When the sun begins its descent in the western sky, things begin the change. The further it disappears behind the Rocky Mountains the more active my imagination becomes. Days, months, even years have been spent in this same place. At night familiarity is useless.
The beauty of the mid-summer flowers gives way to the eery crackling of the branches in the wind. In the moment after sunset and before the lights click on the yard comes to life.
The gate is unlocked. Someone has to make the journey to secure it before we all venture into bed. It is only ten feet but something about it doesn’t seem right.
Step by step the pebbles push hard into my foot. My senses are at their peak. I see it out of the corner of my eye. A strange man is staring at me from behind the creeping vine.
A scream escapes me.
The Easter Island statue has not been moved in over 15 years and he gets me every time.