I wake with a start. Something has caught my attention, dragging me from what must have been a nightmare. My heart is racing. I'm covered in a cold, damp, sweat. I look over and see that what ever woke me hasn't disturbed my wife. Our dog is similarly nonplussed, snoring and firmly shoved between us. The drum beat of my pulse in my ears starts to fade and I roll back onto my side, trying to put what ever woke me out of my mind.
A faint chittering noise reaches out to me. It's not in the room, but feels like its on the wind. I have to strain to hear it, but something calls me to strain. It's rhythmic and discordant. There's an urgency to it that wants me to find its source.
Rolling over, I try again to ignore it. Glancing at the clock I groan to find out that it's already half past two. I don't have much sleep left to me tonight. Why can't I get this noise out of my head. The pace is increasing, the urgency is becoming panicked. There's no use. I need to see what's happening. I need to know where it's coming from.
I slide out of bed, trying to not wake my wife. The dog is a lost cause; she's awake the instant I stand, snuffing at the air. Her ears are back. What ever it is that's calling to me doesn't sit well with her at all. I pick my way through the bedroom trying to avoid old laundry and scattered chew toys. The moon must be full tonight. I can see a clear path through the mess and I make for the door. The dog is quick to follow me, in the vain hope that I'll let her out.
I move out onto the landing, trying to hear from which direction the noise is coming, and it sounds a bit louder out back. A skylight in the hall shows me that my guess about the moon was correct. It's massive tonight, washing the whole hall in an icy light.
The house is a sepulchre at this hour. Nothing is making any noise beyond this infernal chittering. It's like dried bones rattling around in a skull; it's the dieing cackle of a bird with a crush windpipe; it's silver on bone china. The noise cuts through me, finding its home deep in my heart. I don't hear it so much as feel it.
As I pass the stairs, the dog -- oblivious to this noise -- thuds down to the lower level. Her graceless handling of the stairs breaks me from my reverie, leaving me to wonder if I should just head back to bed. As the idea of my warm bed crosses my mind the chittering strikes up with renewed vigour. Every fibre of my soul tells me that I should turn around, that what ever makes that noise does not wish me well. My instincts screams at me to walk -- no run -- away. But I must know.
I leave the hallway, moving toward my study that looks out over the back lawn. The curtains are drawn, and the coolness of the night has worked its way in here. From the hall to the study, I feel like I've walked outside. A breeze pushes through the window, disturbing the curtains and sending the light dancing over the walls. In the darkness, shadows strike out from the familiar bookcases and furniture, sending sinister projections of my fear into the room.
The open window explains the cold. The projections merely the fabrications of a tired mind. I'm sure the chittering will have a similar explanation. If I close the window, I'll be able to sleep.
Moving to the curtains, I hesitate before drawing them back. A sense of dread has washed over me, cold adrenaline coursing through my veins stays my hand. Something isn't right. Steeling myself, I reach for the heavy velvet drape and pull it back.
The lawn is wide, and flat. It's kept well manicured. A copse of trees hems the back of the yards, and a tall fence runs down either side. In the middle of the yard, bathed in moonlight is the source. The progenitor of the beacon which has called me here.
It stands in the grass on all fours, legs and arms at perfect right angles to its body, it's back rigidly straight. Frozen in a hideously painful bridge, its joints all forced the wrong way. It's head looks up at the moon, the chittering noise must be coming from its mouth. Good Lord. It's a man.
He shuffles back and forth in short stabbing steps; one side at a time, arm and leg akimbo. The pacing never took him more than a foot in either direction. A trench was being worn in the grass. How long had he been at this? How long had the chittering gone on before I woke? I watch him for what seems like an age. The moon holds perfectly still, directly overhead. It's pale light showing a gaunt, tortured soul in some sort of ritual.
I'm snapped back to the moment as he notices me. I don't know how, or why, I caught his attention. I was scarcely breathing, let alone making any noise. His head cranes up, his neck stretching, as he moves his gaze from the moon to my window. His body remains ridged; static. As his head twists left and up I hear a cracking and crunching of bone and sinew. He sounds dry and desiccated.
His face is a contortion of agony. Mouth agape in a cry that has no voice. A panicked pain in his eyes shows no hint of reason. Sanity has long since left this poor man. As he looks at me, the chittering only getting louder. I can see the muscles in his arms flex and claw at the dirt in his hard packed trench. The chittering's tempo reaches a fever pitch and it's all I can hear. Then as his head issues another loud crack, cocking itself at an agonizing angle, and the noise stops. His eyes never leave mine. The silence holds, our eyes locked, his madness burning into my mind as if it's desperate for a new host. It's working. I can't hold his gaze any longer. I blink.
