When Death Comes Knocking

Gravel crunched underneath my feet as I pushed open my car’s door and swung myself onto my pitch black driveway. A sharp, chilly breeze slapped my face. Bugs whizzed around my head. I grimaced. Slowly, I plodded around my old, faded blue sedan and popped open its trunk. With a sigh, I grabbed my bag.

My arms burned when I finally dropped it and marched into my backyard. I’d been digging earlier—fixing up my garden—and still hadn’t finished. Though many would say I didn’t deserve more work after a hard day of saving lives and dashing around with gurneys, I didn’t mind. For once, it was work I enjoyed.

When I finally dropped my shovel, I arranged my hatchet in its place and shoveled on some dirt. It looked good. My garden wasn’t much, and so many would frown upon it, but I’d seen worse. Maybe it’d be in a museum one day.

I wheeled around, rubbing dirt off my hands, and walked toward my back door. I had a simple, wooden, one-story house. It was nice, comfortable, and perfectly suited for people like me whose lives needed less pomp and glamor.

I’d only just opened my door when something flashed on my vision’s edge. It was quick and yellow—maybe a bird? I looked over. There were only thick, dark woods. Trees loomed above me like shadowy specters, wordlessly accusing and condemning me. We see you for who you really are …

A chill crawled down my spine.

I quickly dashed inside.

Crossing through my living room, I quickly flicked on a news channel and headed for my sink. The usual guy—Pierce—was recounting a new, grisly murder: a severed man dangling from a statue, a bloody blade protruding from his chest. I chuckled as he explained how baffled police were and, as usual, quickly assured people that countermeasures were underway. Blah, blah, blah …

I washed my hands carefully, digging into my fingernails, and scrubbed my palms until they hurt. I didn’t like leaving specks behind; it was messy and, more importantly, foolish.

Pierce’s voice floated around from behind me: “However, folks, all isn’t so grim. We have new evidence from Chief Richter. Apparently, police have been developing a profile—”

I growled and looked away. My fingers were freezing. I shoved away and grabbed a cloth, furiously wiping my hands. They were shaking a little—probably going rigid and preparing to fall off.

“Police are currently working on supplying a picture; we will update you with any advances. However, we have a rough sketch. Take a good, long look, folks … ”

I finally finished wiping my hands. I gave Pierce a grim look. “Aren’t you so funny?” I quipped darkly, and waited a second for him to add a punchline. He didn’t answer.

Anger burning in my veins, I poured myself a cold glass of water and took a long gulp. Though it usually made me feel better, it seared my mouth now, as if my teeth were hardening into icicles.

I grimaced and looked up, cursing.

Two glowing, yellow eyes awaited me.

I jumped backward, veins coursing with adrenaline. My eyes furiously scanned the small window above my sink. It was black, empty—and definitely devoid of any eyes.

“Where’s your composure, Mallory?” I hissed. Angrily, I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling furiously on my scalp. The pain felt good.

Until I heard it. A slow, icy chill crawled up my spine and settled on my neck. My hair grew rigid. A sharp, jagged sound filled my ears, and I shuddered. It was coming from behind.

The backdoor groaned.

When a skeletal shadow seeped into my living room, I ran. My heart pounded in my ears—my vision blurred with black. I dashed into my bedroom and slammed my door shut. Adrenaline buzzed in my limbs; I couldn’t sit still.

Harsh scratching floated my way from my living room. I flinched. Whatever it was, it was big. And it was here, in my home, searching for … something.

No, I realized. A cold sense of realization filled me. It’s here for me.

I noticed with a shock that Pierce’s voice was gone. Something crunched from outside my bedroom door—glass? I frantically huddled beside my bed, hands around my knees. If only I could grab my gun. It was close by—only under my couch.

My door handle jiggled.

No.

I couldn’t sit here and embrace my demise. I had to fight, and my only means of fighting was a room away … with it. Quickly, I grabbed a glass paperweight from my beside desk. Its jagged edges pinched my hand.

The handle pulled down. It was nearly open.

So, I wrenched it back myself … and slammed my paperweight into a big, black, skeletal face. Its glowing eyes were sunken in, and its cheekbones and jaw flapped open in bloody strips. It shrieked—a horrible, grating sound. When it stumbled, holding a spindly, claw-adorned hand to its wound, I ran. It growled and scrambled after me. I could feel it—its claws grasping my shirt’s edge, its breath on my neck.

I dove.

It followed me down, but it slipped and skidded away. It landed beyond the couch in a heap, its long, lanky limbs curled around it like broken branches. Frantically, I scrambled forward. I kicked back the sofa and wrenched open a hidden compartment underneath. I grabbed my shotgun.

