DIVINATIONS 
MAGAZINE

Stay safe.

The sign above the hearth says only two words tonight, etched carefully into the brass by some invisible, delicate hand. I often wonder who changes it each evening, who decides what it says, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I eye the deep red sunset as it begins its terrible descent through my window, watching it as I close the shutters and pull the drapes. A door sits close to the right of the window; I turn the key in the lock, then slide the bar across. The chain jingles into place, the deadbolt sliding with a heavy thud. I test each lock, and then the door with a brisk shake—I nod appreciatively when it remains sturdy.

There are two doors and eight windows in my little house. It can take a long time to lock them all properly, but I need to stay safe. By the time I finish, the sun has almost disappeared beneath the rooftops of the other little houses surrounding me. No matter though—I’m not afraid yet. There is still light. I am still safe.

I settle into bed. It’s warm tonight—the quiet sort of warmth that makes the world still. It’s enough to drift off into gentle dreams until the night begins.

Thump.

My eyes fly open. My house is only little—I cannot afford more than the shutters and the drapes to cover the window—so I see the scrabbling shadowed limbs as they squeal like laboured breaths against the glass, intermittently blocking the light. This one passes quickly. In the ensuing silence punctuated by my own pattering heart, I try to fall asleep. But once the night has truly begun, such a thing is nigh on impossible.

Only a few shadows visit me tonight. They scrape against the window pane of my bedroom, arms with too many elbows. They breathe like something gasping for breath. And through it all: the incessant scratching of fingernails digging at the bricks and mortar.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

*

The morning is cool but growing hotter by the second. I throw open my window and smile at the sun, stretching my arms up and ignoring the deep scratches beneath the sill. I work my way around the house; unshuttering the windows, unbarring the door. Others left them barred all the time, but it seemed worth the risk to let some light in. I welcome the day with a walk, feet crunching against gravel. A breeze tickles my skin and my eyes close for a blissful moment; my heart finally slows.

I pause as I round the corner of my street. Blue flashing lights. In the distance, I see a house—even smaller than my own, wreathed in shadow. A window hangs open like a gaping wound. I shake my head and continue to walk. Careless, silly people…some are simply beyond help.

When I return, my eyes are drawn to the sign above the hearth. It’s changed.

Stay away.

The sun is still high, but I bar the door behind me that day.

*

It’s getting worse. The night is louder than usual. It has me tossing and turning—there are more tonight; it sounds as if the creatures are choking on their own bile on the other side of the window and doors, the sickening howl of breath ripping through failing lungs, the vicious death rattle of dying gasps. Throughout it all the scratching, the furious scrabbles of breaking nails against the glass and brick continue.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I can’t remember the last time I slept.

I hear an unfamiliar sound that night in bed. An odd, little creak. It’s different to the other sounds, higher and sweeter… but so alien to the sound of shadows that it makes my hair stand on end. It’s a noise I’ve heard before, but not in the dark—it’s something I should never hear in the dark.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

The window!

The window in the bathroom creaks when I leave it open to air out the day. I leap from my bed and crash into the wall, stumbling over the carpet. My cheek catches the door handle when I slip to the ground but I push myself up quickly, staggering into the bathroom. I stare in horror at the window, swaying ever-so-slightly in the breeze, in the dark.

I yell and leap forward, pulling it shut with a slam that shakes the rest of the house. I lock it with trembling fingers.

Did I forget? The routine was so engrained now, repeated every night since the shadows first arrived—carelessness kills, they said. Why – how – could I forget?

I catch my breath. With gritted teeth and splitting fingernails, I pull loose floorboards from the spare room and nail them over the window, trying to time the hammer strikes with the rattling of the doors to calm my nerves.

I won’t do it again.

*

Stay inside. The following morning, I hear the house at the end of my road is wreathed in shadow. Careful people, good people.

I don’t unlock the door that day.

*

The door hasn’t opened in countless weeks; rust gathers on the hinges. The nights seem to get longer. People choke on their own breath mere minutes after the sun sets. I haven’t heard from anyone else. Perhaps I’m the only one left. Perhaps the shadows get louder because they know that only I remain, trembling within the flimsy walls of my little house. The sign above the hearth hasn’t changed.

Stay inside. Stay inside. Stay inside.

*

But it does change—after months of sunrises and sunsets, of sleepless nights and rattling windows.

Stay alert.

I find out I’m not the only one left, although it proves little relief—these people, they come to my window during the short hours of sunlight we now have. They tell me not to worry anymore, that I can come out. But the shadows reached my neighbour not long ago. I heard the death-rattle of his final breath dragging course lines through the wall. I can still see the shadows at night. They are wrong. The hearth is wrong. They lie. I scratch out the stupid words and stay inside.

*

They keep knocking on the door and asking me to go back to work. They’re getting angry. They say I’m lazy. Paranoid. Stupid. But the houses surrounding me have no breath left and the idea of opening any door or window, even a crack, sends a thrill of terror through my spine. They cut off the power, no longer bring me food. It makes me furious—I scream at them to go away—do you want to kill me?—-I think they do. But they always leave.

Each night I’m left alone for the shadows to return again.

For now, I settle down into bed. I have checked every door and window three times tonight, even though I haven’t opened any for weeks. I pull the sheets up to my chin and try to settle into oblivion before the sun sets, hoping to bypass the awful scratching of the shadows. I drift off to the dying calls of thriving birds… the shadows don’t hurt them.

When I awake again, it’s dark. The screams have long begun their dreadful chorus, and the front door rattles in its frame. I try to burrow myself deeper into the mattress, but there’s a tiny spot of darkness above me that keeps catching my attention—making my eyes flicker open at every opportunity, no matter how hard I will them to remain closed. It dangles above me, rotating slowly above my bed, reminding me of a dreadful corpse hanging by the neck. Eventually, I reach for my torch and shine it upon the black spot to convince my eyes that it doesn’t truly exist—but it does, and my blood runs cold.

It’s a spider.

It would be innocuous at any other time. But spiders live outside. How did it get inside? My mind whirrs. Somewhere in the house, there is a crack. Through that crack, the spider came. And if a spider can come, then…

Creak.

The torch almost slips from my sweat-slicked palm. The bathroom window? Again? Is it too late?

I run there, careful not to trip over the holes where I had pried the wood up to cover the windows. The bathroom window sways wildly to and fro in the howling wind and the driving rain. I pull it closed with a snap. I remain still. I let out a breath in the blessed silence.

Creak.

I turn slowly. Somewhere in the house, another window creaks.

How? How?

I run. I had been so careful, so careful! I check every room until I finally find it: the sitting room window, trembling in the wind. I leap upon a chair to yank it shut, staring in dawning horror at the twisted and broken planks of wood laying scattered across the floor. Who had done it? Was someone here with me? Who else could have done it?

Bang!

Wood thumps against wood. I jump and whirl. The front door, with all its locks and boards nailed across it, swings wildly open and smacks against the door frame in the wind.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I leap across, slam it shut, try to fasten the chain and the bolt and the—

Bang!

Wind hits the back of my neck as the back-door crashes open. The house lights up suddenly—lightning. A clap of thunder. I run towards it, but the moment I leave the front door it swings open, and upstairs I can hear the creaking of the bathroom window again.

Every desperate gasp of breath feels like fire. Why was this happening? Was I not careful enough? Could I have done more?

Creak! Bang! Thump!

Scratch…

I stumble. A stone drops into my stomach as I hear that fateful scratch.

Scratch… Scratch... Scratch…

My feet draw to a slow, broken halt.

Scratch… Scratch…

But I was so careful.

Scratch.