'I was crossing 34th when'�'� I read and allowed the magazine to slip from my grasp. It was late, the witching hour as some would say. The candle on the nightstand died in slow motion, its wax descending with exaggerated sluggishness.

The house was empty but full of ghosts, mischievous specters that irritated the floorboards and inspired the coyotes outside to serenade me. It was not a good night for scary stories but rest and I hoped it would come quickly.

Soon my head began to swell with visions of nonsensical things. I saw a decayed, gray hand crawling out of a grave and cringed as the clammy fingers closed around my throat while I stood motionless in front of the tombstone. From my throat the hand crept toward my mouth, fingernails sliding free and trickling down my shirt like slimy bone fragments. It touched my lips, almost affectionately. I tasted wet, rotten skin.

I awoke with a start, my mind submerged in fuzzy darkness that reminded me of brown velvet. Sleep and reality both staked a claim to me but consciousness won. Why had I awoken? It was a sound, a quick hollow rap of knuckles on glass. Despite my torpor I glanced toward the window behind the headboard, the only possible source of the noise.

I hesitated. The house was as still as ghost town cemetery. The air was stagnant and heavy, like the last breath of a dead man that could not part his shriveling lips.

I held the cord in my hands, turning the plastic beads over among my fingers, and pulled. The blinds rose and presented me with my own expectant reflection. And something else.

Words.

There were words written on the window, traced in the evaporating condensation of someone's breath.

I'll be back. Beneath the words was a smiley face with x's for eyes.

The cord slipped. I swear my heart was in my throat.

In the mausoleum silence of my room the sound of knuckles on glass was unbearable.