Daylight

A knock at the door woke John. He had fallen asleep in his chair. The dog at his feet barked once, staring at the door. It was late. He glanced at the clock: 12:02. He stayed seated a moment longer, then heard another knock. John groaned, got up, and walked to the door.

He looked out the window and saw a small man on his porch as he opened the door.

“Good evening,” said the old man. Withered and frail, he was a white man with long gray hair bound behind his head. He stared at John with icy blue eyes.

“Yeah?” John asked, sleep in his voice.

“It’s close,” the old man said, looking John over.

John opened the door fully.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” John asked, sizing him up.

The old man nervously rubbed his hands, “It’s too close. Best to stay within tonight.”

“No, seriously — you need to tell me why you’re here,” John said. “Why some weird-ass white boy is on the rez acting like…”

The stranger turned toward the forest, cutting Jon off.

“Do not mistake my skin… for separation,” said the old man, scanning for something unseen. “My people come from lands as old as these.

John stood frozen in the doorway, fear braided with curiosity.

The man’s eyes came back. “This place…the forest,” he said, low, “Older than tribe. Older than tongue.”

A silence stretched. “It’s bad here… even for bad places.”

The dog pressed against his leg, whimpering.

“Yeah,” he said. “Lots of fucked-up things have happened out here,”

The stranger lifted a hand, not to dismiss, just to halt the words.

His breath stilled as he listened. Seconds passed.

“Older still,” he rasped. “Older than any blood spilled. By your hand. By mine.”

His gaze shifted to the dog who had joined John. “You have a good animal. Keep her close.”

“Who are you?” John asked quietly.

The stranger’s eyes fixed on him yet seemed to look through him.

“Just passing through,” he said. His tongue flicked his lips.

He stepped down into the dark. “Until daylight...stay within.”

“You best not be coming back here,” John called, but his words met only the night.

John stepped onto the landing, eyes looking where the stranger had gone. Nothing moved.

The dog whined in the doorway, staring into the treeline.

The night was wrong. No crickets. No owls. No wind. Only the thin whine of his dog.

John shivered.

He closed and locked the door.

Something deep in his marrow told him to be ready. He went to the closet, pulled out the shotgun leaning against old boxes, checked the chamber, and set it beside his chair.

He sat, thinking about the stranger. Almost without deciding, he reached for the phone and dialed.

Three rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

“What’s up? It’s late.”

“Yeah, I know. Is everything okay over there?”

A pause. “Yeah? Why? Something wrong?”

“No. It’s just—”

“You sound spooked. What’s up, Jonny?”

“There was a guy here. White guy. Older. Maybe a tweaker. Started talking about the forest being… old. Really put me off. Thought you should know. Keep an eye out.”

Silence hummed over the line, his mother’s voice in the background.

“Was he short? Shorter than you?”

“Yeah.”

“Eyes, pale blue?”

John’s fingers tightened on the receiver. “Yeah.”

“Hair in a long ponytail?”

He sat up straighter, hand sliding toward the shotgun. “...Yeah.”

A long breath. “Is everything locked?”

John’s gaze swept the room. “I guess. Why? What’s going on?”

“Double check,” his father said.

“What are you talk—”

“Double check!” The edge in his father’s voice stopped him cold.

John set down the receiver and moved through the double-wide, checking each window. Latches secure. Back door bolted.

The dog whined and went to the bedroom.

He returned to the phone. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Dad, you gotta tell me — what the fuck’s going on?”

A breath on the line. “Nothing now. But promise me… don’t open the door until it’s daylight.”

“Why would— Who would be here?”

“Anyone,” his father said. “Even if it’s me knocking. Don’t open it.”

“I— Dad, I don’t— I need an explanation. You’re starting to sound like Grandpa.”

“You remember the stories?”

“What stories?”

“About the walking things.”

John’s mind went back to childhood campfire tales that kept him awake for nights. “The ghost stories? Please tell me this isn’t a fucking joke. That Uncle Dave doesn’t have you up to this.”

Silence. Then his mother’s voice, faint but worried.

“Listen, best thing you can do is stay put. Don’t open the door until daylight. Okay?”

