by Hamill, Ike
I’m aware of my cellphone tumbling from between my fingers and then disappearing below.
My rigid body is balanced on top of the railing as a head pushes the trapdoor out of the way and the second hand emerges from below. It’s in the shape of a human, but I hesitate to describe it as a person. It’s staying close to the ground, moving almost like a spider as it pulls its way through the hatch.
I’m swaying slightly. Even with no conscious control of my muscles, my body wants to stay upright, but the railing isn’t cooperating. It has picked up a sway beneath my feet as my legs adjust to compensate.
The figure slips its last foot through the hatch and the door falls shut behind it. Now, it’s rising up on its legs. The hands are reaching for me. My eyes are still locked onto its eyes. They pulse and glow. They’re violet with veins of lighter purple through each iris.
When the lips part, I see that the teeth must be glowing too.
My foot slips, and I fall.
(The fall is a blessing.)
The fall is a blessing.
Sense returns to me as soon as the fall breaks my eye contact. I hit the shingles and roll. The whole front part of the house is clad in a metal roof. The barn and the shed are all shingles. It’s a good thing, too—I think that a slippery metal roof would have ushered me quickly towards the ground.
Instead, I scrape a patch of skin from my arm, roll over and skid to a halt a dozen feet below the deck. I can hear it up there, moving around on the planks. It makes a hissing sound. When I glance in that direction, I see its hand extend over the side of the deck and I look away quickly before its eyes can capture me again.
In my mind, I construct a quick map of my surroundings. This side of the barn roof ends with a severe drop-off. On the other side, I might survive the fall from the edge of the roof. On this side, I’m not so sure. We had to replace the cedar shingles one time and I remember using Uncle Walt’s longest ladder to do the top row, and securing the feet of the ladder on loose rocks below.
The good news is the shed. On my left, the barn attaches to the shed and that roof is probably only a five foot drop. It could be more. I try not to think about it too hard as I inch my way to the left. The pitch of the roof is steep. I have to keep most of my body in contact with the shingles or else I start to slide. I don’t have a sense of how far down the roof I’ve already slid. Frankly, I don’t want to know.
It’s a simple process.
I reach out with my left hand and press my palm to the shingles. The day’s heat is still radiating from the gray surface. Tiny pebbles roll away from my hand as I pretend that I have a grip. Lifting myself slightly, I try to slide my hips to the left without losing any height. I manage to arrest my fall after only slipping a couple of inches. Then, I slide my left foot over.
Meanwhile, I’m calculating. If I slip two inches for every inch of leftward progress, will I make it? Or will my foot soon slip over the edge, over open air. Once that happens, it’s all over. Losing one toe of grip is going to doom me to a quick fall.
Uncle Walt would be horrified by all this. He and I installed some of these very shingles. Well, technically he installed them. I just cut the custom sizes he needed and handed them to him from the ladder. We built up the rows on the left side and then worked our way to the right, trying desperately to never put a foot down on a shingle once it was laid. According to him, every footstep took a month off of a shingle’s life.
I manage to move three inches with my next effort.
I refuse to look up.
Yes, I hear that sound.
It’s moving quite deliberately. I hear what must be fingernails or claws, gripping into the shingles as it climbs. The peak is the only safe place to traverse the roof. Up there, one can straddle both sides and make fast progress. That’s where it must be headed.
I lay my face against the shingles as I attempt my next micro-shift to the left. Every tiny bit helps, I suppose.
In the past few years, I’ve been trying to learn to control my impulses. Patience was never my strongest quality. Putting together a jigsaw puzzle, I would find a piece that I was sure should fit. When it didn’t, I would gather my fist and pound. That technique almost never leads to success.
I blame Fonzie.
There was this syndicated TV show when I was a kid. It was called Happy Days. The strongest, coolest character had the ability to punch his way to success. If he wanted the lights on, he would punch the wall. If he wanted to listen to music, punch the jukebox. With role models like that, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I equate success with rash decisions.
I would like to make one now.
Creeping to the left is only prolonging my agony. I could simply slide down the roof, drop to the ground below, and hope for the best. What’s the worst that could happen?
This is the kind of thinking that I’m trying to move away from.
(It seems like the sun should have come up.)
It seems like the sun should have come up.
I feel like I’ve been creeping for hours and hours. Up at the peak of the roof, I can hear it tapping the shingles as it tracks my progress. I’m wondering if it’s some kind of echolocation. Maybe it taps and knocks so it can hear the sound reflected off of me. I’m making a racket though—scraping my way across the shingles, trying not to slip. If it tracks by sound, I’m painting a picture with each inch that I move.
The tapping is unnerving, but at least I know where it is. I’m afraid to look.
I keep thinking about Mr. Engel. The heat is a perfect explanation for why he had collapsed on his kitchen floor and then later died. But what did Amber say? I believe it was something like aplastic anemia or a vitamin deficiency. Which was it? Did he fail to eat his vegetables, or was his blood thinned artificially?
