Let Me In*

***

Mom was hurriedly getting dressed. She was about to leave, but stopped at the door and asked:

— Aren’t you afraid to stay alone?

Mike was silent for a moment, then smiled and shook his head in response.

But his mom could see that behind his calm face, the boy was hiding sadness, maybe even fear. She approached him, knelt down, and put her arms around his shoulders:

— Just one night, that’s all. I was called into work urgently, and I can’t not go. The city hospital is already short-staffed, and now with this bus accident… You understand, right?

She paused for a moment, then added:

— Listen, if you’re afraid that again…

— Mom, — Mike interrupted her, — it’s fine. I’m almost ten, so you don’t need to worry anymore.

She nodded, walked to the door again, and, turning around, said:

— I made some chicken and a couple of sandwiches for you. If you get hungry, it’s all in the fridge. And don’t stay up too long—go to bed early. I think I’ll be home by morning, but not earlier, that’s for sure. Well, bye.

With that, she left, letting in for a moment the winter chill and the snow of the harsh February night.

Mike stood silently, listening to the wind howl outside and the old car engine warming up. This winter was very cold. Temperatures sometimes dropped to minus thirty-five degrees, and now the thermometer’s red line reached almost minus twenty-eight.

He didn’t stay home alone very often, and although this wasn’t the first time, he still didn’t like it when his mom was called to work, especially at night. Nevertheless, it had happened, and he stood in the middle of the hallway, watching the snow that had blown in through the door slowly melt on the floor. The car started moving, and a few seconds later, it could no longer be heard. The only sound in the house was the faint whistle of the wind outside.

— Alright, — Mike said to the empty house, glancing at the clock. — Everything’s fine, nothing scary. Right?

*"Yeah, right,"* his inner voice murmured. *"But why are your hands so sweaty when Mom mentioned Him? And where are you going to sleep? Are you really going to risk it? You do know that He only waits for you to be alone so no one can stop Him. Believe me, kid, His claws will reach you, and they’ll drag you away!"*

— No! — Mike involuntarily shouted. — That won’t happen!

The digital clock on the wall glowed with green numbers: 8:35 p.m. Shuffling his feet, he moved toward the kitchen.

*"I’ve got it all figured out: I’ll sleep in Mom’s room on her bed. I’ll set the alarm and in the morning, when it’s light, I’ll move back to my bed, and Mom won’t know anything, won’t think that I’m just making up excuses and being scared."*

On his way to the kitchen, he glanced at his open bedroom door and, hesitating, stopped.

*"Haven’t you wondered why, when you turned on the light and looked under the bed, He wasn’t there? And Mom, coming in after your noise, would calm you down, saying it’s just your imagination, making you look like a fool in front of her. But you and I know you’re not a fool. He fears the light and hides at the first sign of danger. He can come out from under the bed. He…"*

*"Enough! Pull yourself together!"*

*"... can move. He can even come out."*

Mike stood silently, staring into the darkness of his room with his small brown eyes. Goosebumps ran over his body as he remembered feeling the heavy breathing of the monster beneath his bed at night; feeling that as soon as a hand or foot was lowered, He would grab it with long clawed paws; feeling that if he fell asleep, He would come out from under the bed and…

— It’s just your imagination, Mike, — a voice he’d heard from Mom at night echoed in his head. — Believe me, there are no monsters or ghosts. What you see and take for real is just shadows playing tricks, the product of your imagination.

These words often calmed him. But now it was different—he was alone! Mom wasn’t nearby, and if danger came, no one would save him or rush to help in the middle of the night.

His throat felt dry. Mike swallowed and stepped back from the door, closing it tightly. *"Okay, calm down, stop shaking! Everything’s fine, you’re already a big boy."* He stood near the door for a while longer, then went to the kitchen.

Their old house stood almost on the edge of the village, and from the kitchen window, the beginning of the endless forest was visible, sleeping under a snowy blanket for almost three months. He stared thoughtfully out the window. The strong wind drove the snowflakes from side to side with such force that it even hid the treetops. Mike took a bottle of cold water from the windowsill and sipped to wet his dry throat.

As he looked at the forest, he suddenly remembered last summer, one evening when he and his friends went to a garden to steal apples from a blind crazy old woman. Strangely, he hadn’t thought about it for a long time and didn’t want to remember, but now it all came back vividly. It made Mike uneasy. He tried to push away these frightening thoughts, but they sank into him completely, pulling him back to that night.

A couple of weeks before they went to the garden for apples, her husband disappeared—got lost in the forest or something like that. Rumors said she had killed him, and someone allegedly saw her carrying a huge sack with his body into the forest at night. Be that as it may, after her husband’s disappearance, she had “lost her mind.” Strange screams and howls constantly came from her house. Passersby often saw her sitting on the steps, muttering to herself. They saw her arguing with herself, walking around the house with a lit candle, lying on the ground rolling back and forth, even running with a knife across her huge beautiful garden.

