To say I was rattled was an understatement. I would have been content to stay on the floor, in a near-catatonic state, except that I literally lay atop the bag of squirrel heads, which proved uncomfortable on multiple levels.

The voice had ceased a few moments before. It hadn’t abruptly stopped. Instead, it had drifted away, as if whatever spoke had slowly floated out of the attic. Or out of existence.

Eventually, I had to force myself to move. Much like the attic clean-up, I gave myself small tasks to focus on accomplishing.

Get up.

I knocked that one out of the park.

Dispose of squirrel heads.

Hard fail, as I picked up the bag by the bottom and all the heads and assorted offal spilled out the top. Of course, the squishy, bloody parts landed on the carpet and the heads bounced down the staircase. This would make it the Battle of...I started counting steps but lost interest as the concept suddenly seemed silly and insignificant.

Eager now to somehow secure the attic hatch, I couldn’t do it while stepping around rodent parts. So, once again I gathered up the remains, tied the bag this time, dropped it into the garbage can in the garage, put the lid on it, and topped it with a brick.

Secure attic hatch.

This went easier than I expected. The hatch and frame were wood, so I simply drilled some long screws into it. Would it stand up to a human kicking it open? Probably not, but it should keep whatever was in there from pulling it up. Or so I hoped.

Address the note.

The “98” note remained in my pocket. I had finally accepted that whatever insanity transpired in my home was going to continue, regardless of my denials or resistance. All of my previous plans had been bad, and I certainly wasn’t coming up with any new or better ones. To top it all off no one was truly going to believe me if I went for help.

I debated calling Beth at that point but summarily dismissed the notion. What was she going to be able to do besides worry and think I’d lost my mind?

It was time to face this almond crap head-on and if that meant playing along then so be it. Shit or get off the pot, as my grandmother used to say. I dropped the five attic almonds into the bowl and set the folded note on top. That brought the count in the bowl to fifteen, as I had left the almonds in the ornaments on the tree. To show that I was truly being a team player I even left a pen next to the bowl.

I waited for a while—for the pen to levitate and write on its own or for the note to move or an almond to run around my house breaking shit—but nothing. I supposed I shouldn’t be too surprised. Hauntings usually didn’t perform on command for willing audiences.

When my eyes grew heavy, I threw in the towel and headed upstairs. I flopped onto the bed and stared up at the dark hole my foot had left in the ceiling. Shit. I’d forgotten all about it. I’d patted myself on the back repeatedly for barricading the attic hatch and the whole time there was a hole right above my damn bed. Whatever hid in the attic would have no trouble dropping through and would even get to use my mattress to cushion its landing, possibly while I slept on it.

I opted to spend the night in the guest room. Armed with my old hockey stick, I thoroughly searched the room for, well, for anything, and then tried to get some rest.

I didn’t like this room. The mattress was too firm, there was no television, and, as it was the furthest from the furnace, it received very little heat. Additionally, the ceiling fan chain had broken so having the light on meant the fan also ran at top speed. And I sure as hell wasn’t sleeping in the dark.

For several hours I tossed and turned, shivering even under extra blankets as the fan whipped cold air. I winced at every sound, both actual and imaginary. The bright overhead light forced me to pull the blankets over my head. Being suffocated and blinded to my surroundings made me pull them back down. But, eventually, the fatigue overcame all of these whiny complaints and I dozed off.

***

I don’t know what time it was when the ceiling fan fell on me.

The sound of it tearing away from the ceiling in a spray of plaster and electrical sparks woke me immediately but not quickly enough for me to leap from the bed. The fan landed on my stomach, knocking the wind out of me, even as the blades somehow kept spinning full speed for several seconds, smacking me repeatedly across the face. The first whack proved substantial, but each consecutive slap cost the fan momentum so that it was much like being hit repeatedly by a relatively weak, but enthusiastic toddler who rapidly ran out of stamina. By the time I untangled my arms from the blankets to defend myself the fan had exhausted its kinetic energy.

Now in the dark, I shoved the fan to the floor and groped around the nightstand for my phone. Using the screen for light, I hurried across the room, clicked on the small desk lamp, and breathed a quick sigh of relief that nothing had joined me in the room.

There was now yet another substantial hole in the ceiling—a gap that led straight up to the attic. There should have been a layer of insulation there, blocking the view of the dark, but it had been pulled away. As I watched, something scuttled over the hole—a brief flash of brown, accompanied by the jingle of Christmas bells.

Just like the ones on Santa Bear’s stolen clothes.

I snatched up the hockey stick, held it like a spear, as I backed out of the room. My heel bumped the corpse of the ceiling fan. It toppled to the side and something rattled in it as it did.

I was getting pretty apt at recognizing that distinctive rattle. I loathed having to set aside the hockey stick, as it would leave me defenseless, but then I had the distinct notion that I was probably defenseless with it as well. So, I leaned it against the wall and proceeded to drag the fan to the hall, all while craning my head up to watch the hole.

When I had the fan out, I snuck back into the room, gathered up my weapon, and phone and retreated. As I pulled the door shut that familiar airy voice floated down through the hole.

“All...”

***

The first thing I did was check the note in the bowl. It had indeed been updated. It now read “85” and confirmed that this was indeed some form of supernatural scavenger hunt. All I could do was be careful and keep looking.

With the fan splayed out on the kitchen table, I got to work. I wasn’t very handy, and I certainly didn’t know anything about electronics, so I simply took a screwdriver and set to taking it apart. Inside the chassis, I found a total of nine almonds.

I sat down with a huff. How was this even possible? There were no holes or slots in the fan large enough to squeeze an almond through. So, whatever put them there would have had to remove all the screws and open it up like I just did. Or somehow magically whisk them in.

