Tink

Tink.

Tink.

My eyes fly open. I look first to the window, which is blissfully empty, then to the clock’s glowing red numbers. 2:00. Of course it’s two in the morning. That’s always when the rocks hit my window.

Well, it used to be. It’s been months since the last time.

I look again to the window, searching for any shadow or sign of him. The only shadow is the long skeletal finger of the naked branch outside. I’m glad it’s November and the window’s closed tight. Even though it’s glass, it makes me feel safer, like there’s a layer between me and whatever lurks outside.

I wait for another stone, my gaze bouncing between the window and the clock. When the clock hits 2:07 and there hasn’t been another one, I start to think I imagined it. Maybe it was a sound in my dream, something my brain transferred to the world around me. Maybe it was the tree branch, swaying and tapping on the glass.

I roll over and pull the comforter up high, tucking it in tight around my neck and ear. With the sounds of the world muffled, I drift back off to sleep.

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Tink.

For the second night in a row, the sound of pebbles on glass wakes me. This time I’m pretty sure I wake with first tiny stone. I feel like I’ve only been half asleep, my brain merely floating on the edges of dreamland, listening and waiting for this sound.

Tink.

I check the clock, even though I know what it will say.

2:00. It’s always, always 2:00.

I sit up and lean toward the glass. I can’t see the yard below, just the tree branch whose shadow stretches across my bedroom floor in the splash of moonlight. I could get up, move closer, look down. Just the thought makes my heart jump into a sprint.

I won’t look.

I stare at the glass, wanting to see if it really is rocks or the tree branch that has woken me again. But there’s nothing. When I peel my eyes from the glass, the clock reads 2:16.

I flop back and stare up at the ceiling until sunlight crawls into the room.

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On the third night, I try to stay awake, stay up and alert, ready for the sounds when they come. But last night’s short sleep catches me sometime after midnight. I don’t know I’m asleep until the sound breaks into my slumber.

Tink.

I don’t have to throw back the covers since I’m sprawled on top. I dart to the window, since I’ve realized my time is short. I only get two tinks.

I crouch down at the wall, my fingers on the sill, and slowly lift my head so that my eyes can peer out into the night.

Tink.

The second stone almost makes me scream. It almost makes me pee my pants. It totally tips me over onto the floor. I clamber back up and peek again, desperate to see what’s there, equally desperate to have missed it.

I’m just in time to see his back. He’s already turned to walk away. His head turns, looks over his shoulder. His eyes find my window as if drawn by a magnet. As if drawn by me. He sees me seeing him. He winks. Then walks away.

I slump to the floor, my heart slamming the adrenaline through me. He’s back. He knows that I know he’s back. And that wink. It means something. He’s thinking something, planning something. But what?

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I must have fallen asleep. I remember sitting there under my window, trying to figure out what he would do next, what I should do next. I remember the sun slanting in through the window, spilling across my feet. And then nothing.

The clock says 2:00 again. But this time it’s the afternoon, my room full of afternoon sunshine. I missed class. But, really, could I have gone anyway? Three nights of interrupted or absent sleep would not have gone well.

Twelve hours until he visits again.

I consider leaving, calling a friend and asking to stay with them. I consider boarding over my window. I consider burning down the house, honestly.

Twelve hours is a long time to ponder a problem, predict what’s coming next and imagine how you’ll deal with it. And yet by 1:58, long after the sun has tipped over the horizon and given the sky to the moon, I still have no idea what this night will bring. I have no idea what I will do.

What does he want?

I pry myself from the window and sit on the edge of the bed. I’ve looked out the pane of glass so many times that I still see the sidewalk below, a sharp white in contrast to the winter dark lawn.

Tink.

He’s here.

I step to the window and look down. There’s no reason to try to hide. We both know that I’m standing here, looking down on him, waiting for him to throw the next stone.

Tink.

I lift my hand and press my palm flat to the cool glass. He steps toward me. I imagine the crunch of the crystallized blades of grass beneath his shoes as step after step draws him closer to me.

He starts to climb.

I could open the window, give him a way to come inside. That’s what I did months ago, the last time he came to see me before our long break. I waited, though, until he reached the top, until he placed his hand against the glass, our palms warming the thin layer that separated us.

So I wait. Once he reaches the top of the trellis, he stretches out a hand, mirroring me.

The glass doesn’t warm.

I repeat my motions of months ago. I slide my hand down, let it join the other on the sash of the window. I lift the window. He smiles, like before.

Before he thought I was letting him in, like I had done night after night. But that night he was wrong. Instead of welcoming him, I reached out and shoved.

It wasn’t an accident. I was careful with my air, careful to push him toward the concrete of the driveway.

Tonight, though, I have no plan to push him away.

I’m smart enough to know you can’t kill a ghost.