The cat's claws dug deep into the carpet, his back arched as he stretched. The yawn that followed told Jonathan that it must have been getting late. The chorus of crickets singing the night's romances confirmed it. He set the pen down on his desk realizing that he had been doing nothing but staring at blank paper, unable to make ink flow into words. It had been years since he had written anything substantial and near a decade since he found writing comfortable. “Not a very exciting day I'm afraid,” he said to his cat and reached down to scratch behind his ears. Once a promising young author, Jonathan now found it impossible to formulate a creative original idea, let alone have the fortitude to compile a paragraph. Even the journal he had written in every day since childhood suffered for something new. There was the occasional trip into town or the bird or mouse that Watson would catch and hide in the house until the smell caught his attention, but that had been the extent of it. His life had become as stagnant and blank as the paper before him.
He pushed his chair from the desk and stood, grabbing the empty teacup. Watson, anticipating bedtime, ran out of the room and stood and stared at him, perplexed, as Jonathan went to the kitchen to put the teacup in the sink. He rinsed the remnants of Earl Grey and sugar as a cool breeze blew in the window, uncommon for the endless heat of summer. The day had been hot, near triple digits, and the electric fan he had in his living room did nothing but blow the stagnant air around the room. The summers seemed to be getting increasingly hotter and more humid, the winters blanketed with more snow and bone-breaking cold. Spring and fall seemed nonexistent. The seasons were becoming harsher here in his little corner of the world. As he turned off the faucet, a slight sound of shuffling and the growing sound of a cat hiss caught his attention from down the hall. It was not particularly rare to find a rodent or other animal trapped in the house, especially during the summer months. The woods around him were teeming with creatures, but the anger in Watson's hiss prompted him to grab the broom he had sitting in the corner of the kitchen.
It was not a long hallway. Eight feet and to the left sat his den. Another eight and to the right sat the bedroom. His first three steps were with purpose, the floorboards creaking under the pressure as he put half the distance of the hallway behind him. When the lights went out mid-step of the fourth, Jonathan froze. His hands gripped the wooden handle of the broom so tightly he could feel the grain. Blinded by darkness, unable to move, he stretched his other senses to their limit. The ticktock of his grandfather clock just a few feet in the den behind him, its pendulum swinging, beating every second, sounded nothing less than a drum to his now honed ears. Another breeze swept across his back, kissing his nape, racing to beat him to his destination. This was a strange wind. As it blew past him it was accompanied by sound. It was as if something was sliding across the floor. Not dull and heavy, more of a glide. Like a knife had cut through the air. As it reached the doorway to the bedroom the sound diminished and was replaced by Watson, a quick hiss, and then something different. Something that spoke to pain. Suppressing his fears, he raised the broom and raced the final steps down the hallway and through the darkness. As he burst into the bedroom his eyes met moonlight. Slivers of pale crept in through cracks in the curtains. Still gripping the broom tightly in his right hand, he reached with his left, wildly searching for his lamp. In his haste, he nearly knocked it off the dresser. He found the switch, turned twice, and flooded the bedroom with a golden light.