flew me to places I've never been
The initial footsteps had faded, just enough for Everest’s nervous system to begin its slow climb down from the cliff edge—until they didn’t.
The first tap against the wall is so light it barely registers. The second makes his head turn. By the third, his hands are flat against his thighs again, pressing hard. It isn’t internal anymore. Not abstract. Not the roof.
It’s the walls.
He flinches so sharply that his shoulder knocks the lamp beside Isla’s couch. It wobbles, but doesn’t fall. He watches it sway with something close to dread, eyes locked on the movement until it stops. Until the rest of him can try to stop.
But outside, the banging doesn’t. It relocates. As if—as if it’s circling. He paces a short, compulsive circuit—two strides to the door, pivot, three back to the middle of the rug. The stimuli are too strong. He needs...he needs to modulate. Something familiar, something controlled. He reaches for his wrist and rubs at the pressure point with his thumb in small, tight circles.
He breathes again. Try to solve it. Categorize the input. Loud, erratic sounds. Location shifting. Patterns irregular. Avian? No. Raccoon? Too rhythmic. Person?
The hypothesis clots in his throat.
What kind of person knocks like that on two separate walls? The angles don’t make sense. There’s no entry noise. No approach. No laughter. No voice saying oops, wrong house. Just—
BANG.
He lurches toward the window, but doesn’t touch it. Just stands beside it, back to the wall, eyes flicking upward, as if that will give him a tactical advantage. He wants to find Isla. He should find Isla.
Instead, he pulls his notebook from his pocket, and begins to write:
He exhales through his nose—sharp, hot. Glances toward the front door. Then the kitchen. Then the ceiling again. One hand tightens into a fist, the other still flicking along the edge of his shirt hem. Everest has already begun cataloguing every object in the room by potential defensive usefulness, even as his mind whirs like a storm warning beacon—flashing, spiralling, looping.
Something is very, very wrong.
The first tap against the wall is so light it barely registers. The second makes his head turn. By the third, his hands are flat against his thighs again, pressing hard. It isn’t internal anymore. Not abstract. Not the roof.
It’s the walls.
He flinches so sharply that his shoulder knocks the lamp beside Isla’s couch. It wobbles, but doesn’t fall. He watches it sway with something close to dread, eyes locked on the movement until it stops. Until the rest of him can try to stop.
But outside, the banging doesn’t. It relocates. As if—as if it’s circling. He paces a short, compulsive circuit—two strides to the door, pivot, three back to the middle of the rug. The stimuli are too strong. He needs...he needs to modulate. Something familiar, something controlled. He reaches for his wrist and rubs at the pressure point with his thumb in small, tight circles.
He breathes again. Try to solve it. Categorize the input. Loud, erratic sounds. Location shifting. Patterns irregular. Avian? No. Raccoon? Too rhythmic. Person?
The hypothesis clots in his throat.
What kind of person knocks like that on two separate walls? The angles don’t make sense. There’s no entry noise. No approach. No laughter. No voice saying oops, wrong house. Just—
BANG.
He lurches toward the window, but doesn’t touch it. Just stands beside it, back to the wall, eyes flicking upward, as if that will give him a tactical advantage. He wants to find Isla. He should find Isla.
Instead, he pulls his notebook from his pocket, and begins to write:
- Possible intruder? No visual confirmation.
Pattern of knocks = deliberate
No vocalisation
Movement suggests awareness of house layout
Currently unknown motive or method of access
He exhales through his nose—sharp, hot. Glances toward the front door. Then the kitchen. Then the ceiling again. One hand tightens into a fist, the other still flicking along the edge of his shirt hem. Everest has already begun cataloguing every object in the room by potential defensive usefulness, even as his mind whirs like a storm warning beacon—flashing, spiralling, looping.
Something is very, very wrong.
but now I'm laying on the cold hard ground
