There’s a double edge to having the windows covered. It makes the night sounds that much more ominous. Especially when you know you’re not imagining the things you hear. The cracking branches and crunching leaves really are the footsteps of strange men stalking the perimeter. It frustrated them, too, I think, not being able to see me. Probably short-circuited some directive hardwired into their DNA. I could hear them grumbling on the edge of the forest. Grunting in some brutish tongue. It wasn’t long before they began to approach the house. A couple of the bolder ones even banged on the windows, almost hard enough to break them. Maybe my blinds weren’t the best idea after all, but at least it gave me some control, and I’ll take all I can get.

The stress of fear and anxiety, the lack of sleep, the lingering hangover, it was all too much for my body to take. Falling asleep felt suicidal, but I had little choice. I could have mainlined the whole container of coffee grounds and would still have conked out. It was a deep sleep, too. No dreams, at least that I remember. The blank slate before birth. The empty void I hope follows death, though now am not so sure.

I felt a bit rejuvenated that next morning. Sore from my drunken exploits, but clearer in the head and not as sick to my stomach. A mellow haze was filtering through the sheets covering the windows. Birds chirped outside. I heard branches cracking, but from smaller beasts. Squirrels and chipmunks and rabbits, foraging for breakfast. It was almost pleasant, actually. I thought about that fire-roasted rabbit Priscilla’s protector had cooked, and it got my saliva working. I doubted I’d be doing much hunting, though. No weapons with which to kill.

I brewed some coffee and munched on stale crackers. Breakfast of Prisoners. Started a shower, getting the tea-color water scalding hot. Scrubbed my skin until the water turned cold. Then I stood under the cold stream for a while, too. I had repurposed the two towels as window blinds, so I had to air dry. I stepped out of the shower and froze when I saw what was on the mirror. Greek letters or runes or some shit scrawled in the fog. Water streaks in the lettering as though someone had recently used a finger to draw them.

This must be the writing in the mirror Priscilla had mentioned in her journal. I stood quietly, listening for the sound of movement within the cabin. Staring at those runes in the steam. Whether from fright or stress or the words themselves, I began to hear a voice whispering inside my head. A seductive male voice. Soothing with a slithering lisp. So soft I had to strain to hear it, using a language I couldn’t understand.