by John Grover
***
Sharon’s father rocked in his chair rhythmically in front of the bedroom window, tapping his cane on the floor. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth and drooled onto his pajamas.
“They’re out there,” he mumbled over and over. “They’re right out there.”
He glared out into the darkness of his window, the vaporous mist congregating outside the window, caressing the edges of it. The rocking chair’s pace increased, the cane tapped harder and the old man’s hands shook violently.
Out of the mist a face emerged, hovering outside the window, pressing against the glass. Its ebony eyes gazed at Sharon’s father, its mouth opened, pale skin stretching, sores seeping as a mournful sigh emitted from it.
“They’re right here!” he screamed while clutching his chest, the pain wracking his body, pounding in his chest as if it was about to explode. The blanket that warmed his lap sailed off him like a phantom, the rocking chair toppled and the sickly old man tumbled to the floor.