Burrow
Hello. I’m the man that lives in your house.
Not your husband, or your brother. Not your son, not your nephew.
The man in your house.
I’m the one you hear, every so often, as a creak in the attic.
A whisper-soft step, in another part of the house, when you’re sure you’re alone.
I think you see me sometimes in the corner of your eye.
My heart pounds every time you catch a little glimpse. The way you freeze, waver. Look around.
The way your soul goes still with the memory – ancient and carved too deep to be forgotten – of what it means to be prey.
Rabbit ears lift, quiver; a human frame going still.
I hear your breathing, I know the pattern of your steps. When you’re here, and when the house is mine. When everyone is gone – to work, to school, to chores – I roam the house freely. Pocket things, here and there, that you’ll later look for, and wonder. Lay my skin across your clean sheets, feel them press cool and soft against me. Pat the family dog.
I wear the House at Night like a cloak. You’ve met my gaze before; a shadow in the corner of your bedroom, indistinguishable from the surrounding shades of black. You close your eyes, pull the blanket over your head. Tell yourself to sleep.
But you and I both know what you saw. The rough silhouette of a man, head angled strangely, unmistakably, from the blackness of corners too dark to peel from sleep.
I’ve never touched you.
Not yet.
I haven’t decided if, or when, I’ll do it. It’s tempting, don’t get me wrong. I’ve watched you too long not to think of reaching out.
But I have it good here. Tucked right into your blind-spot, I’ve made myself at home. Once that threshold is crossed, war declared… Well. It would complicate things. The fox is comfortable in the brush, watching the rabbits nibble at the grass.
No, I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.
I know you won’t let yourself acknowledge me.
I know you tell yourself you’re safe. Though, sometimes, don’t you just… Know I’m there, standing around the corner at the end of the hallway?
Heh.
Don’t forget it, little rabbit.
You never know when you might need to run.
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