John lived alone by choice, and he [[walked]] every evening on a [[path]] through the woods.He strode at a measured pace, not seeing the changing trees or the leaves that scattered down with every gust of wind--rather, watching the [[path]] pass beneath his feet. It led far from his house to a fallen [[pine tree]].The tree had ripped up a sizable chunk of ground when it fell years ago. On its trunk, among the barren spindled branches, sat a rotting handmade [[box]].It had been there as long as he could remember. [[Empty]].But one day, as he approached the tree amid the falling Autumn leaves and the [[wind]], he saw something [[in the box]].There was a lonliness to the rustling wind as he looked [[in the box]]. There was a tiny [[skeleton]] of some rodent.Whole and devoid of viscera save for dried blood, as if it had been cleanly pulled out of the creature's skin. John [[looked at it]] for a time.It could have easily been left there by some creature, but something about it [[didn't seem right]] to him. Still, he turned toward [[home]].The skeleton was too preserved to have been the work of an animal. Still, it was hardly worth dwelling on as he reached his [[home]] and prepared supper. There was another skeleton in the box the next day, and third the day after that. For several weeks, each walk would see a new tiny little skeleton in the rotting box. Covered in dried blood amid the grey trees and the falling golden leaves. It puzzled John, but it did not distress him. Until [[one day]].That day, as he walked along the path, he had the uneasy feeling that [[something was nearby]]. Perhaps watching, perhaps not. But certainly present.His [[uneasiness]] increased as he neared the [[tree]].He reached the overturned pine. And he saw that the box was [[missing]].That sense that he was not alone, and thus somehow even more alone than usual. And as he reached the overturned pine, he found the box [[missing]]. It was a simple, innocuous thing... but when combined with the nearby [[lurking presence]] the box's absence was surprisingly menacing.As he turned toward home--walking faster than normal and glancing around him--he thought he heard a [[noise]].A sort of quiet monster-rasping, like two rocks being gently rubbed together. The sun was setting, and he [[quickened his pace]].By the time he reached his house, he was practically jogging. The rasping noise seemed to follow him... but it was so subtle that it could have been a product of his imagination. He locked the door behind him, shut the blinds, and ate a simple dinner, [[watching and listening]] all the while.He was still watching and listening when he went up to bed that night. And as he entered his room, he felt the [[hair on the back of his neck stand up]].In the corner of the room sat the rotten box, piled high with its blood-stained little skeletons... And suddenly he could hear the [[rasping]], coming from downstairs. Barely audible...He listened, unable to move, as the sound [[grew in volume]].He could hear it [[approaching the base of the stairs...]] [[Climbing the stairs...]][[Coming down the hall...]]It was outside the door now. [[The hellish rasping]].He couldn't breath. The doorknob began to turn. [[...]]John lived alone by choice, and so it was some time before the authorities investigated [[his disappearance]].In his empty house, there was no trace of the box or the rodent skeletons. There were streaks of blood in the upstairs hall, like something had been violently dragged through it. And in the basement they found a [[newer, larger homemade box]].And in that box was a man's skeleton. Whole and devoid of viscera, save for dried blood. [[As if it had been cleanly pulled out of his skin]].THE END By David Szymanski