The Figure

The figure standing at the end of her bed was alarming for a few reasons. It was 3 am and she lived alone. She was on the fourth floor. She always double-locked the apartment door. And, mostly, it was pointing directly at her.

She had already been through most of the stages of terror. She’d tried to scream, only to discover her voice was completely frozen. She squeezed her eyes tight and reopened them. She’d lifted her bed covers as a shield. She’d thrown her copy of The Wedding Date at the intruder. She’d screamed impotently into the dark.

She sat upright and grabbed the curtain behind her for security.

‘Who are you?’ she croaked. The figure said nothing.

‘What do you want?’ she spoke again through clamped teeth.

Her neck twisted so fast it almost snapped. The banging was on the apartment door, but it sounded as though it were in the room. She looked at her bedroom door then back to the figure. Only there was no figure. Just her own pale face looking back from the dressing table mirror. Every muscle tensed and eased until she felt as though she were floating. She closed her eyes.

The knocking came again.

She tried to think. She didn’t know for certain she’d been screaming aloud, but, well, these apartments had thin walls. She probably had some explaining to do.

Taking another breath to try and find calm, she clicked on the bedside lamp. Flinching a little against the shadows it threw, she twisted to lift her legs off the bed and sent her feet looking for the floor. After standing, she pulled her thick dressing gown off the bedpost and wrapped it tightly around herself. She eased her bedroom door open and sent one hand out as an advance party to find the hallway light switch. Once the pathway was safely illuminated, she skipped out and passed the bathroom as quickly as she could to the main apartment door.

There, she paused and listened for anyone outside while she tried to prepare the right balance between explanation and apology. Leaving the chain on, she twisted open the latch and eased back the door.

Nothing. Just darkness.

‘Hello?’ she said weakly.

Nothing.

She slid her arm through the door to activate the automatic lighting. The corridor flickered into color as she held her breath.

Nothing.

Tentatively, she slid off the chain and opened the door wider. She stepped forward, so she was in the doorway itself.

Nothing at all.

Not a sight, not a sound.

Exhaling, she stepped back and pushed the door closed. The furrow of puzzlement that formed automatically on her forehead was almost a relief after it had been stretched in terror for so long. She paused for a moment to think, turned, and peered back into her room to check all was still empty. She stepped into the eight square meter room which served as the rest of her apartment. She clicked the light switch as she moved through the door.

She set the kettle boiling before deciding caffeine was probably a bad idea and picked up a glass from the draining board instead. Before she even got it to the tap, she changed her mind again and grabbed the tin of hot chocolate from behind the coffee jar.

Drink made, she perched for a moment against the counter and sipped. A few more breaths, a few more sips, and she decided to take the drink back to bed; to get back on the horse, as it were.

Extinguishing lights as she left each room, she carried the steaming mug back into her bedroom where she suddenly froze in the dim lamplight as a fresh flush of fear arrived.

It was in this state she saw the curtains over her bed and realised the figure may not have been pointing at her, but at the window she’d slept beneath. She placed the warm chocolate on the nightstand and climbed onto her bed. Kneeling before the curtains, she carefully peeled them open, just enough to see out.

Immediately, she dropped them half-closed again.

At the edge of the wood, across the street, somebody was waving. A child. Not a wave of greeting. A wave of panic. Two arms, frantically gesturing for attention, for help. It was hard to tell in the moonlight but she thought she could see their lips moving. Were they shouting? Were they screaming for help?

Somewhere, in her head, it was decided the figure she’d seen had been trying to direct her to this. Instinct kicked in and she pushed down the handle at the centre of her window, pushing the left frame with her left hand and the right with her right, wide open so she could lean out and shout to the…

The child was gone.

The only movement outside was the reflective twin dots of a fox’s eyes as it looked up at her quizzically.

That’s when it came, the shove in her back.

She couldn’t tell if the scream came from behind her, from the fox, or from her own throat as she tumbled hopelessly into the night.

She didn’t hear the thud as she hit the ground, or the crack as her neck twisted too far, but she did see the windows above fold shut as her vision faded to black.

Across the street, a fox scuttled into the bushes.