Rabbits & Rum

There was just an ad for a Unabomber thing on the tv, & they showed this old lady who was saying "They asked me how I felt about my neighbor."

I glanced at the clock- two fifty-nine am- and got out of the bed. Drifting down the stairs, I didn't bother turning on any lights- I have great night vision, and the outdoor security lights twinkled in through the downstairs windows plenty. I stepped onto the porch, intending to sit on the steps and smoke a cigarette. After I lit the cigarette, I was too restless to sit, so I wandered out to the driveway, listening to the summer sounds of crickets and frogs merrily making their mating calls. As I got closer to the bottom of our driveway, I noticed shadows, but it was hard to make out what they were. One resembled a huge black dog, and the most distinct one looked like a man wearing some sort of Amish-looking hat. Mesmerized by the play of shadow and light, I nearly jumped out of my skin at a touch to my calf- Trevor's cat- OUR cat, now- Carl, was rubbing on my leg! I reached down to pet him absently, and when I looked back up, I couldn't see the shadows anymore. I stubbed out the smoke, shook my head, and hurried back in, up, up, to my safe bed.

The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming in and Trevor was up, running water in the bathroom. Confusedly, my mind did its usual review of my dreams, making a note to look up the meaning of a dream about a shadow of a dog, or man, when we got our internet set up. I got up to make my way outside for a cigarette...  looked down, and felt a chill. My feet had bits of grass and dirt stuck to them.

All day I tried to banish thoughts of the night before, and my dirty feet. As night drew near, I glanced out the window, fascinated by the play of light and shadow outside, yet also chilled, again thinking of my odd experience. DREAM, I told myself sharply. It was just a damn vivid DREAM.

Why the dirt on your feet, then? I asked myself mockingly, a few hours later, before falling into an uneasy sleep.

Two fifty-nine am. Again, someone calling my name. I bolted upright in the bed, and, without really questioning myself, made my way down the steps and padded into the kitchen, and out onto the porch. I lit a smoke, and watched the smoke curl up into the air in a plume. My eyes traveled down the edge of the yard, the driveway. As if sleepwalking, I made my way down the few steps that separated porch from driveway, and down the hill towards the end. And again, I saw the shadows, just as before; indistinct ones, and the big black dog, and Mr. Amish Hat Man. As if I had no control over them, my feet were moving forward, drawn to the street... If I just got closer, maybe I could see what was really there...

Just like the previous night, I jumped about a foot into the air when Carl the cat brushed my leg. I blinked, reached down to pet him, and the shadows were different, gone. Trembling, I threw my cigarette down and hurried in.

I didn't tell Trevor about the dreams, or whatever they were. He always thought I was silly when I talked about those kinds of things. Yet all through that week, and into the next, it continued to happen. Gradually, I saw a pattern emerge.

It was always two fifty-nine when I awoke. I was always drawn downstairs by the sound of someone calling my name. I always wound up in the driveway, and the shadows were always there. The cat always broke the spell by brushing my leg. And then, when it seemed it'd always be that way, forever, it changed.

That night I had slept well, initially. I awoke at two fifty-nine, hearing my name on the wind. I went downstairs, and outside, and into the driveway with my smoke. But this night, Mr. Amish Hat spoke to me.

"Hello! We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!" It didn't sound like the same voice that had called my name- yet, if I had been called on to describe that voice, I couldn't have. It was just a man's voice. Hoarsely, I murmured my thanks and asked him, inanely, where he lived.

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the lake, and I could get nothing more from him. But I had made a new friend. Every night, until the cat came to interrupt it, he and I would exchange greetings and the smallest of small talk. He never even told me his name, and I never gave him mine.

But he already knew it, didn't he?

So the man in the Amish hat knew my name. What of it? I speculated on this as the days slipped by, one after another, and our nightly "conversations" continued to happen. In the ancient folklore of certain cultures, your name was important. Someone that knew it had power over you. Silly thoughts, I knew. I tried to brush this aside... I even told myself I'd stop going outside at night. But who was I kidding? I had to have my cigarette when I awoke in the dead of night, and I wasn't going to smoke inside- Trevor had terrible asthma. I worked from home- I'm a writer- and I had no time for these thoughts to be intruding on my best work time, while the house was quiet and Trevor was at work. Yet it persisted, and many days went by during which I got next to nothing done.

One afternoon, while I was engaged in such daydreaming, I was jarred out of my reverie by the sound of brakes and tires squealing. I ran downstairs, and yanked the door open and gazed outside. At first, I saw nothing- then, as my vision focused on the street beyond our driveway, I saw a pitiful sight.

Carl, our darling cat, was lying in the road, abnormally still and bleeding. I ran down and scooped him up, trying to stop the bleeding with the bottom of my shirt, but it was useless. He was dead.

When Trevor came home, we both cried and found a box left over from the move on the porch that was a good size, and buried the poor kitty, after having our own little personal funeral for him.

I wasn't in the least shocked when I couldn't sleep that night. I had been more attached to the cat than I had let on; plus, it hurt me to see Trevor hurting, too. I did my usual share of tossing and turning until, once again, I sat upright, hearing my name. Again, it was two fifty-nine am. As usual, I meandered down the stairs, almost like a sleepwalker, and made my way onto the porch. There, I lit my cigarette and drifted to the steps, and out into the driveway... farther and farther down, where I could see my friends waiting for me: Black Dog, Mr. Amish Hat, and all of the rest of the gang were there. As usual, I couldn't quite tell if Mr. Amish's eyes were blacked out, or just covered in shadows. As I looked, I felt myself stepping closer and closer to him... closer and closer to the edge of the driveway. I looked down, feeling the texture of the pavement change slightly, and realized I had made it to the street.

Right as that happened, I heard the most sinister, guttural, unearthly growl, and felt a burning pinch at the back of my neck, then lost all awareness.