The Strangest Sound

I startled out of my half-asleep daze, vaguely registering the creaking noise that came from outside my room. I squinted at the too-bright computer screen in front of me, blinking as my eyes protested. The rational part of my brain told me to turn the lights on. I kept them off, staring at the computer screen and willing myself to finish the essay that was due in… I checked the time, and my eyes widened. Five hours.

I covered my face with my hands, letting out a sound that was a half-groan, a half-scream, and a half really stressed sigh. I wasn’t great at math. And you haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, my brain reminded me. I ignored it (again), typing at my laptop furiously for a few minutes until another creaking sound reminded me of the earlier sound that had woken me up, and, more importantly, reminded me that there was something else in the house and I was going to die at 1:00 AM with an unfinished essay.

There had been a few break-ins at houses in the neighborhood after people had left town for the holidays, but I had completely forgotten about them until now (I’d been a little distracted). I went to school in a different county than everyone else in my neighborhood, and my break wouldn't be until Friday. It was Tuesday (well, Wednesday now). I still had school and was stuck working on an essay in a dark, empty house while someone else, probably a burglar who would kill me and leave my mangled remains in the sheets I’d just washed yesterday, was in the house. Something, my brain corrected. You don’t know that, I shot back, and then regretted it. 

I considered staying in the room and waiting for the burglar to come murder me, but I quickly abandoned that idea. I was panicked, sleep deprived, and far too proud to have that be my obituary. I scanned my room for something I could use as a weapon. Unsurprisingly, there was a lack of objects I could use to hit someone in the head with. I considered the guitar for a split second before remembering that my little brother had dumped his baseball bag in my room a few days ago and I’d never gotten around to taking it out. I scrambled around in my room (quietly), searching in the dark for a few moments before my foot hit something solid and I almost tripped over the very thing I’d been looking for. I zipped it open as quickly and quietly as I could with shaking hands, my heart thundering in my chest. I fumbled around in the bag for a few moments until my hand closed around the baseball bat’s handle, and I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing in even breaths.

I lifted it out of the bag, clutching onto it tightly. I turned it over in my hands, its light weight strangely comforting, squeezing my eyes shut. You can do this, I thought, breathing in a deep breath and ignoring the part of my brain that told me I could most definitely not do this. I slowly inched out of my room and into the kitchen, where the creaking noises seemed to be coming from. As I neared the kitchen, a different noise came from it that sounded a lot less like creaking and a lot more like… chewing. It wasn’t a menacing sound, but I gripped the baseball bat tighter. The hall leading to the kitchen seemed far longer than usual, and I forced my shaky breaths to remain as quiet as possible as I entered the kitchen. 

The refrigerator was open, and a figure was shoving food into its mouth, inhaling it in very loudly. I paused for a moment, just staring at the scene. The figure (boy? girl? young, androgynous alien?) was blocking the light that came from the refrigerator, and the most identifying thing about it was the short brown hair sticking up in every direction. In its haste to clog its arteries as quickly as humanly (eldrich horrorly?) possible, not all of the food made it in. Small piles of food lay at its feet, and as it continued to eat, more food came down to join it. I stood there, trying to thing of what to say, mostly coming up with different forms of Why are you eating my food and can you please stop? Also can you not murder me? 

Before I could very politely ask it to not murder me, it stopped stuffing food into its mouth and turned around to stare at me. It didn’t look like an alien come to murder me in my sleep. He just looked like a boy around the same age as me. We stared at each other for a few moments, me hefting a bat far too small for me and him wearing too-big pajamas and what had once been a very nice chocolate cake. I opened my mouth to finally say something (not exactly sure what, but definitely something), which is when he morphed into what looked like a raccoon, chittered at me apologetically, and scurried away into the front door, which was completely wide open.

After that, I decided that what I had witnessed was probably a very weird dream and that the best course of action was to go back to sleep, which I accomplished for a few minutes until I realized that I still had an essay to write. I somehow managed to write a conclusion before passing out. 

When I got back from class the next afternoon, the mess of chocolate cake was gone from the floor, so I declared the case closed. It wasn’t in the fridge, but I didn’t exactly remember buying it or even seeing it before. I forgot about it until the next day when I found a note on my door that read sorry about the cake, and I was forced to recognize that the very strange dream was instead an even stranger reality.

The second time I saw him, it was Friday. I’d just gotten out of school and I was at the park, which was mostly empty except for a few other people. It was a pretty sad park. The grass was more weeds and bare patches than grass, and the monkey bars were low, even by my 4’11” point of view. I was swinging on the creaking swings when I spotted the boy, still wearing the same baggy pajamas. 

“Hey!” I yelled, jumping off the swing and jogging up to him. A few people turned, giving me weird looks, but he was still turned around with his back facing me. “Hey!” I yelled again, standing right behind him. He turned around, and I glared up at him. 

“It’s you,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere but me. I folded my arms, frowning up at him.

“You ate my cake.” He cringed, a hand coming up tug at his impossibly messy hair.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“You turned into a raccoon,” I said, still frowning. He shrugged. In the back of my mind (in the very, very back), I vaguely recognized that I’d just finished exams and wasn’t thinking all that straight.

