258;

[flair]

Title: Crash
Rating: PG

A short on a made up creature - a ghoulash, named for its smelly resemblance to rotting goulash.

Something crashed loudly in the trees.

I jerked my head up from my laptop screen, fingers paused on the keys in the middle of a reply. Across the street, a tree branch shook and crashed the leaves together again, and I frowned, furrowing my eyebrows as I tried to make out what was causing it; there wasn't any wind tonight, despite the storm coming from the east, so it couldn't have been that, and everything was completely still and silent; not even the usual quartet of bugs snd. Whatever was in the tree fell out and landed without a sound and I leaned forward, trying to make it out. Nothing at first; my eyes still weren't adjusted to the darkness due to the bright screen, and Tchaivosky's Scene and Waltz of the Snowflakes played loudly in my ears.

(That's why I had looked up in the first place; I had heard the noise over the gentle rise and fall of woodwinds and strings, even though it had been nearly a hundred feet away and thirty feet up.)

With a sigh, I shook my head and laughed at myself.

'There's nothing there, Cody,' I thought. 'It was probably just a squirrel, if anything.'

(But no squirrel could've caused that much commotion, and I knew it, too.)

'Besides,' I reasoned, 'if there was something up there, it wouldn't have survived the fall.'

And yet, when I glanced back at my screen, something (instinct?) made me look up.

It was sitting at the end of my driveway, as white as copy paper; the skin was taut and, if it hadn't been for the large, cat-like eyes shining in the dim moonlight, I would've thought it was a skeleton. They watched me curiously, never blinking; the head tilted once, twice, three times, until it was completely horizontal. I didn't move, didn't even breathe until it turned its stare away and went back to loping down the street. Loping -- that's the only way I can think of it as. It moved like a wolf, but without grace; slender, misshapen limbs didn't make that easy, and it jerked forward, almost like it was attempting to drag its contorted back half and urge it to go faster, faster, faster. And it wasn't the only one; two more followed wordlessly after it, and then a third. I watched them until the were out of sight, past the main road and across the fence that separated it from the neighborhood beside it. I breathed a sigh of relief and slid off the car's hood, feeling the gravel crunch under my bare feet as I carefully stepped back towards the house. Every so often I'd turn my laptop around to give myself a little light, not wanting to step in any ant hills (as fire ants have a notorious love of the South's climate), and as I hit the last stone step in front of the porch stairs, I saw it.

The same creature, peering at me from under the stairs. It was even more gruesome from two feet away; the eyes, I could see now, looked distinctly reptilian, with black slits in the middle and wide, golden irises that nearly melted into its sclera, though they still shone in the bright light like a cat's or dog's would. Its hands were long with spindly fingers; the nails were yellowed and cracked, and one of its thumbs was bleeding, pus congealing in the black and green cracks. I felt my stomach drop, a wave of nausea almost overtaking me -- the smell was terrible, when I finally took a breath to try and help the feeling pass. If possible, it made it worse; rank fish and moldy goulash filled my nose and I compulsively shut my laptop against my chest, dry-retching into the darkness. I knew in that moment I had done something I shouldn't have by depriving myself of a solid light source; it was in every horror story, every movie, and I berated myself as I tried to make out the otherworldly being under the dark steps. But it was impossible. It was pitch black under there, and not even the wispy tendrils of thorny ivy, hopeful in their plight to overtake the house, were visible. With shaky legs and even shakier breaths I began my slow climb up the five steps. Every stair got me close and closer to the doorway (to safety) and while I wanted to go faster, the fear of stepping too far or too little and tripping up or missing a step completely held me back.

I heard it hiss before I felt its cold, clammy fingers (claws) wrap around my ankle and try to yank me under; I heard the sickening crack of bones twisting out of place to get a longer, if less effective, reach before I felt its sharp teeth and slimy tongue graze the bottom of my foot. I shrieked - both out of laughter (even when scared shitless, I was ticklish) and out of fear, and I jerked my foot away, stumbling off the porch step and landing on my ass, stone shocking pain up my spine and across my body. It shrieked, too, in anger and laughter; it rang like a eagle's call, except turned up to eleven and throatier, hoarser, as if being dragged from an ever-parched throat.

And then suddenly -- it was over. I felt the fingernails nearly reach my foot as the porch light came on and the soft glow of the lightbulb filled the yard. I shook as I stood, clutching onto my (thankfully undamaged) laptop and bolting up the stairs, ripping open the screen door just as my father opened the interior door. I shoved past him and almost slammed my laptop onto the kitchen table, and leaned against it to catch my breath. I watched out the screen door, still partway open with the force I threw at it, and waited to see if it'd come back. My father held it open for a second, peering into the yard, before shutting it and the heavier, interior door and clicking off the light. I couldn't answer him when he asked me why I screamed; he wouldn't have believed me, for one thing (he would've laughed and teased me about being a scaredy-cat and still being afraid of the dark) and there weren't any marks on my ankle to prove it. I just shook my head and smiled, turning up the music on my headphones and closing my eyes.

I knew it'd be at the window, watching me, with its palms pressed flat against the glass and the too large head with its too big eyes pressed as well, one cheek against the window and the eye trained on my feet, swinging under the table.

I knew it'd be there, so I didn't look.

(That's what it would've wanted.)