Of course, Mike and the three friends who went to steal apples understood the danger, but the situation seemed favorable: this old witch slept soundly at night and probably saw and heard nothing. Grandpa was dead (even if by her hand), and in case of danger, no one would care.

One summer night, they climbed over her low fence and started deciding who would climb the tree. The full moon shone, and it illuminated everything perfectly in the dark. Mike lost a bet and climbed the tree; the others stood below, catching the apples he threw down. At that moment, as they were about to leave, strange wheezing and moaning came from the house. They froze, hoping not to be noticed. Moments later, the door burst open so violently that it nearly flew off its hinges, and on the steps appeared the enormous naked body of the old woman. Startled, Mike fell from the tree almost onto the porch. He didn’t feel pain but saw a glinting axe in her hand under the moonlight. She moved it side to side, like a blind man probing with a stick, slicing through the warm night air. Foam dripped from her mouth. Her lips moved constantly, greedily gulping air while muttering something. Mike wanted to run, but fear and some unknown force rooted him in place. He sat frozen, afraid that any movement would trigger the witch’s attack. At that moment, she didn’t seem blind at all. Her bloodshot, animalistic eyes searched for prey. Looking into them, Mike understood—she had killed her husband, struck him down with that very axe.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, he heard the others fleeing in panic. The witch screamed and lunged at him but fell to the ground after breaking a step with her weight. This brought Mike back to himself. He jumped up and ran for his life. Behind him echoed the blood-curdling screams of the fat witch. He ran, gasping for breath, fearing he might fall, but the terror that she might still get up and chase him drove him faster. Mike didn’t remember how he got home, only that he lay in bed shaking with fear, thinking the witch was still chasing him, and that any moment he might hear the axe hitting the front door…

Weeks later, one of the four who had gone to the garden disappeared. His body was never found. Officially, it was claimed the boy got lost in the forest due to inexperience. But the remaining friends knew what really happened.

His stomach growled a little. Mike opened the fridge and took out the two sandwiches his mom had prepared. His stomach didn’t feel hungry enough to eat a piece of juicy chicken, but the sandwiches were perfect fuel. He went to the stove, lit the gas, struck a match, and set the kettle to boil.

The wind grew stronger. He could see snow being driven side to side outside, already hiding nearly the entire forest in its density. Mike sat and ate the first sandwich.

Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. The sound was so loud and clear that Mike froze. His heart began racing wildly.

*"While you were sitting here, He came out. He’s coming for you!"*

The paralyzing fear made him unable to move or even chew the bite of sandwich left in his mouth.

*"Calm down, pull yourself together. You only imagined it."*

Mike closed his eyes to focus and calm down, but instead, a shiver ran from head to toe. Forcibly, he swallowed almost a quarter of the sandwich and listened. He sat motionless for five minutes, but there were no creaks, no steps, no signs that anyone else was in the house. Only the rustle of wind outside and the ticking of a small clock near the sugar bowl could be heard. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and looked at his hands, goosebumps covering them from fear.

*"Wow, you almost crapped yourself from fear,"* his inner voice laughed. *"Go check it out!"*

Mike remained seated, staring at the doorway, thinking something might crawl out of him at any moment. But nothing happened.

*"Go and check it, coward!"* continued the inner voice.

*"Why check it? I only imagined it, I can just sit here peacefully…"*

*"What if He is hiding? What if He waits until you ignore the creak?"*

God! Why are these thoughts entering my head?!

*"Maybe it was just the wind that made something creak."*

*"Or maybe it’s just Him. Don’t be a wimp, go!"*

It’s better to go check than to sit here in fear thinking someone is in the house.

He slowly rose from the chair, struggling. His legs shook violently. It felt as if weights were tied to them, and he couldn’t move. He rubbed his sweaty palms and forced himself to calm down. Taking a few deep breaths, Mike stepped slowly and uncertainly toward the door. Pressing his shoulder against the wall, he cautiously peeked into the darkness. His bedroom door was closed, the corridor leading to the exit was empty, Mom’s room was also closed. There was no reason to be afraid.

*"Then what was it? I clearly heard something creak. Maybe it was just the wind? Yes, exactly! What else?"*

This thought was the first reassuring explanation. He stood in the doorway, feeling fear slowly releasing, muscles relaxing.

Behind him, the kettle whistled so loudly that he jumped and bit his tongue, drawing blood. This loud whistle frightened him even more than the floorboard creak. Mike spun around. His heart raced. He moved toward the kettle, accidentally knocking over the knife stand with his elbow. Knives clattered to the floor. His heart thumped even harder, as if it might leap from his chest.

*"Oh God, why now, of all moments! Damn it, damn it, damn it!"*

Mike turned off the kettle and started picking up the fallen knives. The whistling slowly faded. His breathing gradually returned to normal. No one appeared in the doorway, and no creaking sounds followed. He put the knife stand back and poured himself tea, sitting down to finish the second sandwich. He didn’t really want to eat, but Mom always scolded him for leaving food uneaten. The hot tea brought him back to himself slightly. Sweat appeared on his forehead; he felt warm.

