The Sound of Her Voice

(November 4th, A Tree Base Stripped of Its Skin By Unknown Origin, 2009)

There is this sound every once in a while I remember as clear and as piercing as the day I heard it. It is the sound of a ghost that appeared one night every January in my room and my room alone. Every year it was something a little different, the first time it was some weird noises and glowing hand prints on the door, the other was that rustling and another ringing noise. Each year, another noise, odder and more frightening than the last. What separates the noise I speak of, the last one I heard was how it groaned from a place outside of anything I knew. It was the fear of the unknown itself that was struggling to breath, and so it just cried in a haunting matter, and let a thirteen year old boy lay on his bed, covered in blankets and with eyes pointing to a dark corner of his room where evil and demented sounds are originating from what could be an opening to another dimension.
I still get goose pimples when I think of that distorting sound with metallic textures and human vocal cords, and how it was straight out of a horror film, but it wasn't a movie, and it wasn't a nightmare, it was real, and unexplainable, real unexplainable. Even to this day, I wonder what that noise was, and I still believe it had to be a ghost, demon, or animal spirit of some kind (coyote, wolf, or owl?). The evidence is all there, a lady had died in that house, in January, and she probably died in that corner of my room, and my room alone, and I could only hope the new tenants aren't being disturbed, aren't being awoken in the middle of the night by a calling from another dimension, and fear that it will strike, that it will take you away, but not before it rips you apart, and steals your soul, not before that, please, not before that.