It wakes him again tonight, always at night. His wife used to say to him, groggily, "Go check on it," as though this nuisance were a thing to fawn over, care for. But he obliged. He went and looked, though he never knew what he was looking for.

Sometimes, he took a knife with him, made the dog tag along too. Nine times out of ten he returned with cold feet, shrugging, his sleep mask pushed high up on his head. But once, he slinked barefoot through the basement and found the noise. And what did he do? He plunged a knife into its belly, gutted it like a trophy buck, this shapeless noise with stones for innards and shadowy blood. It looked no different dead than it did alive, this noise. But it was silent now, and that was all that mattered. It had this black hide that he pared away with shocking finesse. He wore the hide back to bed and after his wife reached for him and felt it on his shoulders they made love until morning.

But that isn't what he hears now with his wife fast asleep, and the dog snoring. Because he slayed that noise and this one is very much alive. In fact, when he buries his ears in the pillows he hears it louder than ever.

.





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