A claw burrowed itself into my face. I screamed, fell sideways, and smashed my cheek into my coffee table. Blood pooled in my mouth. My vision swam, speckled with all-consuming black. I groaned, holding my face. My fingers came away slick with blood.

The creature breathed sharply before sucking in a ragged, grating breath. It clambered forward, claws reaching for me, hands dripping with my blood.

I rolled away, frantically holding up my shotgun. I fired, my gun slamming into my shoulder. The creature screamed, and a spray of its inky blood covered my face. A newfound, bloody hole gleamed in its chest. It fell backward, limbs flailing.

Although its agony offered me an alluring sense of security, I dashed away. Slamming into my kitchen counter, I furiously pressed on my phone and dialed 9-1-1. While it rang, I dashed outside, limbs filled with ice and my heart pounding in my ears. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be waiting for it to die—or wake back up. For once, somebody else would deal with it.

My phone clicked. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a calm, female voice asked.

“There’s a monster!” I screamed as I pounded off into my backyard. Trees loomed on either side of me; my garden waited ahead.

“A monster?” she repeated skeptically.

Why didn’t she believe me? “It’s big, and black, with glowing eyes,” I added frantically. “It’s hunting me!”

“Ma’am, are you certain you are in danger?”

I cursed. “Send someone—anyone—here. Kill it before it kills me!”

She didn’t answer for a few long, agonizing seconds. I heard a branch snap from somewhere behind me. An icy rock formed in my stomach. Carefully, I looked over my shoulder.

My eyes burned with tears. It was alive now—only a few yards away, stomach dripping blood and eyes gleaming. Its lips parted, exposing long, sharp, yellowish teeth.

“It’s here!” I shrieked. “Please! Help me!”

The creature stalked forward, hunched over and seething. Its pointed fingers curled menacingly.

I couldn’t die here. I still had so much life—so many dreams! And even if my world was going up in flames anyway, even if Pierce and his awful friends had their evil gazes upon me, I wouldn’t stop.

I was a killer.

Now, I’d finally act like it.

With a shaky breath and a jagged voice, I screamed my address into my phone. The creature growled before picking up speed, as if it knew I’d summoned its end. It ran forward, kicking up dirt, claws ripping through tree trunks.

I fired another round from my gun, missed, and frantically ran away. I dashed for my garden, reaching remarkable speed as adrenaline and fear fueled me. The creature was gaining, but I still had an advantage.

With desperate speed, I dug up my garden bed I’d so painstakingly made, hurling away my careful coverings—my deceiving flowers and fruits. With shaking fingers, I yanked down a zipper and wrenched away some severed, bloodied limbs. My shirt grew damp with blood.

The creature’s pounding was growing louder, louder, louder … It was all I could hear. Death, made real, here for me. It wouldn’t stop until someone was dead, and I wasn’t planning on being it.

My story wouldn’t end today.

Grabbing my hatchet from my ruined garden, I swung it in a wild arc. The creature, now behind me with outstretched arms, received it in full force. The blade dug into its bony head and sliced it through; black blood poured onto my face. With a final, frantic grab, it reached for my head and yanked it forward, towards its evil mouth. I screamed and flung my hatchet, cutting and cutting and cutting—desperate for freedom. Its glowing, yellow eyes bore into mine, filled with horrors and warnings I would never heed.

“You monster!” I screamed and swung my hatchet down. It sliced through the creature’s chest, splitting open its jagged skin.

The creature released me and staggered back. It sucked in hollow, shaking breaths. I watched in anxious anticipation as it stumbled onto its knees, clutched its wounded chest … and died.

I fell, overwhelmed by a sudden weariness. Blades of grass prickled my knees as I stared off into a dark night, my body stained with blood. My chest burned as I sucked in breath after breath, each one making my body quiver.

I’d done it. The monster was dead.

Only … I couldn’t see it anymore. It had disappeared. I could, however, hear sirens. So many sirens—getting closer and louder every passing second. They were here. Had saviors descended from above to save me?

It was a fool’s dream. I was already doomed; I couldn’t be spared. The damage had already been done. My noose was tied, and I was already hanging, my judge condemning me to death just like my victims.

Officers were coming into view, shouting frantic words. They were holding guns. I looked down, staring at my stomach. There, lodged in my skin, was my hatchet. Its handle dripped gleaming crimson. Black blood didn’t stain my clothes; it was mine.

Maybe I’d never killed a monster. Or maybe I’d just gotten the real one.

I started laughing. The pain consumed me, and everything went black.