Tales of the Night

Eclipse

You wake up from your sleep to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. The lights are off and you keep it that way; no need to blind yourself when you already know your way around. And even if there were unexpected obstacles, the moon shining down from the skylight in the hallway illuminates your surroundings just enough to help you navigate through the terrain.

When you open the fridge, you squint your eyes at the light, only partially filtered by takeout boxes and condiments. The water pitcher is just in the door, but even in the time it takes to grab it and close the door, stars blink in your tired eyes.

At least your preferred cup is where you always leave it: in the drying rack. The soft sloshing of water sounds louder in the silence, as do your gulps as you drain it in one go. The chill fills your throat, then your stomach—a stark contrast with the warm air around you.

You fill your cup again, then drink half of it; you should probably drink more water during the day.

After topping off your glass, you refill the pitcher in the sink. By then, your eyes have already adjusted to the bright moonlight shining through the window, and you don't have to squint as much when you open the fridge again.

As you head back to bed, you notice a sound beneath the scuffing of your shuffling feet. When you pause, the steady rhythm continues, short and faint.

Dripping. You must have left the faucet running again, and you'd rather walk a little than pay extra on your water bill.

With a sigh, you go back to the kitchen, press down on the handle, then watch the faucet.

After a few seconds...nothing.

Satisfied, you head back to your room. By then, soft moonlight through the skylight is barely enough to navigate, but you know the route well enough to complete your journey—until the dripping starts again.

Immediately, the beat is overpowered by your groan as you head back and roughly stick a bowl in the basin under the tap. This would be a problem for tomorrow.

This time, you ignore the rhythm of water as you rush back to bed, more out of spite than anything. Luckily, the sound of dripping fades just before you reach your room; whether that's because of distance or spontaneous resolution, you don't really care.

Before you can enter, the hall darkens.

You blink once, but everything remains shrouded in shadow.

The dripping returns, this time from above.

Rain? Clouds? It couldn't be. It was supposed to be a clear night.

So you look up.

The silhouette of a human lingers in the skylight—but there's no way a human would look like that. There's no way a human would be crawling across your roof, poised on all fours like a deformed spider. There's no reason for a human to be perched above you in the middle of the night, naked, with nothing to conceal them but the darkness of shadows. There's no explanation for why a human would be staring down at you from the skylight, their drool steadily dripping out of their agape jaws and onto the curved plastic.

There was no way this was possible, but it was. Not only that, but somehow, you knew there was no escape. And judging by the smile that slowly formed on the creature's lips, they knew it too.