I dropped the nine almonds in the bowl and left the room. I was halfway up the stairs when I remembered that both bedrooms were defensively compromised. There was no way I was attempting to rest in either with that weird voice and Santa Bear bells jingling down. I turned on my heels and headed back.

That’s when I got my first glimpse of it. My sudden reappearance must have startled it, as it leaped away from the bowl when I entered the room. It was big for a rodent (if that’s what it was) and fast. It dropped off the opposite side of the kitchen island out of sight, bells jingling from what appeared to be Santa Bear’s outfit.

Curiosity overcoming fear, I hefted my hockey stick and tiptoed after it. Just as I rounded the island the thing did the same, jumping out of sight yet again. We could play ring-around-the-island all night if it were smart enough and I were dumb enough. I followed it again, just in time to see it dive for the bottom of the fridge and somehow, impossibly, scurry underneath it.

This should have been physically impossible. Somehow the thing’s brown furry body condensed itself, flattening out to squeeze under the appliance, its clawed feet furiously pumping to drive itself under. Then it was gone—completely wedged into a space no more than an inch or two.

I waited for it to reappear, but nothing came. Finally using my phone as a flashlight, I kneeled and took a peek.

Nothing.

I backed away, hockey stick ready to slash. The note had toppled out of the bowl when the thing had run, and I picked it up.

“76”.

Whatever this creature was, it was able to defy the laws of physics and smart enough to count and write.

I needed some kind of help.

***

“You want what?” Paul asked.

I realized I’d made my initial request in a whisper that he couldn’t have possibly heard. With a throat clear, I repeated into the phone, “A gun.” I’d sat up all night and could only hope my brain wasn’t too addled to pull off a believable story.

A long pause came next.

“It’s for the possum,” I said.

“So, you’re sure it’s a possum?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

“Did you call an exterminator?” he asked, clearly not eager to share a slice of this arrangement. I understood his reluctance. From his perspective, it had to be very much like being asked to throw a pair of razor-sharp scissors to a sprinting child who was having a nervous breakdown.

“They’re all backlogged. Look, I’m not going to go hunting for it, but there’s clearly an aggressive animal in my attic and a me-sized foot hole in my bedroom ceiling. It could drop in any minute.”

There was a long sigh from his line. “Beth will kill me if she finds out. You know how she feels about you being around dangerous objects.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, I have some experience. I used to go hunting with my grandfather.” This was sort of true. I would often walk through the woods with my grandfather looking (or one could say hunting) for mushrooms. Looking was the basic element of hunting. We just didn’t shoot at anything.

“Hiking is not hunting,” Paul said.

Shit. He knew me too well.

Another drawn-out sigh. “Okay. I have an older model .20-gauge shotgun. It’s kind of a starter rifle for hunting small game—popular with tinier women, kids, and fragile elderly people wanting to check off hunting from their bucket lists.”

My initial excitement over his agreeing was tempered a bit with his description of the weapon. I now pictured a bright orange NERF gun with the trigger taped down for extra safety. “It’ll handle a possum, right?”

“Oh yeah. It’s still a shotgun. It’ll still kill you when you fall down the stairs with it and it goes off in your face and I have to hear about it from your wife for the next forty years.”

“Eh, she’ll get over it faster than that. She’s resilient.”

Paul laughed grimly and within an hour was standing in my kitchen, giving me a quick rundown on the weapon. To say it was an old-fashioned firearm would have been an understatement. It was a single-shot breach-loader, which meant the rifle “cracked” open in the middle and each shell was loaded individually into the base of the barrel. I certainly wasn’t going to be machine-gunning at the monster.

“This thing is a relic. Was it used by the North or the South?” I complained.

Paul snorted. “Civil War technology was more advanced than this. Even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t trust you with explosive black powder and a bayonet.”

“Fair enough.” There was no point arguing.

He set a green box of shells on the table next to the shotgun. “My recommendation is to load it, ensure the safety is on and then keep it within arms-reach, but do not carry it around. That way you don’t jump at every noise with a finger on the trigger. If the possum gets in the house, don’t try and shoot it on the run. Wait until it stops, and you can get a clear aim. But mostly, just try to keep it from getting inside until the exterminator comes.”

“Gotcha.”

For a moment his face went soft, and I feared he was going to reconsider out of safety precautions. I should have known better.

“One more time, just so I know you have it memorized.” He picked up the rifle and tapped the end of the barrel. “What’s this?”

“I’m not saying it.”

“You have to.”

“No.” I crossed my arms.

“Say it or I’m not leaving the gun.”

I frowned. Normally I’d be more resistant to such bro-teasing, but I was too stressed out. “Fine. That is the ‘shooty-end’. Happy?”

Paul nodded with a cocky smile. “Yep. Keep the shooty-end away from your face. Just remember that and you’ll be fine.”

As he was leaving, he paused in the doorway and fixed me with a serious expression I was unfamiliar with. “You sure you’re ok? You want Eric and I to come back over later tonight or tomorrow?”

I appreciated this rare display of concern. It nearly led me to tell him about the almond monster, but I knew he wouldn’t believe it. It was an unbelievable tale and frankly, I had a reputation as the guy that exaggerated stories regularly, which would make it even more fanciful. Not only would he not accept the existence of the beast, but he might also consider trying to force me to seek psychological help. And he certainly wouldn’t leave me a firearm.

So, with as calm a demeanor as I could summon, I said, “Nah, I’m good. It’s just a possum. No big deal. I’m perfectly sane.”

As soon as Paul was gone, I started building a fort out of couch cushions in the living room.