All Things Considered
by Jeff McFarland
[about 1650 words]

Originally published in Demonic Visions: 50 Horror Tales, Book 6

The French have a phrase specifically for the idea. You know the one I'm talking about, at one point or another we've all felt that glitch in the Matrix – “whoa, déjà vu, man.” That's all well and good, but what I wanna know is, what the hell do you call it when you've got a thought that sticks to you like gum on the bottom of a shoe? Nothing downright scary, just an idea that won't leave you be. Something that worms its way into your brain and just sort of sits there, lying underneath all your day-to-day nonsense, ready to spring as soon as you make the mistake of relaxing. That whole did I leave the stove on feeling... do they have a word for that? I mean, the French have one for all the witty crap you should have said during an argument too, so they've gotta have one for not being able to remember if you left the garage door up or not.

I've noticed that you tend to have these thoughts way more often if you live alone. It happens to me all the time, and I'll usually chalk it up to my shitty memory. Yeah, sure, I probably left the light on in the kitchen. Whoops, did I forget to lock the front door again? I don't remember leaving the TV on before I left... Obviously, I have a hard time remembering little stuff on my own, never mind when I stumble home drunk or ready to pass out. Oh, and did you ever notice that these thoughts usually pop into your head when you're about a half second from falling asleep? You're lying there, not quite awake, but not gone either, and suddenly you wonder how confident you are that your house won't burn down in the middle of the night. You'll get up to check, every fucking time. Hell, I still do. I know good and goddamn well that stove is off, but some part of me just won't take my own word for it.

Somewhat related, is there a phrase for when you see something that drops a ball of lead in your gut? Like someone just dumped a bucketful of dread down your back? “Oh shit” is the first phrase that comes to my mind, but I suppose it’s personal preference. Some people call it the creeps or the heebie-jeebies, but none of those really have the zing that comes with a different language, you know? The thing is, I'm not talking about day-to-day stuff like almost getting t-boned in the intersection or having your cat jump out at you from the dark. That shit just makes your heart pound. I'm talking about the stuff that makes you straight up uneasy, makes you run up the basement steps every time you grab the laundry. Besides, isn't a word like “creepy” pretty relative? Some people get the creeps when they see a spider skitter across the floor, but I know a girl that squeals when she sees one like it's a fucking puppy. Despite my forgetfulness, I do have one routine I try to stick to: Every morning when I get out of the shower, I leave the curtain open. I do forget from time to time, but I do my best to remember though, because it lets the tub dry out a bit, and it gives me somewhere to spew later if the toilet's too small a target.

When I came home last night, I was so tired that I could have started pissing on the closed toilet seat and wouldn't have realized it until it started dripping onto my shoes. As I lifted the seat up, the first thing I noticed when I unzipped my pants was the draft coming from the open window. A chill up my spine wouldn't do my aim any favors while trying to take a leak, so I went over to the window to close it, and that's when I first got that feeling.

Did I leave the window open? It gets pretty toasty in that bathroom, especially considering I take my showers hotter than the Devil's rectum, so it was possible I had opened it. Still, I didn't think I would have left it that way. Winter is creeping up in this neck of the woods, and I'm not fond of the idea of my toilet water turning to ice. I stood there and kicked myself for not remembering something so simple. Between the state of my vision and the dark of the room, everything seemed blurry. Why would I have left the window open? Looking back, that was red flag number one. I started to close the window and stared out at my backyard for a moment, zoning out and watching the snowfall in the glow of the light in the alley. I just forgot, that's all. I forget all the time! I went to turn away from the window, and I noticed something else. It was dark out there, that light in the alley doesn't do much, but you could see them in the fresh snow. Just barely. They were mixed in with the paw prints and the occasional rabbit tracks.

Footprints. Barefooted, human footprints. They trailed from the alleyway and led right up to my window.

I felt my eyes that had been heavy a minute ago open wide. A pounding swelled in my temples. Now, I struggled to remember: did I close the shower curtain that morning? I turned to look at the curtain, and suddenly, my vision had become crystal clear. The closed curtain was fluttering silently in the window's breeze. I started to inch the window the rest of the way shut, and it squealed in the sill. The shrill sound bounced off the walls and made me wince. The curtain still fluttered. I held my breath, and with a ginger touch, slid the window all the way shut.

The curtain continued to move.

I stood there for a long time debating, weighing my options. Every Alfred Hitchcock, John Carpenter, and Wes Craven movie flashed through my mind. I thought about grabbing my phone and hauling ass out of there. I thought about grabbing a pair of shears from the counter and re-enacting the scene from Psycho. I thought of a million things I could have done, but instead of doing any of them, without me realizing it, my hand slowly began to inch towards the curtain. It was happening before I could stop myself. I can't explain why. My heart hammered in my chest, in my ears, shit, I'm pretty sure even my fingers were pulsing, but that was probably just my hand shaking. When my fingertips were only inches from the fabric, my lizard brain wrestled for control: What are you doing, you fucking idiot?! Get out of there! Have you learned fucking nothing from the movies?! I stopped. Just for a moment. The curtain had stopped moving.

“Fuck this,” I muttered to myself. I grabbed a fistful of the curtain, and threw it to the side.

Nothing. There was nothing.

I let out a huge sigh of relief and felt my body relax. Just as I did, I heard a crash from the kitchen.

Despite my initial stupidity, I promise you, no matter how tired or potentially drunk I might have been, I've never moved that fast in my life. Oh shit was definitely the proper phrase then. As soon as I hit my front yard, I had 911 on the line. A few officers had been on patrol in the area, so they showed up pretty quickly, grinning at my slurred and panicked report of someone in either my bathtub or my kitchen. After a lot of yelling and pleading, I convinced them to search my house top to bottom. Every closet, crawlspace, and corner had a flashlight shone at it. Do I need to tell you that they didn't find anything? When I brought them to my backyard, someone or something had trudged through the footprints and erased any sign of them being there. The snow was already starting to replace what had been moved. The cops decided they had humored me enough, and told me to go sleep it off. They left me with a shit-eating grin and a pat on the back. They thought I was just another drunk.

Hey, one last thing about these heebie-jeebies or whatever – there's no way you can know how you'll react to them. Some people just freeze up. They can't move or say a damn word, they just stand there looking like a deer in headlights. Something in the 'flight' part of their 'fight or flight' response is busted. Those people are always the first to go in a horror flick. Other people try to fight the feeling away. They curse and spit and puff their chest out, hoping they can be scarier than whatever it is that's about to wreck their day. And then there’s people, smart people, who get the fuck out. No questions asked, no “Hello? Is someone there?”

No reaching for the curtain, they're fucking gone, man. I wanted to be one of the smart people, to get the fuck out of there, but I couldn't afford a motel room. My family lives in another town, and I'm falling a little short on the whole “friends” bit. Besides, whoever was in my kitchen had clearly booked it when the police showed up, so I settled for locking literally every way into the house and being scared shitless. I gave the house another looking over, found even more nothing, and decided on a drink to calm my nerves. When I reached into the fridge for the last beer, my hands were still shaking. I stopped for a second, and just stared into the mostly empty refrigerator.

I was struggling to remember. I could have sworn there had been two beers left...