Obviously, I can’t help but focus on the sinister option. Whatever was down in his freezer—he deemed it a vampire—brought him to the brink of death. The heat simply pushed him over the edge. That’s not exactly right though, is it? He didn’t say that there was a vampire down in his cellar. He said vampires. Plural. That simple S on the end of the word is what I keep coming back to. I only saw one pair of eyes looking back at me when I opened the freezer and I was instantly entranced. What if there were other sets in there? The figure that I saw slip through the trapdoor of the barn’s deck didn’t look big enough to fill a freezer, that’s for sure. At most, it was the slim shape of a young woman. How many more were in there?
My left hand finds a spot where the shingles are at a lower temperature. Going for broke, I reach farther and my hand finds the edge of the roof. I grip it tight. It’s the first solid hold that I’ve had on anything since I tumbled from the railing. I exhale in relief.
The tapping stops.
I steal a glance upwards and I see a black silhouette start to maneuver away from the edge of the roof. It’s returning to the right, back towards the deck. Am I being manipulated?
I look back down to the roof before the head can turn and it can catch me in its glare again.
I test my grip on the edge, pulling so I can climb up. The barn sticks out from the shed by, what, ten feet? How far do I have to ascend before I can swing over the edge and drop to the shed roof? I can’t believe that I’m seriously considering that option. The shed roof isn’t steep, but it’s still going to be difficult to catch myself before I tumble. People fracture their skulls just falling out of a chair. How am I going to survive if I roll off the shed?
With my next pull, I slide a little more left. I manage to wedge the toe of my shoe on the edge of a shingle. With all apologies to Uncle Walt, I dig my foot in as I lean left. It takes a second before I can pick out the edge of the shed roof in the darkness. I’m higher than I expected.
The steeper angle of the barn roof means that I could close the distance if I slid back down towards the edge. That would also shrink my landing zone. I’ll take my chances where I am.
I slide farther left, until my chest is halfway over.
>
I risk one more glance upward. I don’t see it. While I’ve been repositioning myself, it has moved off of the peak. It might have gone back to the deck, or even back down through the hatch.
How smart is it? Did it coerce me into taking this path so I’ll drop into its waiting arms below? Now that it’s gone, perhaps I should consider climbing up to the peak.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. Once I’m up at the top, getting away will be a slow process. I would rather get down to a flat surface again.
I swing my leg over.
The lip of the roof is cutting into me in unpleasant ways. I rotate my hips over and commit more of myself to the idea of dropping. Once the bulk of my body is over, there’s no turning back. I’m going to slide down or over. They’re both horrible ideas, but I’ve worked so hard for this. I have to take the plunge.
My hands claw at the shingles as I try to slow my inevitable fall. The shingles cut deeper into the scrape on my arm and then I’m falling again. I try to twist in the air.
In the darkness, I’m so disoriented that I have no idea what is happening. My foot hits something and I try to absorb the impact with my leg. Then, something crashes into my head or rather my head crashes into something. It must be the wall of the barn, but I don’t know how I got spun around. My hand comes down weird and my wrist is bent backwards before I flip over and tumble. Then I’m falling again.
The scrape of the shingles is familiar.
I go over the edge head first. Dragging the toe of my left foot, helps me slow down and spin. When I hit the ground below, I land on my right shoulder. Something pops in my arm and I roll away from the pain. The dirt is softer than I imagined.
I blink up at the stars and I have one blessed second where I’m thrilled that I survived at all. Anything beyond this point is pure gravy. My next breath dulls my enthusiasm. A shooting pain stifles my inhalation. It feels like a knife has been shoved between my ribs.
That’s when I think about Mr. Engel again. I remember the panic in his eyes as he lay on his kitchen floor. He knew that death was coming and he was not at peace with the idea. I shouldn’t be either. I have to get up. I have to find safety.
Whatever was up on top of the barn tapping on the roof, it’s not alone.
I push myself up with my left hand, protecting my right arm instinctively. It takes me a second to catch my breath. Every time I try to take in air, my muscles tense up, anticipating the pain. It stabs me again and again.
Pushing up to my knees, my chest hurts a little less. My head is ringing.
I stumble to my feet and catch myself by leaning against the shed. From here, It’s about the same distance around the house as around the barn. There are no doors on this side of the house. I think that the terrain is easier around the house so I start to move that direction. If I had a key for the front door, that would be the quickest path. I don’t. As far as I know, there never has been a key for that door. I’ll have to go all the way around to the side door.
I’m still leaning against the wall when I reach the transition between the shed and the house.
Assessment
(It's time to reassess.)
It’s time to reassess.
I don’t know much of anything about navigating a big city. I have tons of ideas, but very little real world experience. This isn’t a non sequitur, I swear.