“What happens if—”

“Don’t ask,” his father snapped. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Before that, you wait until da—”

His father was cut off. The busy tone filled his ear.

John looked at the receiver. “Dad?” he said quickly. “Dad!” Louder now.

Only the busy tone.

He tapped the hook, lifted again. Tried to dial out — nothing but that steady, needling tone.

He set the receiver down and picked up the shotgun, resting it across his lap.

The lights turned every window into black glass. Only his reflection stared back.

“Hup, hup,” he called to the dog.

A thin whine, then the jingle of tags as she padded down the hallway. She stopped at his feet, stiff, ears back, tail curled tight.

“What’s the matter, Girl? It’s okay,” he said, mostly for himself.

He looked back at the porch — glass showing only his face.

He reached down; the dog licked his fingers once, then dropped her head, ears pinned.

With a muttered curse, John clicked off the lamp. The room fell into shadow, and the black glass gave way to the trees.

Something moved.

A shoulder in the tree line — a stone’s throw from his door. The faint edge of a face. Just enough to know it was looking back. It slipped between branches, fluid as water through a crack.

Every hair on John’s body rose.

Human in shape, but wrong. Unclothed, but not naked. Skin pale and smooth like bleached wood, the moonlight sliding over it in a way that turned his stomach.

The dog pressed into his leg, trembling, a low growl in her chest.

John’s grip on the shotgun tightened. He held his breath.

The way it walked at the treeline woke something deep in him. Ancient and urgent.

“Daylight,” he breathed like a prayer.

Minutes dragged, marked by the slow ticks of the old clock. Morning felt an eternity away.

A whimper from the dog, then a thin, restless whine.

John looked down. She was rigid.

He looked at the door, then at the black glass. Nothing moved.

He swallowed and glanced back into the night. Empty.

The growl didn’t stop; her nose stayed locked on the door.

He shut his eyes, pulled his breath under control. Heartbeat eased. The ticks seemed closer together now, like the night had picked up its pace.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking her head before bringing his hand back to the gun. The growl faded.

“It’s okay, girl.”

He stared out, trying to see. Hoping he wouldn’t.

A long breath. Shoulders lowering.

“We just got till morning, girl,” John whispered.

He looked down.

The space by his feet was empty.

John sat up fast. No jingle of tags, no sign she’d left.

“Girl?” Louder now, still under a whisper.

He scanned the room. “Come on, girl.”

Silence. Only the clock. Only his heart.

He stood, thumbed the safety off.

“Girl,” he said again, low, edged with warning.

A tap at the glass behind him.

He spun, shotgun low at his hips, aimed at the yard window. Black glass stared back.

The sound had come from there. He felt it.

A finger slid toward the trigger. “Girl?”

Another tap, this time from the porch window.

His eyes cut to it, but the gun stayed on the yard. No movement.

John swallowed and eased a step toward the hallway.

His eyes swept the windows. His boot creaked.

He backed away, shotgun low but ready.

At the hallway entrance — another tap. Not from the windows he’d been watching. Deeper.

He turned down the hall. Took another step.

Tap.

A step.

Tap. Tap.

The sound crawled along the walls.

He crept back, pressing the bedroom door open. Darkness inside, lit only by the dim red glow of the alarm clock.

“Girl,” he said, eyes dropping to the foot of the bed. Empty.

He looked up toward the window.

Tap. Tap! Louder now. Forceful.

His breath trembled. “Daylight,” he whispered.

“...daylight.”

A whisper, so faint it might have been his own breath, slipped in from the window above the bed.

John’s lungs locked. The sound had weight — too close, too wet, too much like him.

Slowly, he raised the shotgun until the barrel pointed at the black glass, the treeline beyond.

Silence.

Tap.

Tap.

Each knock deliberate, spaced like a heartbeat.

“Come on, girl,” John murmured.

Tap. Tap.

“...girl…” The voice came from beyond the window—the word, long and wrong.

“...girl…daylight…”

Tap.

Tap.

His grip tightened until his knuckles ached.

He opened his mouth, then shut it. The thought of hearing his own words thrown back drained the blood from his face. His legs felt hollow.

