At the first thump, I finger the handle of the Glock
19 under my pillow. A girl living alone in New York must
be
careful, even in the Upper East Side. My fingers are
clumsy
and moist as I slide the safety off, the cold metal heavy
in my hand.
I sit up slowly, listening hard, my body tense. An
eerie sensation batters my senses, like a sixth sense
awakening, blooming, and soaking through my bones. As the
distinctive reaction intensifies, the pulsing beat of
urgency clears my head, pouring strength into my taut
muscles. I try to swallow, but the lump of dread in my
throat won't let me.
This isn't the first time I've felt such a
sensation,
but right now it's off the charts. My weird intuition
often
shows up right before I bump into an old friend, hear a
knock on my door or a phone ringing, or worse, when I'm
about to find myself knee–deep in shit. My own
personal warning device.
The thumping noise is replaced by a scratching on the
other side of my apartment, sounding like fingernails
grating down a chalkboard.
I fumble to switch on the bedside lamp, and soft white
light illuminates the room. Staggering to my feet, I stare
at the closed bedroom door.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Hunching my shoulders, I take a tentative step toward
the door. The hardwood floor is icy, and gooseflesh rises
stiff and fast on my arms. A board groans sharply under my
weight. So much for being quiet.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The blinds are open, making me feel vulnerable, naked.
Beyond the street lamps, lights blaze from towering
skyscrapers and a sharp wind bends the trees. Even the
brownstone is chattering, grunting and whining against the
biting winds of approaching winter.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The hiss of chilling menace teases my spine as I force
myself to move. I pop the clip out of the gun and check
it.
Still loaded. I muster up some courage. Whoever's out
there
is messin' with the wrong chick. I swallow hard and ease
forward, my bare feet shuffling closer to the door. I
press
my ear to the wood, motionless, listening.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Then a new sound—this time closer. Something's at
the window. Tapping. Pinging. The fluttering of wings. The
noise jangles my senses. Illuminated by a full moon,
dozens
of huge, furry black moths dive–bomb the glass, as if
they're on a kamikaze mission.
Moths in New York in October? Super weird.
Goose bumps travel up and down my arms. My legs weaken.
A draft moves through the room, but not a cold one
from
outside. It resembles sticky breath laden with foul odors,
close and oppressive. That weird psychic sensation hits
hard again, and suddenly it feels like I've shut myself
in
a dark closet with a hundred vipers.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I freeze in place; the big muscles in my thighs wobble
as though I just ran a marathon. The little hairs on my
neck prickle as I wait for the noise to repeat, my body
alive and alert to every sound.
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