its night travels and strayed up in branches in search of prey. Too big even for a man.
Behind him, past his closed door and down the long hall to the dimly lit kitchen, he can still hear his mother sobbing softly. His Uncle Sonny is in there somewhere, a tall, lean man with wavy hair and sharp laughter, but he's not laughing now. His Aunt Ruth is here too. Short and hefty of frame with bright curly hair, horn-rimmed glasses and smelling of Aqua Net, mothballs and cigarette smoke. He can hear her soft voice whispering comfort and scripture.
The eyes are still there, he hasn't taken his own smaller ones away, he finds he cannot, and then they blink and the boy gasps, holding his breath after and finding it hard to return the blink, as he watches something move. A huge shape of darkness rises up, shaggy and broad shoulders, hunches over again, and then drops from the trees like some great jungle ape with arms spread wide as it falls to the ground taking limbs and leaves with it as it goes.
He would have thought it was just his imagination despite what he saw but the booming echo that follows from the shadowy figure crashing down to earth rattles the window before him and causes his model bi-plane dangling over his bed to spin in circles. He is not the only one who notices.
"What the hell was that?" he hears his uncle. Footsteps fade towards the back of the house and the door clicks open. His uncle wants to take a look out back where the woods border the edge of his yard and see what's going on. In his mind he wants to scream and warn him not to open the door. Something too big is out there. Something that should not live in Autumn Hills, a small town in Missouri that should have no such creature lurking about in the backyards of small boys, but his voice catches in his throat and he finds himself drawn to the darkness on the other side of the glass as he moves closer for a better look.
The backyard is motionless. A still picture of night. The porch light clicks on to add favor with the moon and the boy sees his bike on its side, something he usually gets yelled at over, and the hanging swings near the back of the yard. The dry birdbath, the horseshoe pit with his father's last ringer still tucked neatly in place, the tool shed with the crappy roof and the white picket fence with purple flowers running along its base. Past that was the great darkness of the woods and whatever lived there.
The porch light winked out again, his uncle's curiosity obviously settled, and the door shut. He heard his uncle reason that perhaps it was just a train up the hill passing by or some dead oak fell out there in the woods somewhere but the two ladies gave no reply. Just sobs and prayers so he suggested making some more coffee.
The boy was ready to back away and lower his window shade when he saw movement again. This time it was much smaller. A flash of white skin, darkness again, then a small boy, much about his own age came darting out of the darkness to the narrow clearing that ran behind his house. What they all grew to call the back lot. It was about thirty feet or so of short dead grass that laid between their back fences and the growth of the woods. The boy came out half way and immediately caught eyes with the boy in the window. Then he smiled and waved.
