SCRATCHING
The barren branches of the oldest tree on the property beat and scrape against the single-pane window. The edges of the craggy, twisted sticks occasionally scratch against the glass with a high-pitched melodic whine that nearly make me look up from my book, to the window, but I am scared. There’re no curtains in the house, and the glaring, jarring light overhead lamp reflects of the glass, turning it into a too-accurate mirror. I can’t bring myself to look at what is making the horrid sound. I’m afraid of what I will see in the reflection. I’m certain it’s there.
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