"Murky, Deer"
I hate days like these.
Days where the white fog chokes the air between the trees.
Days where the trunks turn black through the haze.
Days where the pale tuxedoed man waits for me.
A plate of venison sits beside the hearth. My door is locked. My stomach is full. My windows are shuttered.
There's a small hole in the roof near the cabin's entrance; one I cut to collect rain water in a barrel, just in case the weather's dry for more than three days. It can be a liability though, as I've seen a black mass try to prove through to get inside. There's a few corks in a jar by the door. I keep one in my pocket whenever my hands are preoccupied, which they usually are.
The handle of a knife, the grip of a shotgun, the corner of a shutter... Usually, that's what my palm finds itself pressed against. Rarely does it feel the cold iron of a fork digging into food... Well, on days like this, at least.
My ears are pricked by something landing on the roof. A small tap, followed shortly by a a few more rolling down to the side. The walnut tree is taunting me.
My throat closes for an involuntary swallow. Thank God I can't hear it, or the devil outside would act on the sound. My wool-covered feet guide me towards a window. Its shutters are ever-so-slightly further apart than any others in my cabin. From afar, it makes no difference. From outside, the window's dust makes it invisible. But from the inside, at just the right point, the grime can be seen between for a sliver of vision. Just enough to see where he stands.
My palm presses against the corner of one shutter as I squint through the gaps. For the seventh consecutive day, the faceless man stands erect in the clearing beyond. He should know I'm here. He should know this house isn't vacant. He, without a doubt, should feel the shred of my pupil staring into his trim figure.
But I know he can't.
Because if he could, his tendrils would have broken through the cork in my roof. He'd have braved the scalding heat of my furnace by slipping through the chimney. He'd have broken my windows and pried their shutters open.
My tongue presses into my teeth. My breath halts before steadily leaking. I reach for the cork in my pocket.
I'm almost out of firewood. If he's here on the eighth day, I'm not sure what I'll do. I'll burn the rest and pray he leaves overnight, or I'll commit suicide by walking to him. My head hurts. I can feel my sinuses about to bleed. I hate him.
I hate him.
