It's just past one a.m. on a breathless, fog-shrouded night in Northern California. I'm eleven, and I should be dreaming about Jimmy, my fifth grade crush with the long, surfer dude hair, and the blue eyes rimmed by thick, dark lashes. Instead, I'm holding my breath and listening for all I'm worth because someone or something is right outside my bedroom window. I hear the brush of a body, squeezing through the narrow space between the house and the juniper tree.
I can easily pass through that narrow space. Done it tons of times. All I gotta do is open the window, scramble out onto the nearest branch of the juniper and slide down.
But this thing does not get through so easily.
I should jump out of bed and go get Daddy.
Mr. Klosten. That creepy old man who lives next door. He's always working on his garden next to our side of the property. I'll bet it's him.
What if I just tiptoed to the window and threw back the curtains? That'd give him a good scare.
But what if I saw something really creepy? Like a monster face from The Twilight Zone?
Still, I have this irrational impulse to just open the window and make a stupid face.
I really should go get Daddy. But then he'd go out there with a kitchen knife and whack the bushes and make deep, scary noises. Then whoever's out there would skedaddle really quick.
I'm just gonna lie here and imagine the worst. It wouldn't be so fun if I knew for sure it was Mr. Klosten.
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