witching hour

The wind howls through the trees, branches creaking in the night as they tap on the windows like anxious fingers.

You lie awake on the floor, curled tight in your sleeping bag, wondering if anyone else has managed to fall asleep.

Veronica invited all the girls in class to this slumber party, even you and Molly, who rarely says a word, and your mom convinced you to come.

“It’s good to make friends,” she told you while she cut up chicken with rhythmic thunks of the cleaver. “Especially when you’re the new kid.”

So you called Veronica and told her you’d come. Your mom bought you a new pair of pajamas and you left Snuffles resting against your pillow because you’ve heard the other girls say stuffed animals are for babies and you’re going to try making friends.

But now you wish you’d brought Snuffles. Or, better yet, that you hadn’t come in the first place.

You don’t remember who made the first suggestion. You just know that what started with the “Thriller” music video turned into stories of women with ribbons around their necks that turned into the story of the house next door.

“Nobody heard her scream,” Hailey said as everyone burrowed into their sleeping bags. The flashlight gave her face a gruesome twist and your stomach knotted as you told yourself it was just a story. “They say she still taps on the windows, waiting for someone to let her in. But if you do, she’ll be the last thing you see.”

And now you’re lying here, wide awake and shaking, as the branches tap tap tap on the windowpanes.

You tell yourself it’s just the wind. You don’t believe in ghosts. Not the kind that walk through walls or tap on windows, at least. You’ve been raised by rational, but superstitious, people. Your mother, with her frequent knocking of wood and throwing of salt. Your nana, with her fear of shadows and solitary magpies. Ghosts may exist, but you don’t believe they’re going to reach out and grab you.

You repeat the mantra as the wind howls and the tapping becomes more insistent. You are safe. No ghosts will harm you. You are safe.

You’ve just decided to shut your eyes when a hand — small and bony and unbreakably fragile — closes around your wrist. You want to scream, but there is no sound in your throat. You blink through the darkness, scrambling for a flashlight, when you realize it’s only Molly.

“Can you come with me?” she whispers.

She speaks so rarely that you’re surprised by the sound of her voice. A shiver runs down your spine.

“Where?” you ask.

“Kitchen,” she says. “I need water.”

You want to tell her to call for Veronica’s mom. You want to say she’s on her own. But her voice is trembling, so you nod and sit up, carefully unzipping yourself from the sleeping bag. Molly tiptoes around the other girls and you follow, careful to step where she does, hoping you avoid the squeaky floorboards.

In the kitchen, you’re afraid to wake someone up, so you keep your hand over the flashlight to dampen the light. It lends the glow a strange color and you study it for a moment, follow the map of veins running through your skin.

Molly opens the refrigerator and the light makes you blink for a second. She shuts the door, water bottle in hand, uncaps it and takes a drink. You blink again. Despite the dark of the kitchen, you catch the quiver of a shadow from the corner of your eye. You look around. None of the outside lights are on, and the kitchen windows seem endlessly dark as your eyes trail over them.

And suddenly, it is quiet.

Not a sound.

A deathly hush falls over the seconds.

You blink.

“I’ve seen death,” you remember your nana saying. “I’ve seen it in the corner of my eyes. A shadow passing where no light could be. A presence.”

You feel it.

There are fingers around your wrist again and you almost scream. Molly tugs gently.

“Come on,” she says.

You nod, lower the flashlight to illuminate your path back.

And stop.

There is a tapping on the window.

You want to believe it’s the branches again, but you can feel the stillness, even from in here. There is no wind. There are no branches.

Someone — something — wants to come in.

Molly’s breathing faster now, and you’re trying to calm your own heart. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold. But it races, frantic and leporine. You feel the throbbing in your throat now. You wonder if Molly can hear it.

Thumpthump. Thumpthump.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

There will be crescent moons in your wrist tomorrow where Molly’s squeezing you. You feel the distant heat of blood welling between your skin and hers and wonder if she knows that she’s hurting you.

Tap.

You cling to each other.

Outside, an owl calls once, twice, three times.

Once for each soul it’s taking to Hell, you hear your nana say. Nothing’s safe in the witching hour.

Your hand shakes as you uncover the flashlight, lift it toward the window.

Molly gasps quick and sharp and deep, drops the water bottle. The cap shoots across the room, rattling over the tile as it ricochets into the darkness.

The water is cold against your toes and you shiver. 

There is nothing at the window.

And yet…

You point the flashlight at the ground and give Molly a tug, hoping she’ll follow you back to the living room. You will go to sleep and wake up with everyone else. Nothing will happen. You are safe. No ghosts will harm you. You are safe.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

You turn around and face the window. Molly is silent but for her frantic breaths. You step forward, her grip breaking from your wrist, and make your way to the window.

You stretch, curl your fingers over the edge, push up, and…