“Sorry?” he offered. I stared at him blankly, and he morphed back into a raccoon.

“You have Christmas lights,” I said dumbly. They were strung around his neck like a necklace, and he held up a battery pack in a paw, baring what was probably the raccoon equivalent of a smile at me. It looked a lot like a fire hazard. It probably was a fire hazard

I stared at the Christmas lights, which looked very close to strangling him in what would be a very festive death. He chittered at me, tucking the battery pack into his bulky necklace, and then scampered off towards the woods.

“Is no one else seeing this?” I yelled. The few other people in the park didn’t turn around or give me weird looks, and I sighed. Great, I thought, kicking at a rock. Even the raccoon’s more in the Christmas spirit than me.

The next time I saw him, it was the day before Christmas Eve. My family was back in the house, and I was taking out the trash when I spotted a raccoon racing around the corner. I immediately dropped the trash and raced after it. If I was thinking straight, I would have stopped to think before chasing after a random raccoon. But I wasn’t really ever thinking straight.

“Hey!” I yelled. He glanced behind himself, then quickly skittered to a stop. I couldn’t stop as quickly as his tiny raccoon body, and my momentum carried me straight into a wall.

“Ouch,” I heard a voice say behind me, and I winced, bracing myself against the wall. “Do you chase every raccoon you see on the street?”

“We don’t have raccoons here,” I said, turning around to lean on the wall. He was back in his human form, the bottom of his pajama bottoms dragging on the grass.

“So why were you chasing me?” he asked, frowning at me. I shrugged. 

“More interesting than making small-talk with relatives?” I offered. He snorted. 

“You’re not wrong,” he said, leaning against the wall beside me.

“What about you?” I asked, turning to face him. “Why aren’t you at home?”

“Don’t have one,” he said shortly, staring straight ahead. I felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, and he shrugged. “Is that why you were-“

“Yeah.” I chewed on my bottom lip. 

“Oh!” Suddenly remembering something, I searched through my coat pockets. I could feel his gaze on me, but I didn’t meet it until I’d found what I was looking for (It took a while. I had a lot of pockets.). “Here!” I said, shoving a bag of chips at him.

“I don’t want your charity,” he said stiffly, and I frowned.

“It’s not charity!” I protested, but he still didn’t take it. I huffed. “What’s your name?” 

“Felix?” he said automatically, frowning at me confusedly.

“I’m Amy. See? Now we’re friends-“

“We’re not friends-“ he interrupted, folding his arms.

“-so now it’s not charity,” I continued, ignoring him. He frowned at me (again), and I held my ground, meeting his stare. His eyes flicked down to the bag of chips in my hand, then back up at me.

“Are you sure?” he asked cautiously. I nodded, shaking the bag of chips. My arm was starting to get tired, but I was determined not to let it show. He took it, opening the bag loudly, and I gave an internal sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, shoving chips into his mouth.

“Well, no one should be alone on Christmas,” I said. He blinked at me. “Well, no one should be alone on Christmas Eve eve,” I corrected. He shrugged, and we fell into a silence as he ate the chips

“Why are you still here?” he asked when he’d finished licking the last of the chips from his fingers. I shrugged.

“Better than making stilted small talk with relatives,” I said, searching in my coat pockets for more chips. “Here.”

“How many of these do you have?” he asked, blinking up at me as he took the chips.

“That’s it,” I said, and then frowned, searching in my pockets. “I think.” He huffed in laughter, and I grinned up at him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, his smile fading away.

“I’m a nice person,” I said.

“I could turn into a bear and maul you,” he said, scowling at me, but It wasn’t very intimidating when he was stuffing chips into his mouth.

“But you haven’t so far!” I said cheerfully. He blinked at me. “Besides, I don’t think you will. If I was going to maul someone, I definitely wouldn’t maul the very nice girl who’s giving.”

“You’re a strange person,” he said, going back to his chips.

“Also, you seem nice,” I continued. He frowned at me.

“I’m not nice,” he argued, frowning at his now-empty chip bag.

“I disagree. Also, I’m your chip supplier, so I have to be right,” I said cheerfully. He frowned at me.

“No you don’t?” 

“You sure about that?” I asked, holding out another bag of chips. “I lied, this is my last bag.” He huffed out a laugh.

“Why do you have so many chips?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I don’t like having empty pockets and I get hungry a lot.” He laughed again, and I grinned up at him.

“Fine,” he said, taking the bag of chips. “You’re right.” We stood in silence until I spoke up again.

“Okay, serious question.” He turned to me, stuffing the empty chip bag into his pocket. “Have you ever turned into a cat and gone up to houses so they give you free food?” 

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he said, biting back a smile.

“Completely serious,” I said, grinning up at him.

“No,” he said, and I shook my head, smiling.

“Missed opportunity.”

“But I have as a dog,” he admitted, and my grin widened.

“No way,” I said, bouncing up and down. He covered his face with his hands, but I could still see his smile.

“Yes way,” he said through his hands.

We stood there for a while, trading stories about our respective lives, and as I listened to him talk about the wizened old man by the docks who told impossible tales, I couldn't help feeling like I’d found a little bit of what Christmas was supposed to feel like.