Invited

Unlif shuffled toward the kitchen and the promise of morning coffee. He filled the kettle but stopped short of placing it atop the stove’s hotplate. Instead, his eyes found the window above the sink, and even through the haze of neglected glass, the outside tumbled in on him. The ample oak—growing proudly in the north west corner of the property—with its fingered leaves and twisted limbs, swayed in the insistent breeze of summer’s cusp. It beckoned him as it did every day. Bid him leave his home with its neutral walls and stylish floors, throw open the front door, descend the stairs and breathe the air—shaded and transpiration-cooled. Leave the world of kettles and televisions and hourly updates on the world’s chaos, and embrace one composed of essential poetry.

Unlif looked upward, certain of late that he could hear the stirring of something above him; something telling him that today was not one for the usual routine. Today was different. Were the old gods awakening perhaps? Each day for the last month or more, he’d ignored the tree and the gods and whatever else it was that wanted him to do the things he had little inclination to do.

Venturing outside could mean illness. Hospitalization. Even a death sentence. But something whispered in words inside of his skull—he would be safe. He just had to open the door.

He put on the one pair of jeans that passed for clean and buttoned up his plaid shirt as he made for the door. The tree with its shimmering leaves might just be the start. Maybe he would cross the road, take a left then another, then run across the oval and disappear into the lane that wound down to a long strip of national park, ultimately leading to the river. He would reconnect with the outside; with forgotten things. Ancient things. He would be cleansed. He would be safe.

Something suddenly felt wrong. Unlif patted his pockets and ran a hand across his unshaven chin: his mask—where was his mask? Pathogenic perils aside, the cops were always around and only too happy to hand out plague-related citations. Where was his bloody mask? The ceiling seemed to thrum with the god’s growing impatience, and Unlif shrugged up at them, though he felt a little nuts doing it.

He checked the usual places: in the washer, the dryer, the laundry hamper, as well as the pile of stuff at the foot of his bed. Nothing. Maybe today was one for staying in—yet again. Spontaneity probably wasn’t his thing after all. Was the manhole cover in the hallway always ajar like that?

A face appeared in the darkness above, and Unlif just stared. There were hands too, like the spiders that haunted the high corners on sultry nights, and something lowered itself down onto the floor with a thud. The figure moved quickly; it came at Unlif, piercing his flesh with painfully dull claws, and in the eternity of that horrific moment, through the servery in the living room wall, he caught sight of the oak still swaying outside; it seemed to fall still as soon as he did.