Don't turn around

It’s been two hours. The tapping and scratching against my window would not stop. Stupid raccoons, I reasoned with myself, yet I still could not bear to look behind me.Don’t turn around
I glanced over at my clock. It’s 3 fucking am. Please let me sleep. Yet the tapping continued, and I imagined horrible scenarios to determine what it could be. Disembodied hands clawing at my window to reach the trembling cowardly flesh inside… a psychotic monster with bone stumps for hands tapping at the glass with twisted enjoyment. Or both. Or none. Maybe it’s a homeless person in need of help? No, they would say something instead of continuing on with this incessant tapping. God, this is so unbearable.Don’t turn around
I buried my head in my pillow to ignore it. But a new sound came. The sound of something dragging across the window pane, like windshield wipers in a car, or… “A h-hand...” I whispered to myself, shuddering at the thought.
( I do not own)