As my eyes open he's already started moving. He's covered ten feet, his body never having left the contorted bridge, he's running on all fours toward the house. Hand over hand, foot over foot; a body shouldn't move that way. His head twists and pops to keep his eyes locked on mine for as long as he can. I'm left shaking in the cold study as he disappears under the eve of the house.
I hear a tinkling of glass on the hardwood floor downstairs. My mind races. I think of my wife, of my dog. Is there anything here I can use to defend us? I see nothing of use nearby. I'm left on my own. I should get my wife. I should get help.
I hear a yell from downstairs. A quick, painful cry that is only followed by frenzied chittering. It's in my head now. I strain to hear past the maddening chitter. There's nothing. I need to know what's happening.
I move to the top of the stairs. It's a straight run to the lower level, but the noise came from the back room. I slowly start my way down, the stairs creaking under my weight. As I lean over the railing to try and see into the back room, a new sound emerges; a scraping. Fingernails digging into wood. I can't see into the back living room, the angle's not right. I'll need to go to the room. I'll need to commit.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and in a hunch walk into the hallway. I can see a silhouette of the man. He's contorted himself into a new pose to terrify me. His feet are planted flat on the floor, and he's arched himself backward, folding underneath himself so that his chest is flat on the floor. His arms are out stretched, reaching well past his feet, digging troughs into the hardwood with his grotesque nails. The troughs are rapidly filling with blood. Blood from the ruined underbelly of my dog who's laid out in front of him.
He's digging through her entrails and pulling them to his face. He smears them over his dried, cracking skin. His face is still in the silent scream, his eyes are still locked on mine. The chittering grows louder. His face is nearly covered in viscera as he slowly retracts his hands from what remains of my once loyal pet.
Unfolding himself, he stands up to his full height. He's a head taller than I am. Up close, I can see the wisps of hair that remain on his head. He looks ancient. Like he's been tortured for decades. He starts to move toward me, very slowly closing the distance. I'm petrified in place. My mind screams at me to run but my legs refuse.
He's looming over me now. His breath stinks of rotten meat and spoiled wine. His swollen tongue runs over his cracked lips as his hand raises from his side and lands heavily against my cheek. He lets it slide down, back to his side, leaving a streak of blood on my face.
I still can't move. I've been riveted to the floor. As his hand returns to his side, his mouth stretches from a scream to a wide, manic smile. His eyes never change, continuing to scream at me and bore their madness into my soul. He starts to back away from me. The chittering takes on an almost jovial tone. I think... I think he's laughing... If I survive tonight, this noise will haunt me to my grave.
He moves back to the broken window, his eyes never leaving mine. He steps though the shattered glass and back onto the lawn. He retreats all the way back to the middle and wrenches his head to look back at the moon. The chittering stops, and is replaced with something worse.
He starts screaming,
"I'VE FOUND HIM! I'VE FINALLY FOUND HIM! HE'S HERE! I'M NO LONGER ALONE! YOU ARE STUCK WITH ME NOW! WE WILL PLACATE THE MOON TOGETHER!"
As he screams this over and over, this litany repeated as he starts to dig at his face. His long, cracked, nails dragging rents into his flesh. He pulls and tears at himself, leaving a ragged mess of his face and neck. He tears at his shirt, taking gouges out of his body. He looks down from the moon, his eyes barely held within their sockets and fixes on me one last time.
"COME JOIN ME! IT'S THE ONLY WAY! IT'S THE ONLY WAY WE'LL BE FREE! THE MOON DEMANDS SACRIFICE!"
I finally break and start to scream. I scream and scream and start to fade. I idly think that I've lost my mind. Blackness is clawing at the edges of my vision as the madman tears at himself on the lawn. The blackness overtakes me.
I awake with a start, drenched in a cold sweat. My heart is racing. I must have woken from a nightmare. I look to my side, and my wife wasn't bothered by what ever woke me. My dog is snoring quietly, firmly snugged in between us. A faint memory of a nightmare is slipping away. I struggle to drag it back, to find out what woke me. All that I can recall is the moon. The clock reads half past two. Something wet is on my face. I try to wipe it away only to have my hand come away dark in the moonlight. The smell has a faint tang of iron to it. Is this blood?! As I stare down at my hand, a faint chittering noise reaches out to me...