Context is important. Especially for a hermit like me.

For example, the sound of a heavy object clobbering the floor a few rooms away might seem completely harmless to someone living in normal, sane times. "It's just my roommate down the hall," our domestic person might conclude. Or, "Looks like Mother's having one of her fits again!"

But to me, someone who has lived in solitude for what seems like an eternity, loud noises bespeak only dangers. They force a man to put up his guard. And, if a man, is already locked in a battle of wits with a treacherous extra-dimensional parasite, he's bound to associate the noise with the only life form in near proximity.

I slunk away from the mess on the floor, resolving to figure out the script at a more opportune time; scoured the landfill for something, anything, resembling a weapon, and spied the other half of the broom handle protruding from the heap of cassette tapes, where I'd tossed it. Short, awkward, perilous to wield was the shaft. I would need to charge in close, if I hoped to even graze my adversary. But all my other options had run dry. And I needed to work quickly to catch the creature before it slithered away.

Of course, my mind was a haphazard mess at the time--I'd experienced a sequence of utterly discombobulating events in quick succession, wandered into an absurd nightmare, tumbled through the bowels of space; and I was still tumbling, in a manner of speaking, bewildered, untethered, not quite myself--so I didn't take time to reflect on how uncharacteristic the racket was. My mind worked independently of my will. Carried me through the living room, the hallway; bore me to the farthest spare bedroom...the very worst location in all my house for a loud crash to occur.

It was the space where I'd stored all of my music equipment, an infernal Jenga tower of mixing boards, guitar pedals, reel to reel decks, keyboard parts. Perhaps that's another reason why I galloped in without pause--I couldn't bear the thought of something breaking against the floor, one of my precious possession shattering into plastic bits.

I stumbled through the door, holding the pointy stick out in front of me like a sabre. In my delirium, I was prepared to fight to the death. Picture a fantastical struggle between hero and beast, a fiery serpent coiled around a lamp stand vs. a courageous knight, crouched stoically, ready to pounce. That's the scene I envisioned.

But the music room disclosed only commonplace things. The lamp still burned in the corner, painting everything a mustard chroma. My items were arranged just as I'd left them, or at least close enough to match my memory--the tangle of cords was splayed out in the far corner, the head of the mixing board protruded from a mountain of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap like a drowning victim's hand. I only needed to locate my Kurzwell keyboard; and that's when I experienced another wave of anxiety, for I spotted the instrument lying prostrate in the corner, a good three feet away from where I'm certain I placed it.

The Kurzwell was one of my oldest possessions. Vintage, 1984. A nightmare to locate on the market. I'd snagged it from a pawn shop, way back before the clouds became crimson and the scavengers began scavenging, and chances were all of its type had been destroyed in the ensuing chaos. I couldn't bear the thought of it cracking or even chipping against the floor, so I acted on impulse.

I waded into the junk heap one foot at a time. My legs sunk into the mass of plastic and rubber and styrofoam, and my feet met the carpet beneath. I didn't want to think about how vulnerable I was, half-submerged in rubble, so I traveled as quickly as possible, half-leaping, half-careening over the hurtle. If only I owned a pair of snowshoes, I thought; they would make traversing my bungalow a breeze. Then I cleared most of the debris, and my hand met the wall, and I was standing over the Kurzell as it lay coffin-like in its slipshod grave.

It seemed undamaged when I turned it over. A few of the dials were turned the wrong way, but otherwise the instrument appeared in one piece. And my relief was so overwhelming, dear reader, I almost disregarded the subtle change in atmosphere, a faint smell wafting from somewhere close. I'll give you one guess as to the nature of the smell. The nauseating fragrance of processed meat.

The subsequent events probably occurred over the course of an instant, but at the time, they felt stretched out like a film reel, played at half-speed. My mind processed the horrible significance of the stench. All my synapses began firing. My muscles began working. And I was just a split second away from leaping away-- lord knows, flying away--when an unspeakable thing occurred.

I felt something touch me.

