I pulled my SUV onto the long, winding dirt driveway that sliced through the pines. The smell of pine resin and damp earth pulled me back to the summers of my childhood, when my dad had taken us out of the city at least once a month, usually in July. We would spend whole days fishing the river, roasting marshmallows, and making s’mores over a modest campfire. It wasn’t “roughing it” in the way the movies showed, but it was enough of a break for us to feel the city’s concrete recede behind us.

  The old log cabin appeared at the end of the road like a memory materializing in real time. As soon as I saw it, a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding slipped out of my chest, and I finally felt I could exhale. I stopped the car, stared at the weather?worn door, and for a fleeting second I expected my father to swing it open, his smile as wide as the river we’d fished. I blinked hard, forcing back a tide of tears. It was my first return since the accident that took both of them. My foster families never wanted to come and I was never allowed to come alone.

  I inhaled deeply, shut the car door, and hauled my bags and grocery bags up the porch steps. A prickling sensation told me someone was watching, but I brushed it off. I hadn’t been this isolated in years; the solitude was both a balm and a trigger.

  Inside, I was grateful to find a few seasoned logs still stacked beside the stone fireplace. I struck a match, coaxed a flame to life, and began unloading the groceries. I spread my notebook, pens, and a battered laptop across the coffee table, then carried the heavy duffel up to the only bedroom. As a child I had slept on the couch; now the room was mine alone. I folded the last sweater into the drawer and heard a soft thump against the window.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Turning, I saw a massive raven perched on the sill, its dark eyes unnervingly human. I stepped closer, studying the bird’s glossy feathers until it spread its wings and launched into the night. I waited, half?expecting it to return, but the silence held. I went back downstairs, determined to make dinner.

  While the skillet sizzled, my mind drifted. My story, my novel, had become someone else’s, twisted by editors and market trends. I wanted to erase the pages that no longer felt like mine and start over, even though I knew the process would be brutal.

  Three light taps sounded against the kitchen window. I froze. Nothing moved beyond the glass.

  Another three taps, this time at the living?room window. Still nothing.

  I stared at the darkness, wondering if fatigue was turning my thoughts into hallucinations. The chicken in the pan darkened beyond my liking. I lifted the skillet to place it onto the hot pad and-

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I spun, heart hammering, certain this time I would catch the source. The pan slipped off the counter, clattered against the cabinet, and the chicken hit the floor in a greasy splash. I shouted, half in frustration, half in disbelief. The tapping stopped. No raven, no shadow, just the echo of my own panic.

  I swept the mess, tossed the ruined chicken, and settled for a peanut?butter sandwich. Whatever invisible force had been tapping, it clearly didn’t want me eating chicken tonight.