When the sun goes down

It was an ordinary evening, distinguished from others only by the new drink on my table, and that was all. The sun had long since disappeared behind the huge high-rise buildings in the distance, and the sky had turned orange, almost red. It was a simply magnificent sight. I kept watching the sunset, listening to some second-rate music and replying to my friends on social media. I was in a great mood, and even, dare I say it, romantic. It was strange for a prude like me, but it still happened, albeit occasionally. Ah, I must have had too much to drink...

And the sun continued to set, painting the sky an ever-brighter crimson, adding even more beauty to the small town and its new buildings.

From the kitchen came the disgruntled meow of my ginger cat. The cat came up to me, rubbed against my legs, and meowed again, as if apologizing for yesterday's mess and the broken vase. I poured some food into his bowl, and he began to eat—no, devour—it, purring contentedly.

Satisfied with the work I'd done, I went back to my room, closing the door so the cat could come in undisturbed. Sitting down in my usual black chair, I settled back into social media. Oblivious to the gathering darkness, I continued staring at my laptop, occasionally sipping an alcoholic drink from a can.

Meanwhile, something moved on the balcony.

The movement alerted me, because blaming the poor ginger cat for everything—he was sleeping in another room. The door to the balcony was right across from my desk. Damn these planners—why is it like that?!

 My gaze fell upon mountains of junk, arranged in piles. You know, you could hide a company of soldiers there, let alone a ghost, and five more would fit in there.

Something continued rustling through the junk, which could easily be attributed to the wind, but the weather wasn't windy at all.

Turning on the light was pure torture. One move—whoosh, you're spotted, and that's it, you're dead. And if you're not dead, you'll definitely shit your pants.

It seemed to have stopped: there was the sound of a box flying away and a metallic scraping sound, sending shivers down your spine in a matter of seconds. I was already starting to bury myself or mentally write a suicide note. Mentally, because my hands were shaking and I couldn't write anything with them.

 Something white and terribly bony flashed across the balcony, disgusting to the point of vomiting, with sparse hairs.

To say I was terrified would be an understatement. Clenching my hands into fists, I pressed myself into the chair, silently praying for this to end quickly and never happen to me again.

The monster continued to wreak havoc, and I didn't mind: anything, just leave me alone...

Then I saw its hand: bony, broken, with numerous small bumps and long iron rods instead of nails, which were the source of the grinding sound. My imagination began to conjure up terrifying images of what "it" might do to me. I became so terrified that I could hear my heart pounding, and my hands shook worse than an old woman's.

 It stood up to its full height, and I could see the creature's back: a deformed spine, two rods protruding from its shoulder blades, and a bald head with sparse but long hair, twitching and bending at an impossible angle.

At this tragic moment, I burst into tears, and the creature sensed this—it began to slowly turn.

That's when I saw "it" in all its glory: two cat ears sewn crookedly to its forehead, two small green eyes, pieces of rebar protruding from its gums and dripping with very human blood, and there were definitely over three hundred teeth. It sagged, and its bones broke, making an unnatural sound, like breaking foam.

I closed my eyes and silently recited some prayers, shaking and crying. Opening my eye for a second, I saw it licking the door with its long tongue and looking at me with its tiny green eyes, moving its iron rod-wings and making that nasty, chilling grinding sound.

I couldn't take it anymore and passed out.

And then I woke up. It was morning, when the sun was shining brightly and the birds were singing their simple songs, circling in the sky.

I looked around the room: everything was as it had been. So the monster hadn't gotten in here. With a sigh of relief, I opened the balcony door. The old boxes, cans, and Soviet-era sleds were all still in place.

Could it really be a dream?

I'd like to think so, but the drops of saliva mixed with blood on the balcony floor suggested otherwise.