Tap.

Tap.

He lowered the shotgun and crouched out of view. Heart hammering. Every inhale, too quick.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Each from a different window now, sharper each time, as if whatever made them was closing in on the glass.

“... it’s okay…” The whisper slid from behind him, slow and wet, rolling over his spine like ice water.

It still sounded beyond the walls, but too close.

John waited, perfectly still. Finger on the trigger, shotgun pointed at nothing.

He drew each breath slowly until his pulse eased. Silence folded back in, and the clock’s ticking returned — too loud, each tick a reminder of how far morning still was.

He lowered himself to sit with his back against the end of the hallway. He listened. Nothing.

He glanced into the bedroom, searching for Girl.

No taps. No voice. The stillness began to feel like safety.

Daylight, he thought. Just make it to daylight.

He closed his eyes briefly, wetting his tongue, then opened them to the hallway’s dark.

Something sat beside the chair he’d been in earlier — a darker shadow within shadow.

He narrowed his eyes. “Girl?” he whispered.

He braced for the echo. For the mockery.

Nothing.

“Girl,” he said aloud.

A whimper answered.

The shape shifted; a faint jingle of tags carried down the hallway. His dog trotted into view and settled in front of him, ears flattened.

“Oh, thank God,” John breathed, lowering the shotgun a fraction.

“...thank god…” the voice repeated — louder now, almost his own tone. Still outside. Or maybe not.

John’s head snapped toward the sound, scanning the space.

His pulse still pounded, but the sharp edge of fear dulled. Adrenaline bled out, leaving heat — jaw set, teeth pressed together.

“Fuck this,” John muttered, pushing to his feet.

The dog’s head rose to follow. He scratched the fur on her neck.

“Come on, girl.”

She stood, ears flicking to unseen sounds, eyes fixed on him with a wary look.

John dropped any pretense of stealth. Everything was locked. Whatever it was… wasn’t coming in.

It had rules.

He strode down the hallway, boots creaking, and re-entered the living room.

From there, he swept his gaze across every window. Shotgun low but ready. Beyond the glass, nothing moved.

“...so brave…” came the whisper. Closer now. Almost at his ear.

He turned, eyes narrowing down the hallway.

The dog lay there, ears flat, a thin whimper escaping.

“Brave, huh?” John said, voice steady. “That’s what you think?”

He waited. The clock ticked.

No answer. Just the dog’s breath and his heartbeat.

“Brave,” the whisper — oily now, thick and deep.

Not from beyond the walls. From beneath him.

John’s eyes dropped to the worn carpet. His body moved before his mind caught up.

A scratch came from directly underfoot.

“Daylight saves… daylight shows…” The words rolled up through the floorboards, guttural and raw, almost chanted.

The dog sprang up, barking at the spot in front of her. Legs stiff, body leaning forward, tail low and rigid.

Movement beneath him — then silence.

“Can’t get in, can you?” he growled, voice cold.

He steadied his breathing. The ticking returned.

“Yes!” The voice came again — low, intense.

“No!” sharper.

Tapping began — from every window. No rhythm, no pattern. Just relentless contact.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap! Tap! Tap!

He spun his gaze from pane to pane. Fear surged.

His breath came fast, ragged. The house seemed to shrink. Hands trembled; the shotgun shook.

The barking sharpened — but felt farther away.

Fingers tingled, then numbed. Vision narrowed. The barrel drooped to the floor.

The world dimmed.

Pain exploded through his hand — teeth clamped hard, twisting. He gasped and looked down.

Girl had him in her jaws, jerking until he pulled free. She barked up at him, bristling.

He fell to the floor, air rushing back into his lungs.

No tapping. No voice. Just him and Girl.

He glanced around, then to the throbbing in his hand. Skin broken; blood welling in crescent marks. He hissed, welcoming the pain.

“Come here, girl.”

She whimpered, ears pinned, but her tail wagged once.

“It’s okay… Thank you, Girl.”

She crept closer, still whining, and he pulled her into his arms.

His breath came deep and uneven. Blood dotted his jeans.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

The clock ticked. Nothing outside. Nothing below.

Then — a knock at the door.

