 I moved to this house about a week ago, a nice little cottage on the border of North and South Carolina, overlooking the Piedmont at the edge of the Blue Ridge mountain range. During the day, everything seems normal. I type my funny little words into this funny little computer. I get paid, the sun shines outside every morning. I wake up and I make my coffee, and I sit outside on the balcony. Everything remains calm and quiet through the day, barring the times I host a dance party of one while waiting for my old microwave to kick into gear. Even my dog seems more subdued. Not lethargic per se, but he seems to have less energy, less gusto for life. Puck doesn't really bark anymore. Not at squirrels, not at other dogs. He doesn't even bark in excitement when I come home from the store, which is, for lack of a better term, really weird. Some of my new neighbors complimented me on how well trained he is. Oh, isn't it nice to have a quiet dog? He doesn't even jump on you? I could never get my dog to behave as well as yours. That's the thing. Neither could I. He used to be the most. He used to require all of my attention, all of the time, lest he wither and waste away. A ghost of the dog he could have been. My words, not his. I mean, maybe he doesn't talk, but he's so full of attitude that it's not hard to understand how he thinks. Puck doesn't jump up to greet me anymore. He doesn't paw at my hands, trying to guide them to his chest for his favorite kind of scratches. He doesn't shove his annoyingly cold nose in my ear for attention while I'm trying to watch a movie anymore, and he takes his time to eat now instead of scarfing his meals down like he's in a contest. He's always been gentle and very conscious of my space so that he doesn't accidentally hurt me. However, if I did do something to annoy him enough, he'd be petty and walk his 40 pound ass all over my lap to show his distaste for my actions. That shit never hurt, so to speak, but it never felt great either. Now it's as if he doesn't care at all. He's not annoying. He's not even petty anymore. It's like his personality is just gone. I miss him. I know what you're thinking. John, why did you just waste 300 words talking about your dog? Where's the meat of this story? What the hell happened? First of all, I did not waste time talking about my dog. I may just be a dog kind of guy, but my philosophy dictates that no time spent talking about dogs is time wasted. And for those of you who don't have dogs, I need you to know something. Dog behavior doesn't just change like that. Every dog has a personality, and that personality isn't just erased because of a change in scenery. I maxed out my credit card to take him to two different clinics to see if they could find anything wrong with him. But both doctors looked me in the eye and stated that he is a picture of good health. Other than his weird behavioral changes, there's not a damn thing wrong with my little mutt. I should have seen that red flag for what it was. I should have noticed as Puck became more jumpy, more nervous on his walks. I should have noticed that he did his business as fast as possible before tugging on his leash to go home. That dog used to love meandering on his walks, giving everything in his nose range a good long sniff before moving on to the next interesting thing. I first heard the mountains noise last night at around three in the morning. I woke up in a cold sweat, the familiar sleep paralysis demon fading to the darkest recesses of my mind. That demon is almost an old friend to me now. It's the most consistent thing in my life, second only to my dog. I would greet it with open arms if it didn't scare me so damn much. After I checked the time, I rolled onto my other side to cuddle closer to Puck. I didn't normally like sleeping with my back facing the room, exposed and vulnerable. But Puck granted me a sense of safety and security that I just couldn't get without burying my face in his fur. I had the same logic as a child pulling their sheets over their head to hide from the things that go bump in the night. It can't see me if I can't see it. I was introduced to the sound about ten minutes later. I was just beginning to doze off the edges of the world becoming fuzzy with sleep when I felt Puck whip his head up. He glared at the window across the room, ears perked to listen through the closed blinds. He didn't move beyond this, but I felt the fur of his hackles raise against my face. A deep growl started in his chest, quiet as if he was frightened but didn't want to be heard. It was then that the crickets fell quiet. An intense ringing filled my ears as my brain tried to make up for the sudden void in my senses and it felt as though I fell to the bottom of a mountain. The air pressure seemed to increase immensely, so much so that I was forced to pop my ears to keep the ensuing pain at bay. Puck let out a little whimper and buried his head in the blankets, trying to ease his own pain as well. In the silence that followed, I heard it. A dull roar tingled at the edge of my senses. Barely there, I couldn't make out whether I was imagining it or not. I cursed at my younger self for always listening to music at the maximum volume and damaging my hearing, leaving tinnitus screaming at the edge of my mind for the rest of eternity. I sat up in bed to hear better and Puck scrambled up next to me. He seemed frightened, ears back, tail between his legs, but he stood his ground between me and the window in a protective stance reminiscent of a German shepherd's crouch. Puck's raised in a growl in his chest. He guarded me as the noise grew louder. The sound raised in pitch as it seemed to inch closer and closer to my house. A pristine example of the Doppler effect. The increasing intensity put me on edge. I didn't know what was happening, but I didn't feel safe and more importantly, Puck didn't feel safe. I could write off my own emotions as an anxiety induced paranoia, but Puck felt it