The sky outside is the black of deep night, mottled with
stars as only a country sky can be. A
single cone of moonlight falls across the living room floor.
The house is quiet.
It’s my parent’s house; my childhood home. I move down the hallway from the living room
and into the bedroom I had as a child. I
pick up a box of old clothes and belongings that my mother has saved for me and
begin to sort through them in the dark. We
are having a yard sale the next day, and I promised I would help prepare. Down the hallway, I know my mother is awake
and going through her closet as well. We
are the only two at home.
Knock, knock,
knock. I pause from my work and look
up. Suddenly the peacefulness of the
still country evening is broken. I am
scared. I peek out of the bedroom door
and down the hallway at the clock. It’s
10:30 at night. Who could be knocking on the front door at this hour?
I whisper quietly to my mother. “Who is that?”
I don’t hear anything immediately. I wait. “Just ignore it,” she answers after a long
pause. Her voice drifts down the hallway
from her own dark room, and in those three words I can hear all of the tension
and the fear that she is trying to keep from me.
I turn to go back to my work of sorting by moonlight when I
hear it again, softer this time. Knock, knock.
I am not sure how much time passes at this point. I hear the knocking start up again and I
cannot ignore it any longer.
Knock, knock, knock,
knock. The knocking is curt, but
insistent. My curiosity gets the better
of me and I begin to walk slowly down the hall, back toward the living room and
the entryway. Maybe it is one of the
neighbors, maybe it’s an emergency…I try to rationalize. My limbs are stiff with fear, and I walk mechanically,
closer to the door with each agonizingly slow step.
Knock. Step. Knock. Step.
The grey-blue tile of the entryway is flooded by the motion
light on the front porch; the light is more yellow and harsh than the graceful
moonlight that preceded it. There is a decorative
window to the right of the door, and I can make out a small, dark figure
through the mosaic glass as I draw closer.
The pattern in the glass obscures the figure behind it, and I cannot
tell who it is.
I move slowly around the corner of the entryway into the
dining area, where another window facing the porch gives me a clearer
view. A small child, a boy, is standing in front of
the door. He is wearing a blue polo
shirt and tan cargo pants, and he could not be more than six years old. His mousy brown hair is tousled and his face
is smudged with dirt.
He sees me at the same time that I see him. And he is angry.
His brows furrow, acquiring the look of a child about to
have a tantrum. He points back to the
door expectantly, waiting for me to open it.
And I do. I open the
door slowly, just a crack, propping it open with my foot. “Are you OK, little boy? What are you doing here by yourself?”
His manner changes immediately. He is still angry, but his voice takes on a
defensive tone as well. “Why are you
talking to me? “ He takes a step back,
cringing visibly.
“Stay away from me!” He yells, tears starting in his eyes.
I open the door wider, thoroughly confused. Now I am getting upset. “What?
You knocked on MY door! …What do you want?” I ask, trying to remember
that I am talking to a child. But I
cannot keep the frustration from my voice.
The boy’s demeanor changes again as soon as he hears my
frustration. He steps closer to the door
again, and his face splits in a wicked, gleeful grin as he looks down at his
shoes like a child who is caught doing mischief.
Suddenly, I know who he is.
WHAT he is. I remember the
stories I have heard of black-eyed children—of sinister beings posing as
children, who steal the souls of anyone who would let them inside. I begin to panic as hot fear spreads inside
my abdomen. He can’t come in unless I invite him.
Just close the door! I tell myself.
As if in answer to my thoughts, the boy looks up from the
ground, still grinning. His eyes are
black as pitch, gleaming like marbles.
There is no white, no colored iris.
Only hopeless, fathomless black.
I try to scream, try to close the door. But he rushes forward at the same moment, and
I begin to fall backward into the house as he—it—collides with me.
End.