Not taps on glass, but knuckles on wood.

He held still, straining to be sure.

Rrap. Rrap. Rrap.

“John?” The voice froze him. His father’s.

Rrap. Rrap.

“John? It’s Dad. Are you there?”

Girl went rigid and pulled away.

Rrap. Rrap.

“John, are you okay? Come to the door.”

The cadence, the timbre — his father. Exactly.

John turned toward the yard window. Pitch black.

He braced on the hallway wall and rose. Both hands gripped the shotgun.

Girl slunk into the dark, tags jingling.

He kept his breathing even, the bite’s sting keeping him alert.

Rap. Rap.

“You said not to,” John said — startling himself.

“What?” his father’s voice asked, puzzled.

“Listen,” the voice continued. “About what I said…”

John waited.

“Dad?” he called after a pause.

“Come to the door, John,” the voice said again — weary now, like a man done playing games.

“John,” it said once more, flat and even.

“Daylight won’t save you,” it finished, dropping far below anything human, the sound thrumming through the wood into his bones.

John’s mind reeled.

He didn’t look at the door.

“I need to let you in, don’t I?” he said.

Silence.

“Don’t I?”

More silence — heavier now, as if the whole house held its breath.

John glanced back down the hallway. Girl’s nose peeked past the bedroom doorway as she whined.

He lowered the shotgun to his hips but kept it ready.

A breath in. Out. Another.

One last draw of air, then he pivoted into the living room.

He swept the room, window by window. Just him and the dog.

A sigh escaped. He stepped to the door, shotgun in hand, and peered through the top pane of the door. Empty.

The clock ticked; the sting in his hand had faded to a dull throb.

It can’t get in.

He walked back to his chair and sat. The shotgun rested across his lap as he looked outside.

John froze.

Red eyes met his.

Small. Piercing. Eyes without a face, lit from within.

They hung in the air fixed where the old white man had stood — but higher than any man could stand.

Adrenaline surged. Every muscle screamed to move — and he resisted.

He swallowed. “You can’t get in,” he said quietly, sure the words would reach.

The eyes dipped, then rose.

“What do you want?”

Girl whimpered from the hallway.

The reply came soft and slow, drawn in with its breath: “...I do not want…”

John’s skin rippled. Every hair stood. “Then why are you here?”

The eyes tilted, unnervingly steady.

“I neeeeeeed…” the whisper stretched, trembling in his bones.

Adrenaline roared, churning his stomach. He swallowed, pinning the tension in place.

“My father knows about you, doesn’t he? The old man who was here… he did too.”

A long pause. The eyes stayed.

“...All know me…” the whisper said — smooth as glass, and just as cutting.

“What are you?” John asked, steady but defiant.

No answer.

The stillness pressed in, heavy as the dark.

He glanced at the clock — second hand ticking on — then back outside.

The eyes were gone.

“Fuck,” John muttered, scanning the windows.

“Girl?” he called down the hallway.

Nothing.

“Come on, girl.” Weariness edged his voice. “Please… come here.”

No reply.

Adrenaline bled away, leaving him heavy-limbed, eyelids thick. He sat, shotgun across his lap, head against the chair. His finger slipped from the trigger guard.

One slow sweep of the windows. The clock ticked.

He thumbed the safety on. Closed his eyes.

From deep in the forest came a peeling screech — sharp, alien, dangerous. It rose and fell, curling in strange inflections, ending in a guttural chuff.

Silence.

John listened, the desperate cry of a desperate thing.

His breathing slowed.

He dozed off.

—

Banging at the door woke him.

“John, it’s me, Dad. Open up!” Urgency in the voice.

John jerked upright. The shotgun slid to the floor with a dull thud.

Through the glass — daylight, pink and thin, cresting the trees.

John drew a long breath.

Knocking again.

“Daylight...” he sighed.

He stood and glanced down the hallway — Girl’s nose peeked out.

A deep breath. “Finally.”

He crossed to the door and set his hand on the knob.

Girl whimpered.

He swung the door open.

In the predawn light, red eyes stared back — small, piercing, lit from within.

Eyes older than tribe.

Older than tongue.