Our last day of sunlight dawned and faded almost at once as you reaped the final drop of ripened energy from our sun. We could do nothing to stop you. Your strange, mercurial ship flew circles around our, by comparison, primitive technology. All without needing to pause your theft.

You used to fear the bathtub drain as a child, until you’d happened to watch a cartoon demonstrating the irrationality of…well, drainophobia. No part of you could fit down a drain. You couldn’t be sucked down, even if you tried. 

But there are bigger drains.

Hunger haunted the hollows of your heart where my absence left you empty. You wanted attention. Views. Likes. Comments. At first, these from anyone would do. Admiration from the masses filled the gnawing emptiness within you.

Until you got my attention.

Oh, how your consumerism pulled the teeth from we scarecrows. Made us not only harmless, but also not even frightening—our purpose no longer to guard crops, but to decorate suburban lawns. You gave us screen-printed smiling expressions for charming your neighbors. 

So none of you knew what to think when the face of every scarecrow the world over went blank.

Life for everyone changed forever the day my teeth broke your skin. 

But it was bite, or be bitten. 

And your bite had the power to make me one of you. A rotting, shambling corpse. Someone else’s teeth had already transmitted a curse to you. A curse which drove you to pay it forward when you’d cornered me in that storage shed.

I had mostly rotted away by the time you found me fallen in the apartment next door. 

I couldn’t guess why you knocked yourself instead of calling the manager. You never really responded to my greetings or attempts to chat. Like maybe you didn’t like me. 

I couldn’t bear that.

Your storm windows stood no chance of protecting you, even though you’d had them specially made from steel. Readying for the storm you knew would come. 

I watched you install them. And you felt me watching, I know. You prepared and I lurked. Waiting for atmospheric turbulence. Wind shear. Moisture. 

Cold air aloft.

Piles of bones kept appearing on my doorstep. Not animal bones, either, but people bones. 

At first, I’d thought the bones a threat. I lived alone and far away, after all. A perfect target for the ire of nearby villagers. Not one to be cowed, I’d nailed skull and rib cage to the walls of my house.

The moment my skin tore and blood oozed up within the cut, I knew you would hunt me. 

How anyone could be expected not to bleed, I didn’t know. But our kin always told us, No blood outside. The hunter will come. Not in that joking way adults talked about monsters. But dead serious.

Every year, we skimmed off the top of your harvest. Taxes, we said. Easy enough to collect food for ourselves in the name of food for all without lifting a finger. 

But who followed up on that yield distribution?

I should’ve realized you would.