The Night It Watched Me

I’ve been sitting by the window for nearly an hour now.
The coffee has gone cold, and the dogs are curled under the table like they know something’s coming.
They always know.
The man from the paper called just after sunrise — said he’d be here by evening, wanting to “hear my story.” City boys are always in a rush.
To be honest though, I’m not sure what to tell him.
What happened last night wasn’t a story. It was something that doesn’t fit into words.

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It was quiet out front. The kind of quiet where you can hear the frost settling on the fence posts.
Not a peep from the cattle. And as the sun gets ready to rise, you know they’re hungry and will let you know it.
I’d just finished locking the shed when I saw it.
No sound. No wind. Just a shape against the sky where no shape should be. Round, but not like the moon. More dome-like.
Brighter than anything that belongs to the night, with little green lights that made me think of Christmas time.
It hung there, maybe fifty feet up — maybe higher.
I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. Not at first. Just something about it… like it was paying attention. Not just to the farm.
To me.

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It didn’t move. Not even a little. I remember thinking it was waiting for something. I just didn’t know what.
The air felt heavy, thicker than it should’ve been. My breath didn’t puff out like it usually does on cold nights — just vanished, like the space between me and that —thing — swallowed it up.
Don’t remember going back inside, but I must have. I woke up this morning with dirt on my boots and the porch light flickering.

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Now I’m waiting for this reporter, wondering if I should tell him everything or leave out the part about the way it looked at me.
Because if I say it out loud, it’ll be real.
And if it’s real, then maybe it’s still out there.

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- By Witness