Today’s Word: Score


Late at night, when the sun is equidistance from dusk to morn, the scratching people come. They are wispy white souls with hands like balled up pieces of notebook paper. Long mouths and long eyes dominate their faces, wavering like disturbed water, while baby-fine hair dances about their heads on invisible currents of static.

The scratching people come in the house -- no lock stops them, no dog hears them. They slide in through cracks in masonry or window seals. On your bed they sit, these scratching people, scoring your back and belly, left elbow and right nostril with dry, itchy fingers. Their sound is your sound; the sandy susurration of nail on skin, slinking in the dark like cat claws.