…and as I open the door leading from my office to the front of the house, I see a pale shape, not much more than the impression of a white dress moving through the light coming in the windows.
It flows from right to left.
I stop. I blink.
It is gone.
Sitting on the toilet in the back bathroom, I hear a sound at the door — as through someone pressed against it from the outside, maybe one of the cats?
But the door has nearly an inch gap at the bottom. I can see nothing outside.
A few minutes later I am jolted into a panic by the sight of something coming quickly towards me — it is as if it passed through the door.
It is white and ragged, trailing fluttering strips of cloth. I have an impression of gray hair, a wrinkled face . . . an old woman who vanishes just before she reaches me.
I am startled. I am scared. My hair is standing on end. The akin on my arms feels prickled and tight, almost sunburnt.
This was not a vague impression or an easily explained corner-of-the-eye episode. I saw something.
… a brief visual flash this morning, something white and glossy scuttling across the floor towards me . . . about as wide as the coffee table, slightly taller, ducking its head to pass beneath it . . . insectile . . . vague impression of shiny black eyes, stripes along the legs and torso . . . attention and intelligence directed at me, artificial somehow and yet alive…
And then . . . gone.
Mind wandering around as I waited for sleep to come, dozy logic moving from Macon Leary to Edward Gorey to Ernest Hemmingway . . . then, the image of a local highway, the flashing lights of police cars against the pale winter sky.