They’re lying in bed, reading together, the first time they hear the noise: something heavy dragging against the side of their little cabin.
Arthur lifts his head. John pauses in his reading so they can listen. There’s nothing, for long enough that Arthur starts to think about dropping it and going back to the book he has marked with this finger.
Then it comes again.
“It’s on the porch,” John whispers in Arthur’s head.
Slowly, carefully, Arthur slides out of bed and plants his feet on the cool planks of the floor.
It could be an animal, he wants to say to John. It could be something blown up from the ocean. He hasn’t survived this long by allowing fear of the unknown to dictate his life. He doesn’t say of these things because…well. He also hasn’t survived this long by ignoring his instincts.
And those instincts tell him not to make any noise right now.
There’s a window near the door. Arthur moves toward it, only for his feet to stop moving of their own volition somewhere at about arm’s reach.
The sound comes again—something heavy, something big, being dragged against the wall. Arthur stares where he knows the window is. He knows, with every fiber of him, that if he pulled aside the drapes, something would be staring in at them. He can’t move.
John can. Arthur feels the shift of muscles in his arm and shoulder as John reaches for the drapes and twitches them aside.
He sucks in a breath. “It’s an eye,” he tells Arthur breathlessly. “A huge, orange eye. It’s filling most of the…bottom pane…”
“John?”
“It’s…dark. Around the…it’s…blocking the stars…” His voice trails off, unsteady, uncertain, and Arthur would ask again except that he begins to feel it too.
He can feel it staring at him. Feel it willing him. Its size, and age, and…and it’s calling him. It’s summoning them. Arthur takes a step for the door. He needs to open it.
“Arthur…” Is it a sigh? A protest? He wants to open his mouth to ask John, but… He takes another step, and is close enough to reach the front door knob. Opening it would be colossally stupid.
He opens it.
“I can’t see the stars,” John breathes. “I can’t see anything but…it.” There’s a stirring in his head, as though John is trying to collect himself and failing.
“Those eyes,” is all he manages.
Yes. Arthur knows those eyes. He can feel them. He walks toward them. He knows better, but…it’s soothing, to obey. The allure, the pleasure of it, is like cool water pouring over his fevered skin. The awareness of danger feels far away, as if it belongs to some other Arthur. The man they left behind in the cabin, who had the sense not to move the curtain.
“Yes,” John almost moans. “It’s reaching for us.”
It cups them. Curls around them, bracing against the back of their thighs, their waist, their shoulders to pull them toward it. He goes with it. He has no choice. His body prefers to obey it rather than him.
It looms over them like shelter. Like infinite cool darkness. He thinks he whimpers. Or is that John? He’s not sure if it’s fear or anticipation.