After finishing the tea and sandwich, Mike went to his mom’s room. He opened the door and, for a moment in the dark, thought someone was sitting in the far corner. Nervously, he groped the wall to find the light switch. Fear vanished as the room filled with bright yellow light, and he saw it was only Mom’s jacket hanging on a chair. The pleasant scent of her perfume hit his nose, making him wish Mom were there right now. They could play cards or watch TV together. But he was alone. Outside were the darkest nights of the year. With the strengthening wind, the old house creaked more and more, creating frightening sounds that made Mike go crazy. He closed the door and lay down on the bed under the window, hands behind his head.

*"That’s it. All done. Doors closed, lights off, no one dragged you anywhere. Everything’s fine!"*

He shifted toward the edge of the bed. Looking at the clock, it was 9:25 p.m. Mike set the alarm for six a.m.

*"Of course, it’s childish, I could watch TV or read, but better to sleep."*

He wanted to fall asleep quickly and forget the nightmare of the evening, wishing Mom would return soon. He took off his shirt and pants, turned off the light, and climbed into the cold bed that hadn’t warmed yet. Mike closed his eyes, and sleep quickly wrapped him in warm, sweet arms. His last thought was how nice it would be to have a TV in his room too.

Scrape, scrape…

Somewhere deep in his sleep, Mike heard someone fiddling with the keyhole, or…

*"Mom came? But she promised to return by morning (the scraping continued), so why didn’t the alarm go off?"*

His thoughts were murky and heavy. His eyes refused to open. Some unknown sound prevented him from continuing to sleep. He wanted to hold on to the fleeting sleep, but it was too late. He reluctantly opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him—it definitely wasn’t Mom, who had promised to return no earlier than morning.

The scraping sound repeated, and Mike realized with horror that it wasn’t Mom fumbling with the key, but the sound of glass scraping. His whole body trembled in fear. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping it was only a dream. But the sound repeated.

— Let me in, — a hoarse voice called from the window. — Let me in…

Mike tried to convince himself it was just a realistic dream, but his mind clearly said otherwise, making it feel even more real. He was alone at home, and someone outside was scratching the glass, begging to be let in.

— Let me in…

The voice sounded familiar, as if he’d heard it somewhere before. Panic gripped Mike. His whole body was paralyzed with fear. He curled up, biting and clutching the blanket, closing his eyes tightly, telling himself it would soon be over.

— … le-e-e… let me in… — the terrible voice continued to hiss outside.

Something had to be done. What was outside clearly knew and saw that someone was lying in the bed. Mike slowly turned his head, every movement costing him effort.

*"God, let this not be true, let it just be a nightmare. God, let me wake up, let me wake up!"*

From the corner of his eye, he saw a hunched figure in the darkness. Its eyes burned red. Something was staring into the darkness. Its hand moved over the glass, producing that scrape.

*"God! It’s Him! It’s Him! But why is He at the window, why didn’t He come through the door?"*

— Let me in… — it rasped again.

No, it wasn’t the monster from under the bed. Mike recognized the voice. It was the old crazy woman from whose garden they stole apples! The woman who killed her husband with an axe and now came for him!

*"God, let her go. What does she want? Let her go!"*

Mike remained motionless, his body paralyzed. Terror crushed him, preventing even a breath. Glass shattered, and he saw a bloodied hand reaching for him.

— Let me in, kid, — she rasped. — Let me…

Blood dripped onto the blanket. Her long arm was almost over him. Mike wanted to scream but only a pitiful hoarse sound came out. He jumped up and ran in total darkness, seeing nothing, falling off the bed and hitting his head hard. Sparks flew from his eyes, his ears rang. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to the door.

— Let me in! Let me in! — the voice behind him grew louder.

A new crash of glass sounded. Shards fell onto the windowsill, and the harsh cold wind, along with snow, burst into the room. Mike frantically tried to find the doorknob but failed. The shards continued to fall on the sill. He turned and saw the bloodied, jagged glass body trying to crawl through the window. It seemed stuck in the small opening.

— Let me in! Let me in! — the old woman screamed.

Mike trembled with fear. Finally, he found the doorknob and pulled it with all his strength. The door gave way, hitting him in the head. Agonizing pain shot through him. Blood poured from a laceration on his forehead, covering his face. He fell to his knees, holding the handle with a trembling hand. Behind him, the woman continued to scream, seemingly moments from reaching him. He pressed his other hand to his forehead and felt the blood trickle under his palm. The pain splitting his head seemed far worse than fear. The room grew colder. The invading wind gave him goosebumps all over.

— Let me in! Let me in!

Mike realized that if he didn’t stand now, he would lose consciousness, and the witch would get him. Summoning his remaining strength and holding the bloodied door, he struggled to his feet. Shaking, he went into the corridor, closing the door behind him. The witch continued making incoherent sounds. Mike was no longer so afraid of her but realized he could faint, and then it would be over. His head split with pain. His eyes were smeared with dried blood. Leaning on the walls, he staggered into the kitchen. Outside, the witch never stopped. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the largest knife, and pressed his back against the sink cabinet