too. I slipped my legs off the bed as quietly as I could, the cold of the hardwood floor jolting me as my toes hit the ground. With one shaky hand, I reached for Puck's collar, and the other felt around the side of my bed for the baseball bat that I kept for protection. I thought about guiding Puck by his collar out of the room and into the hall, but elected to carry him instead. His claws would make too much noise against the floor. I shushed his growling as softly as I could. While the sound gained traction outside, now beginning to engulf the side of my house that faces up the mountain, the sound was screaming over the roof now. Like a thousand people were crouched on my house, mouths to the shingles and the walls and the windows. Each mouth was letting out the most god-awful wail. My window looked out over the Piedmont, and the sound hadn't quite reached the south-facing wall yet. I didn't want to stick around for that. Phone slipped safely into the back pocket of my sweats. I scooped Puck up in my arms. I shifted his weight to my left side so that I could comfortably hold the baseball bat in my dominant hand. I backed into the hallway as the sound consumed the rest of my house. Puck whimpered in my arms as I retreated into the bathroom. It was the only room in the house that didn't have a single window, but the screams seemed to amplify off of the tile flooring and walls, leaving the lights off. I set Puck down on the bath mat and turned to shut the door. I realized that my bat probably wouldn't do shit against whatever was outside, but I gripped it tighter anyway. It made me feel better. I peered out the window at the end of the hall, trying to make out any shadows against the blinds, but there was nothing. No hint of movement outside, no rustling against the glass. There was nothing but the screaming emanating from the forest around my house. Spooked, I gently shut the bathroom door. I was trying not to add to the cacophony of noise, terrified that it may be heard by ears that didn't belong to my dog. I carefully inched it closed, and with a quiet, yet resounding click, the outside world fell silent. It took me a moment to realize. In the darkness of my bathroom, with the only sound coming from Puck's panting and my own heartbeat, I didn't so much hear the silence as felt it. It echoed through my eardrums, still ringing from the noise, and my head nearly imploded from the lack of stimulation. Cold fingers of sweat caressed my spine. As we sat in the dark, I was standing at the sink, bat at the ready in case something decided to make its way through the door. Puck was cowering behind me, curled somewhere between the tub and the toilet. He was done being brave. It was my turn to protect him. Puck's barking shattered the silence that enveloped us, tearing through it like a saw blade through flesh. Aggressive and dangerous, I tried to make him quiet down, but it was too late. Whoever they were, whatever it was, already knew we were here. I think they knew the moment that the U-Haul I rented first trundled up the drive. Something grabbed me by the nape of the neck. Hard, my bat clattered to the ground, useless. Ice cold and razor sharp at the same time, the grip was loosened, and it almost caressed me. From my neck to my shoulder, and back up to my neck. Puck was silent by now, only letting out a whimper here and there. I choked back a sob, trying desperately not to turn my head to see what was touching me. And then the movement on my neck stopped. The freezing appendage rested gently above my clavicle. I felt a presence lean forward behind me, and a miniscule gust of air brushed against my ear. It was close enough to me that I felt it inhale more than I heard it. And then it screamed, frozen in place. All I could do was listen. I couldn't move on my own volition. And then I screamed. I screamed until my lungs were raw. I screamed until my throat was bleeding. I screamed until my voice was gone. I'm unsure of how long I stood there screaming. It felt like an eon, but I don't think people normally live that long. I screamed until I wasn't anymore. I woke up in my room this morning with sunlight streaming through my window. Somebody had drawn up the blinds, and I was left with an unobstructed view of the Piedmont. Kudzu covered the mountainside, undisturbed by the events of last night. Unsettled, I padded back over to my bed and sat down next to Puck. He looked up at me, bedhead ruffling the fur around his ears, and I gave the space between his ears a little kiss. He turned towards the window before facing back to me, a little whimper in his throat, and fear in his eyes. Everything seemed calm, but the fear of last night was still palpable in the room. I decided then that Puck and I would be spending the night holed up in the bathroom. Whatever it was, managed to get into the room regardless of walls or doors, but the smaller space and lack of windows gave me some semblance of comfort. I don't know how good it'll do, or if it would do anything at all. But I dug through my mother's old jewelry and pulled out a couple of her cross necklaces. One got attached to Puck's collar, and the other one has been wrapped around my hand all night. If I could afford it, and have the money left to pay my mortgage at the end of the month, I would be absolutely staying in a hotel tonight. Hell, if I hadn't closed on this house already, I would have been moved out earlier this afternoon. I would have talked to the police about it. But they'd say it was some bizarre form of nightmare. I would think so too, but Puck was, and still is, right there in the fear with me. It wasn't a dream. I really wish that it was. As it is, it's nearing three in the morning. I'm sitting scrunched up in the bathtub, Puck between my feet. I've spent the last while writing this, and it seems that I've caught up to the present, just in time for the crickets to hush their cry. Don't let my calm demeanor fool you. I'm terrified. Wish me luck.