Door

 

It didn’t happen all at once. These things never do.

One day, the doorknob was a little squidgy, but barely noticeable.

In the next months, it progressed to the point where in order to open the door, a prayer to the knob god was whispered, followed by turning to the left, then the right, cuss and repeat till the door opened.

Closing it required slamming (sometimes twice) even on a good day.

But she’d gotten used to it and didn’t even notice it anymore.

The day she had the knob changed, she wept the first time she opened the door.

 

Ghost

 

“I’m so sorry I can’t help you” the medium said, standing with one foot already out the door.

He put a hand on her arm, gently but urgently.

“Can’t you do anything? I’ll pay you extra. Whatever you want.”

She paused and turned to face him, catching the eye of the spirit lingering over his shoulder, and she pulled away till she was fully outside, then stepped just beyond his reach.

“No, I can’t. I’m used to dealing with anger and rage. Those are easy to banish. This (gesturing past him) is a sadness so deep banishment would be cruel.”

Stomp

 

It started out as one set of footprints running across the roof.

She shrugged. Squirrel.

Then there were two sets.

Then many more.

Inside, the dogs stared at the ceiling, first in curiosity, then alarm. They started to bark. “Shush” she told them, “It’s just squirrels.”

But she didn’t sound convincing, even to herself.

Going outside and standing where she could see the roof, she said sternly, “I don’t care if you have friends over, but what did I say about stomping all over the roof?”

The dragon whispered, “You’re not my real mom” and refused to make eye contact.

Midnight Constitutional

 

He was standing outside late at night, waiting for the dog to decide to take a piss.

It was pleasant out there, so he scrolled on his phone while his dog meandered around the yard, sniffing every spot he’d sniffed 285 times already that day.

The crickets were chirping, and spring peepers were chiming in. An owl or two hooted off in the distance.

Then, silence.

He looked up, slightly alarmed.

The dog stopped mid-sniff and cocked his head, a low growl in his throat.

Around them, hundreds of tiny eyes glowed in the darkness.

They blinked slowly and simultaneously.

Trees

 

She was worried. The decision had been made, and she was not only at peace with it, but more than a little excited about it, too.

But she worried about them.

Her trees. Her forest.

Who would protect them when she was gone? What if the next people cut them all down?

Finally, she shared how she felt with them.

The trees. The forest.

It started as a soft rumble of shifting leaves, then grew louder as the wind joined in.

“You were the first ones we allowed here. Because your family needed protection.”

The trees were laughing at her.

Quiet

 

She liked the quiet.

Her house was quiet, and not a sound could be heard.

I mean, other than the not-a-sounds of things in a modern house- the refrigerator whispering, the quiet rhythm of the dishwasher, the ceiling fans softly humming.

The old grandmother clock tick-tocked, and every 15 minutes it chimed randomly depending on its whim.

From the sofa, her dog sighed heavily and started to snore.

There was a rustling in the other room, followed by a shrill “Eeek” and then nothing.

Which was mildly disturbing.

Outside, a Barred Owl hooted, then cackled, then growled.

Nice. And. Quiet.

Blurs

 

He’d seen them out of the corner of his eye all his life.

Dark blurs, mostly small, but some the size of a doorway, darting out of view as he turned to look.

When he was a tiny child, they didn’t bother him. Having no past experiences to draw from, he thought they were normal.

As an adult, he chalked it up to stress, or time of day, or just an over-active imagination.

Now, he was old, and he was ready.

He sat in his comfortable chair and quietly said, “It’s OK. You can come out now.”

And they did.