those _things_ are always loudest when i’m on the brink of sleep. i hear them through the grate of the window, the cold iron criss-cross pattern vibrating as they screech and scratch. one of them sticks a long and thorny finger through the inch-wide hole.

how many times before they learn? the creature tries to pull its finger back, too late. the hooked thorns, easy to stick in but impossible to pull out, prevent it from getting it back. i get out of bed, not even bothering to put anything on.

i walk downstairs, to the kitchen, and already i can hear the entity wailing and crying a song that i will never understand.

“i’m coming!” i yell, looking for the big serrated bread knife that i keep just for situations like this.

by the time im back upstairs, the stuck monstrosity is the only one left. it’s something about these beings, they just refuse to help anyone, _especially_ each other.

i slowly begin to saw at the finger, as the organism’s wails and cries turn into an ear splitting screech and roar of pain.

after what could be at least 10 minutes, the thick and sinewy finger clunks wetly to the floor of my bedroom. the demonic spirit sighs in relief, flexing the uncountable amount of fingers it had left on its appendage, and then slowly drifts away from the window.

i grab the black and sharp thing from the floor and bring it to the only shelf in the room, and place it next to the other 73 fingers in my collection.

back in bed, i am greeted by quiet. finally, finally.

if only this didn’t happen every other night.