Can Call

by Isabelle Neely ‘24

Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, 10 paces across the hard wooden floor, check the windows, two steps to the left, rattle the knob three times, touch the counter, touch the picture frames, turn around, open the door, look outside

The eyes shine with an unnatural white light, two tiny pinpricks in the harsh darkness that engulfs the yard and the vast woods beyond My father died two months ago and since I’ve returned home it ’ s impossible to see anything in the gloom The waning crescent of the moon is cloaked by thick, angry clouds My eyes trace the yard Rusted beer cans find their home under the porch, some of them so faded, it ’ s impossible to tell which substance filled them in the first place, while others looked more timely. As though it has been mere hours not months since they’ve come to rest in the mud. Car parts cover most of the available space, with any distinguishable features long since worn away like the smooth white bones of some ancient beast. At the very edge of the property bones jumble together, belonging to those creatures unfortunate enough to cross the threshold between the forest’s domain and ours. The grass grows to my waist having suffered years of neglect and weeds had taken free rein over the garbage that filled the yard. The weeds love the garbage, they wind together in heaps of filth. It is their mission to ruin the earth our cabin was built on, to choke any goodness capable of growing there. The rotting porch groans beneath my feet. My grip on the door frame weakens. The eyes move with me. Headlights in the distance The slow orientation of stars They trace my sudden jerky movements with freakish precision If I squint and tilt my head just so I can make out the bloated, contorted shape behind the eyes Its gait is staggering and unnatural, as spindly limbs twist themselves into a movement that just barely resembles a walk The first deer of the season I close the door

Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, 10 paces across the hard wooden floor, check the windows, two steps to the left, rattle the knob three times, touch the counter, touch the picture frames, turn around, open the door, look outside

The kitchen was once my favorite place, we had spent countless hours there working on projects side by side He and his skins, their entrails spilling out onto the kitchen table, intermixed with my rainbow of colored pencils Now the lights no longer work. As I walk I hold both arms straight out in front of me, buffers between myself and the unknown. The dark turns the familiar space into a labyrinth with danger in every dingy corner. The black expanse is filled with the relentless humming from our refrigerator which seems to get louder and louder each night. When I focus, the humming twists into something primal, the chanting of some ancient entity that understands my rituals and the state of the house. Its eyes are always on me, even now.

There’s a faint scratching on the walls of the house, like the tree branches scraping up and down during a particularly fearsome storm I stumble to the window, and looking out I see six glowing dots staring back at me with a petrified stillness No no no no no I claw through a splintered wooden cabinet with shaking hands until I find what I need A rusty flashlight, older than the ground our cabin was built upon My fingers dig painfully against the window sill, until finally it opens a crack and I am able to ease the faint, flickering beam of the flashlight out It flickers on: matted fur crusted over, falling out in clumpsoff, on - black growths that bulged out of their flesh, looking as though another creature was trying to tear itself out - off, on - foam covering their mouths, sores covering their flesh, insides hanging out - off.

I close the window.

Open the door close the door open the door close the door 10 paces across the hard wooden floor check the windows two steps to the left rattle the knob three times touch the counter touch the picture frames turn around open the door look outside.

The front room reeks of mold. There is an oppressive humidity that suffocates any bit of air that dares enter the small space. The smell sticks to you, after I left, after I ran away, no matter how much I showered and scrubbed the smell lingered. As though it had infected my very soul I couldn’t forget where I had come from and I can ’ t forget why I’m here Now the smell is overwhelming, blocking my senses, burning my throat My father died two months ago and his memory is forced into each breath

In this house, it doesn’t matter where you stand in the room you will always be watched Heads are mounted on every available space, every kind of deer you can imagine, from bucks to does, the young and the old I run my hands over their noses, their glassy expressionless eyes I think others would pity them but I resent their weakness They allowed themselves to become trapped, allowed their heads to be mounted on this wall, allowed their fragility to consume them They have earned their place here We used to hunt together every week, my father and I Spending hours in the stands, waiting for the perfect shot It wasn ’ t always out of necessity that we went hunting, some days he just wanted the rush He always seemed larger than these woods. My father, king of the deer.

I hear the scraping, it ’ s different from yesterday, more intense. It’s desperate, like a starving animal clawing its way to the last bit of meat in the forest, every second that passes more and more are joining in until the room is filled with the sounds of wood tearing and shredding. I crawl towards the wall, gingerly placing the tips of my fingers against the wood paneling. It’s no longer just scratching, I hear the wood cracking and splintering as the walls are disemboweled, piece by piece. On hands and knees, I inch to the front door, with heavy, unresponsive limbs. Twisting my arm upwards I grasp the handle and slowly turn, the door barely inching open The yard and forest are a sea of stars, bodies on bodies, on bodies, bleeding together in a rotten, writhing mass, and for a split second, every star seemed to point exactly at me A horrifying stillness falls over them

I close the door

Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, 10 paces across the hard wooden floor, check the windows, two steps to the left, rattle the knob three times, touch the counter, touch the picture frames, turn around, open the door, look outside

I stand in the heart of the house The center hallway connecting every room, door and window I face the back door The house needs this hallway, without it arteries get clogged, things become trapped My history is here, the pictures of us standing together, the holes he punched in the wall, his body hanging from the ceiling The scratching has grown to a roar, like thousands of insects devouring every available speck of wood on the outer wall Looking out the back window reveals a crawling writhing mass, so many crowded over top of each other they look like maggots feasting on a piece of meat They’re barely alive, their eyes dull and unseeing, fueled by some primal hunger even they don’t understand. No matter where I go, it ' s all the same. Deer. Deer. Deer. Deer. Right to the very edge. No doors, no windows, no escape. I have known this house all my life, it is reaching its limit. Soon there will be nothing to protect me, and they will see through every bit of me until they reach my glassy, expressionless eye.

The door opens