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It's coming.

Can't you feel it? That chill in the night? The house you live in, alone, creaking as winter sets in and you just know- it's not the branches knocking on your window, it's not the rain pounding down upon your roof, threatening to crush it, as if that was what each raindrop was made for- to destroy your roof.

No. Those aren't It. Something else is. Something other than branches, chills, and rain drops. Something other than the united mindset that nature brings upon you: to destroy you. No. Those are merely symptoms, merely signs that It, It with a capital I, It, the thing that cannot be named, It, something that shares something with nature:

It's coming for you.

Can't you hear them? Your parents died years ago; is that even a car grinding its way against the rain pouring down from the little hill you live upon. Is that a car? Is It in the car? Is it even a car?

Is the car really there?

You open your curtains and peer out the window. The rain is getting heavier- that's a fact- and those are definitely two lights, two very, very bright lights, peering out from the darkness. And that is definitely the sound of a car's engine idling-

The headlights shut off.

You scoot back from the window in sheer terror. Wild thoughts run through your head-? was that a car? Was it even there? Am I going crazy?

Is It here?

You finally take a deep breath and go back to the window. The yellow curtains that your mother got you when you first moved here sits there, unmoving, silent watchers of the darkness outside. Minions. It.

Shaking, you grab the curtains for balance, and look back outside.

The darkness is thicker now, and the rain falls down even harder. You don't know if the creaks are from the cold weather or the rain. Taking a quick scan of the black outside, you fail to spot any sign of a car. Even the lone streetlight illuminating your driveway is obscured by the rain- all you see is a little shimmer of orange peering out from the dark mist-

-Is that mist? Is It the mist?

Is It here?

You quickly draw the curtains back, shivering in a cold sweat. Just before the curtains shut off your view of the outside world, you see the orange light suddenly and inexplicably vanish.

Sweat is pouring from your forehead now, even though the air-conditioning in the stuffy bedroom is off. (It's just the chills, it's just winter, it'll pass, I'll go to sleep, and it-)

It.

The creaks scream out from behind your door. Cold, rain, or It? You cannot tell. But you must. If it is indeed the rain trying to destroy your last form of shelter, is it not advisable to try and stop the rain from destroying your home? Your home that you bought using all that money- your wife used to tell you to stop working, that your small apartment was enough. But you had dreams, and those dreams had to be fulfilled-

Creak.

You take a deep breath and reach out towards the knob.

At first, you almost jerk your hand back in shock- the knob is ice cold. But you gain control of yourself and grip the knob, its own winter creeping up your very own driveway, freezing your arm, numbing your fingers.

But then your sleepy mind drifts off-course, back to It. You've seen It in your dreams; sometimes It is a man, sometimes a woman; sometimes a millionaire, sometimes a beggar; sometimes a soldier fighting off in a foreign war that he never knew the causes of, and sometimes the leader who ordered the soldier there in the first place; sometimes the demons of Hell, sometimes the angels of Heaven, and sometimes, God or Satan themselves.

But sometimes It is not physical- It might be an idea of rebellion, maybe the piece of paper sentencing the rebellious man to death. Maybe an invention- for good or for evil, it does not matter. It was It. And sometimes It was just that- It. Nothing more, nothing less. It is It, and It will always be It. Its forms are merely vessels to carry It to your world, to invade it, silently, like cancer invading a victim.

It was It.

And when you hear those creaks coming from behind your door again, and when you realize how numb, how unfeeling your fingers are, and when you feel the blood rushing in and out of your head-?? Is It real? Is It false? Is It...It?

You scream out in fright and, jumping back, land on your back on your bed.

Is It out there? Maybe It was the car, shutting off in the thick mist of night and the clouds that cover the ground below. Is It searching for you? Has It found you?

Is It coming for you?

Is It right behind your door?

Is It gripping the knob, not feeling the iciness of the knob, because It is It, and not a human being?

Is It turning it now?

Is It...you?

Now you feel it. Now you feel the chills that come on during winter. Now you feel the fear, you taste the fear, you? embrace? the fear that was here, that was always here, that was always yours, but never came out. No, never- not until tonight. Not even when Sara was in that car crash with your parents- no, you couldn't do it then! You couldn't show your soft side when things were bad! But things are bad now, and you show the fear.

Every creak, every raindrop that falls on your roof, every bolt of lightning scorching an unmarked portion of the earth- you hear it. You know it's there- you know It's there- you know It's? here. You know It is the rain, you know It is the curtains, your bed, the knob, the creaks, the house, everything you ever knew- Sara, your parents, the job, your dream, earth, the moon, Saturn, Pluto (which wasn't a planet anymore, but did it matter?), the Solar System, the Universe, time, space: Everything.

And finally, with a sickening realization, you realize It is here. It has always been a part of your life, It has been your life, It...

...is you.

You scream. You scream, not because you can, but because you want to. Why you? Why only you? Why this universe, and not any other universes? Time? It could traverse time, you were sure- why not the infinite number of parallel universes that spring up every minute? Every second? Millisecond? Nanosecond? Every piece of? time?

Because It is It, and It is the Universe, and It is everything. It is nothing, It is something. It is everything and nothing at the same time. It is It.

And you yell, and you know that the raindrops were here, always here, because they were It;? they wanted to drown your voice out so no one- It- could hear it, not even the occupant of the car, not even the man walking down the street-

-But It is everything.

And you yell. You scream, you pull out your hair, you bang on the door. And finally you sit down in a corner and cry, the sobs echoing throughout the house, the empty house, It.

It is here. It has always been here.

They found your body at dawn. Seemingly a heart attack. Why? Nobody knows, nobody cares.

Paperwork got mixed up, some coffee spilled- the case was closed as suicide. Why? Nobody knows, nobody cares.

Nobody had been able to gather enough facts for anything, really, so it didn't matter if the case was open or closed for investigation.

What everybody did know, however, was that your neighbor heard the screams fifteen minutes after he parked his car. They were loud enough that they pierced through the thunderstorm.

By the time your neighbor got to your house and knocked on its giant oak door, the rain had stopped. The night was clear. The clouds were gone. The moon was emitting and sharing its bright, white light to the people of the earth. One couldn't even tell if it had rained that night.



Written by 41488p
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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