It wasn't on the first day or the fourth of her husband's departure that Vanessa sensed a dark presence inside the house. But on the fifth night, as she lay in bed in solitude, the muted glow of the lamp keeping unwelcome shadows at bay, she heard the scratching. It emerged from the ceiling and suggested something burrowed under the roof. Her eyes frantically darted, screening the walls and ceilings for any indication of the source of the noise. It persisted. She stabbed a glance at the corner where the vanity stood, engulfed in soupy darkness. Her eyes wearily trailed the corner bead that ran from the top of the mirror to the ceiling. It came again – like nails on a chalkboard. She felt the sudden urge to sit up but couldn't muster the courage to compel herself. She thought about what Richard would say: "It's probably those birds again. Must have found a way to get through the crack in the sidings."
She knew for a fact it wasn't swallows nesting up there. She had made sure before summer had withered that Richard sealed it shut. He had climbed the roof, and precariously hung his head from the edge to ensure the reinforcement was secure. He had hammered in a few extra nails for good measure. Since then, she had often gone out to ensure that the swallows hadn't found a way to invade their residence. She had been relieved to not notice any signs of foul-play, until now...
Again, the scratching pierced her ears. It moved from the corner of the ceiling, inching closer to the side wall. Her feet shifted under the blanket with unease, as if whatever lurked behind the sheetrock could pounce at any moment and devour her toes. She clutched at the cross resting on her chest, fidgeting with it nervously between her forefinger and thumb.
"Alexa, turn on the light," she cautiously whispered at the black cylinder on the nightstand. An orange ring swirled on its surface. What a terrible time for it to lose connection – she thought. The toy poodle, sequestered between pillows at the edge of the bed, picked up its head now, sensing her anxiety. Hannibal got up and sauntered closer to her, his apricot hair blue tinged from the lamp's glow. The poodle burrowed its furry head between the crooks of her elbow and nuzzled against the warmth of her body. It was enough to soothe her. The scratching didn't register anymore. She allowed the weight of her lids to shutter her eyes as she fell back into a deep slumber.
She was jarred awake in the middle of the night by vociferous barks from the foyer. Her head pounded from the disruption. She sprung up and ambled out of the room. Somewhere between her blurred vision and the stabbing glimmer from the glazing of the front door, she could make out the poodle's silhouette. She rubbed her eyes, and as the vagueness died, the poodle's petite figure took shape. He stood erect before the door, a heightened tension palpable in his posture.
"Hannibal? What are you barking at, boy..." her voice trailed before being swallowed by a yawn. She picked up the dog, struggling to restrain his aggression against whatever lurked beyond the door. She cast a glance through the glass and saw nothing, save for snow flurries and an absolute whiteout. Too groggy to investigate further, she went back to bed. No sooner did her head hit the pillow, than the doorbell chimed. She was wide awake now, jolted back to consciousness by the second chime, and then the third.
She wondered who was out there in this inclement weather, at this hour of the night. Her misgivings stifled her curiosity to answer the door. It chimed again! This time, she reluctantly got up, clutching Hannibal between her arms. She tiptoed around the room, like a stranger in her own house. She twisted the knob. The door flung open before she could pull it ajar. A daunting gust struck her body. There was no one there. She shuddered, not from the cold, but from the fear that welled up inside her like an invasive shadow unsettling her soul. She sensed the hairs on the nape of her neck bristle from the realization that someone or something had rung the doorbell, and had vanished into thin air.
She felt Hannibal wrenching in her arms and growling at the void. The moment of apprehension had passed, replaced by that of self-preservation. She quickly slammed the door, bolting it shut with utmost swiftness, then darted back to the sanctuary of her bed, seeking refuge under the blanket. Her heart thundered. The thought did occur to her that it was quite silly for a thirty-year-old to be frightened so irrationally, but she could not dismiss what her ears heard, or what her eyes saw or did not see.