The hairs on my ankle reached out and met a fleshy, moist object, which brushed against my ankle bone and slid down underneath. Then--I implore you to believe me, dear reader--it tickled the underside of my foot. Just like that, the diabolic trickster. It reached out and gave me a little tickle. Like my mother driving my feet beneath the covers. But the sensation was decidedly more sinister, coming from a slimy appendage.

I've never considered myself much of an athlete. Even in my teens, my body was clumsy and unwieldily and apt to trip and tumble at inconvenient times. All thumbs and big toes, so to speak. Still, in that moment, I think I must've broken some kind of long jumping record. Adrenaline shot through my veins like electricity. All of my muscles coiled up like a spring. And I took flight. I bounded so high, my scalp brushed the ceiling. Then I crash-landed on the other side of the junk heap, halfway out the door.

My process of standing was less dextrous. I'd landed flat on my belly and couldn't roll to either side because of the door frame; neither could I properly somersault forward or backward without wasting valuable time lurching to my knees, so my body twisted and tumbled to freedom. I crawled/inch-wormed forward, propelling myself with my arms and my stomach. Then I staggered to my feet.

Oh god! The whole world had gone mad! Behind me, the room was moiling. Cardboard and bubble wrap and discarded rubber seams thrashed about like storm breakers. The junk heap had become a tumult. I heard rustling, smacking, slurping. The Kurzwell stand knocked backward against the wall then tipped forward. Bubble wrap spewed upward like water jetting from the blowhole of a whale.

Naturally, I didn't waste any time making sense of the disturbance. I seized the door which had been propped open for I don't know how many years, and slammed it shut.

But who knew what tiny crannies the creature could squash itself through. I dashed into my bedroom and ripped the comforter from the mattress, sending all my computer circuits bouncing and combusting around the room, and then I dashed back and jammed that comforter into the slit beneath the door, insulating the monster inside.

But the door opened inward, I realized, and the entity only needed to mutate its appendage into some semblance of a hand to work the knob and create a breach. I couldn't wall it in. But I could restrain it. Sparks erupted inside my mind.

I dashed down the hall again, stumbled through my living room, careened over my easy chair; and, thank god, the bungie chord was still draped over the pile of appliances; and I gripped it and yanked it, and the black hook snagged on something or a lot of things; but I wasn't to be deterred.

In a fit of desperation, I propped my foot against the dump and yanked with all my strength. The bungie chord came loose-ish, snagging a whole nest of Christmas lights on its heavenward journey. Then I was off again.

The Christmas lights put up a commotion as I ran, banging against the walls, bouncing and rebounding like another living thing. I paid them no mind, rounding the corner and shooting a terrified glance at the music room door, but it remained firmly shut, thank god. So the creature hadn't yet learned the trick.

I lumbered to a halt and gripped the knob and wrapped the free end of the bungie cord around the handle once, twice, thrice, four times, as many times as I could. Then I extricated both hooks and fastened them to the edge of the door frame, trussing the door closed.

I stood there for a good five minutes, dear reader, gasping after my breath, clutching my sides and heaving. Once my heart ceased hammering, I composed myself and inched forward and placed my ear against the door. If you want the truth, part of me still doubted the authenticity of what I'd witnessed. Was it possible? Had my adversary grown large enough to make the floor move?

Equally troubling, had the pickle loaf set its own trap? Had it lured me into its den for the purpose of snaring me in return? I didn't want to believe my own eyes and ears, so I stepped forward. My ear settled against the cold oakwood. I listened. I prayed that the space beyond was empty and inanimate.

Imagine my horror when a tangible noise greeted me. A voice. Not a human voice, but something primal and swamp-like. A warbling, rolling, ticking noise. At first I thought it was a moan, like something from a dying animal. But as the voice bubbled away, I realized its true nature. The creature was giggling. Faint. Mocking. Like a man in a drunken stupor. On the other side of the door, my enemy was taunting me.

Then everything went silent as the vacuum of space.