before

Sometimes I look back on that morning to forget about the scraping sound in the basement here at the farmhouse.  At times I feel safe here despite the sound, but I know I'm not.   My days are numbered.  Back at the beach house I was in a place filled with warm memories: i had always felt safe and happy there before, but i could feel the danger creeping as the days ticked down in that house.  I would pace between the kitchen and tiny living room and all i could think of was getting out.  That morning I woke up early, ready to leave.  I got dressed, crammed a handful of granola in my mouth and was still chewing it when i heard the first thud, just as i slammed my heel into my loosely tied boot.  I looked out the little window of my front door and could just see the emaciated thing smashing its fist into the rear window of a Volvo station wagon parked in the driveway next door.

It's one of the starving, I thought, and I backed away form the window as the next wet whap left a splatter on the now spider webbed safety glass.  Up my spine shot that feeling of unease: it raced through my shoulders and up my neck to the back of my head, and drained down through my legs to weaken my thighs and my knees.  Not just fear, but a breath-catching, eye-watering, stomach churning sense of complete wrongness that was unlike anything I'd ever felt before, alive and squeezing into my thoughts for good.

I heard the third crunch as what i imaged was left of the thing's hand smashed a tiny hole through the glass, but at this point i had grabbed my bag and the pile next to it and retreated back where i had been sleeping, closing the door too loudly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and squeezing my eyes  shut until they ached.