A Rustle, a Tussle, and a Snap

It was a warm September day in 1953. Slowly she left the comforting confines of the taxi and began to walk up the path. Her skirt ruffled about her legs in the flowing autumn wind. Her mind was not on her actions today. An aging woman, she was still quite strong and held a fierce pride in being able to function autonomously every day...however she knew those days were slipping. She had thin gray hair, with streaks of white beginning to show. Wrinkles on her face had deepened as the years had gone by and laid on her all their toil and strife. Her soft blue eyes showed none of the general exhaustion of the rest of her body, and by her speech you would never think she was anything but an energetic young woman. She methodically searched her purse for the tiny copper key she knew so well, inserted it in the brass lock, when she heard the familiar metallic "click!", she removed the key and opened the large oak doors. She took a step inside the house, on the old chipped marble stones, and involuntarily drew in a quick breath.

The strangest sense of humankind is also the most useful. Some give it a name; call it a "sixth sense". Most don't bother...it is the very recognition of something gone wrong, sensing that things are not as they were, or as they should be...it is how the hunted somehow know their fate before the jaws of the hunter close around their neck. A sensation, a thought, a chill: It could be anything. Regardless of its origin, she sensed something the second her foot crosses into the stale darkness of her home.

It could have been the air had been disturbed by an intruder just moments before...but this was not the case. Someone was waiting for her...she knew...she feared. Or was it fear? She could not say...perhaps surprise? Her past had haunted her before...but this was not her past...no nostalgic sensations flowed through her...

As she hung her coat on the mantle and stepped out into the tea room, she heard a soft sound, like the rustle of a cat against a curtain...barely audible. She stopped and listened for a while. Hearing nothing she strode to her favorite chair. Woven like a basket, it had been bought from a street market in Madrid on a visit. It had soft, fluffy cushions, perfect for resting on. She preferred sleeping in this chair to her bed, although she knew it wasn't proper to sleep in a chair in one's tea room all the time.

Settling into the comfort of the chair, she thought over her plans for the evening. It was quiet out, and none of her friends had plans to do anything that she knew of. Suddenly sounds of a scuffle sounded from outside, most likely from the neighborhood pets...the dogs often fought she knew. Standing up, the woman walked across the room and shut the window. She began to walk back, but stopped and went back to close the curtains. One side had been tied too tight, and refused to come down. She yanked so hard that the thread used to tie it broke, issuing a loud "snap!". A little disgusted, but at least content to have a truly quiet evening the woman decided to have a cup of tea before bed.

Her kitchen was tiny, yet adequate. It had fine oak cabinets and a tiny bar that jutted out from one wall. Soft candlelight illuminated it tonight. Eerie shadows played out on the walls...the soft candlelight danced in a demonic fashion on the counter-top. She shuddered involuntarily as a fell breeze passed over her...as if some horror had just crossed the threshold of reality into her home. She hurried to the cupboard and pulled out a tea cup, then proceeded to walk over to the tea pot and set it on a warming burner. The fire leapt up suddenly, nearly burning her hand...the flames moved in an exotic fashion. Quietly, from below her she heard unearthly voices:

"Daemon propinquo! Daemon propinquo!"

She drew back in horror. The voices ceased as quickly as they had come. Her breathing came on faster. The tea pot began to softly whistle, slowly becoming louder and shriller in pitch. Voices softly rose up out of the ground.

"Praeteritus phasma phasmatis propinquo!"