There are predators in any city—people who would like to take your money, possessions, or worse—but a lot of us are never going to run into them. Staying safe is a matter of both attitude and luck. We can move around on streets that are already well populated, and stay out of dark alleys, of course. Also, we can mind our own business and walk with unwavering purpose so we don’t get distracted by attempts to draw our attention. There’s also the matter of fear. I think that someone who is obviously anxious and wary might be a ripe target. They project their weakness and draw the predators to themselves.
So, by staying with the pack and maintaining the right mindset, we can reduce the odds that we’ll be preyed upon.
But what happens if we’re approached?
What do we do if someone steps in our path and initiates a conversation?
If you escalated immediately to panic, could you avoid conflict? If someone makes eye contact, should you turn and bolt? It would be an inconvenient strategy. But I wonder—aren’t victims most likely the ones who trade their safety for convenience? You cut across the park because it’s the shortest way home and you walk right into a mugging.
I’m not going to make the mistake of underestimating the danger here.
I need to make rational decisions. I’m not going to let myself panic.
But I’m not going to just lie down on the kitchen floor like Mr. Engel.
My arm is scraped, my right shoulder feels like it’s stiffening up, and my head hurts. My legs work just fine. When I have to fight, I’ll do best to stick to my left arm. I can’t look in its eyes—I have to remember that. They were too mesmerizing.
Something is moving around inside the house—I see a shadow move through the light spilling from the window and hear a tapping. I don’t know how it got inside. I shouldn’t be surprised. It found a way into the barn.
That leaves me with one option—the truck. I take out my keys and study them with my fingers until I find the one with the square top. That’s the ignition key for the truck. The doors are unlocked. All I have to do is get around the house, jump inside the truck, and get the doors locked.
I duck below the light from the window and make my way along the side of the house.
It would be stupid to assume that there’s only one of them. One might be exploring inside while another patrols the front.
I pause at the corner and angle my head around the side.
The bushes are blocking my view of the front porch. Uncle Walt used to cut them way back every spring. I think he missed the last few. They throw reaching shadows out into the yard.
I wait, looking for any movement.
The tapping coming from inside the house is back.
Was I right before? Is it some kind of echolocation? The eyes are captivating, but maybe they’re just for show. Maybe it navigates only through sound. If that’s true, its hearing could be really acute. I can’t afford to make any noise.
Instead of dashing around the bush and sticking close to the house, I slip away at a diagonal until I’m beyond the pool of light from the windows. My feet brush through the tall grass at the edge of where I mow.
There’s a shape crouching on the porch, under the bird feeder again. I look down and freeze, watching the shape in my peripheral vision. It looks like the head has snapped up. I hold my breath. I think it’s sniffing the air, or maybe just turning its head, trying to listen for me.
I sneak a glance, immediately regretting it.
Even at this distance, I catch sight of the eyes. This one is different—the eyes seem to glow a little green. Squeezing my eyes shut, I manage to turn my head away.
I hear light tapping in the air. It sounds like a hard fingernail thumping against stone. To make sure they don’t jingle, I’m gripping the keys so hard that they’re digging into my palm. I can’t get caught here, frozen by fear.
When I start moving again, the tapping stops.
My eyes are locked on the bush as I step, foot over foot along the edge of the tall grass. It’s turning its head again, listening or sniffing.
The bush is just about to obscure my view of it, and then I’ll reach the corner of the house. From there, it would be a quick sprint to the truck. If I lose sight of it, I won’t know if it’s staying on the porch. I won’t know if I should continue to creep or just sprint.
This is that situation—I’m the rube in the city. If I assume that it’s not creeping behind the bush, and along the side of the house, then I won’t know until it springs out from behind the corner of the house. I have to assume the worst.
With no more delay, I sprint.
(I can't run fast
enough.)
I can’t run fast enough.
My legs are pumping beneath me, but the speed won’t come. It’s like I’m moving through molasses, or trying to run up a sand dune. A shadow shifts on my left and I whip my head to see that it’s my own shadow. That was a stupid mistake. If I had seen more of those mesmerizing eyes, I would be caught. In slow motion, I turn my eyes back towards my goal. The truck looks like it’s getting farther away with each sprinting stride.
The keys jangle and sing. I’m gripping only the ignition key. My shoulder throbs each time I pump that arm in time with my legs.
I reach out and put on the brakes too late. After crashing into the passenger’s door, I claw it open and dive inside. My first attempt closes the door on my own shoe. I contract my leg and slam it home. With my elbow, I drive down the near lock. The keys go flying as I reach for the other one.
With both doors locked, I pull myself over the bench seat and slide the rear window closed so I can latch it.
Something has moved in front of the truck.
I submerge my head below the dashboard and reach around.
The keys have disappeared. The cab of the truck isn’t that big. They have to be here somewhere.
I hold my breath when I hear something bump into the body of the truck.
I can’t look up.
It’s almost painful, but I squeeze my eyes shut while my hand searches for the keys. My heartbeat echoes in my chest. My fingers map the terrain of the truck’s floor mat.
