I stare, trying to convince myself it isn’t real, more space junk drifting through my mind, but something stirs in me, an instinctive prickle. Big beast coming.

It moves farther out, clear of the trees. Takes a couple steps.

Tall, broad silhouette. A hood up over its head, maybe, or long hair, I can’t tell which. Staring up the hill, where Yellow Hood has disappeared. Another step, turning back toward the woods, ready to blend into the night again.

Then it hesitates, like maybe instinct tapped it, too—the primal sense of being watched. It looks toward the laundry building, where I stand, frozen, unthinking, the light framing me in the window. Slick, pale gleam off the face, somehow too small for the head, misshapen, like a crumpled paper plate.

I jerk back, lunging for the light switch, sending the room into darkness, praying I ducked in time, that maybe you can’t see as much from the outside as I think. Hold my breath, counting seconds—only reach nine before I hear a heavy footstep on dead leaves. It saw. It’s coming.

I whirl, eyes half-adjusted to the dark, only the white lawn chairs having any distinction. I lift one, jam its leg through the door handle and across the frame as hard as I can—the leg’s too wide, only slides about two inches through before it sticks. I hear the scrape of the cinder block being pushed away from the door.

I stare at the chair, wedged horizontally, as if by levitation. Praying that thing out there will test the door, think it’s locked from the inside, give up.

It tries the outer handle; the door moves, as if with a breath. Stopped by the chair leg.

Counting seconds again: one, two—another tug, harder. Go away. Go away.

Thud, thud, thud. Harder. Sensing some give, working at the leg. I’ve got nothing to fight with, nothing but light, so I slap the switch again, casting it all into brilliance. Fine curls of plastic peel up from the friction of the handle; he’s making headway, working it down, widening a gap to show a sliver of darkness beyond the jamb, so little space between me and it.

“Leave me alone.” My voice. Shaky, but there. “Get out of here.” Louder, shouting: “Get out of here!”

The door saws back and forth, the leg developing a sickening bend against the frame.

I run to the folding table and push, skidding its rubber-stoppered feet over the floor until it slams across the width of the doorway, bracing my palms against the edge, teeth gritted, leaning my whole weight into my barricade, as if it’ll do anything once that thing gets through the door.

The gap of darkness widens—then holds in place as it looks in at me.

The wetness of a single eye. Face coated in peach-hued plastic, showing a slender, painted eyebrow. A mask.