Skitterlobes

The Skitterlobes come most nights now. I don’t know how they get the window open, but they do. They perch there—no eyes, no mouth—just that veiny lump of a head pulsing in the moonlight. They don’t speak exactly, but the stories still get in. Stories about basements that go down too far, about nurses with too many arms, about doors in the sky. I tried locking the window. I even taped a rosary to the sill. It doesn’t matter. They always find a way back in. This model is one of them.