You look out the window , only to see a face staring right back at you . Whose is it ? Why are they there ?

It started as a tapping on the window pane. A crisp, startling rattle that made little curled hairs stand up straight on his neck. The knocking was harsh and attention grabbing, as though there was an accident in the field, and a young farmhand was trying to summon his aid. It wasn ’ t the kind of knock an old buddy would rap, hoping the farmer would take a break from his work to grab a coffee and burger at the local diner. It was too late, and it was much too urgent. 
 
 
 
 They came to his eardrums in triplets, consecutive until the next pairing. 
 
 
 
 *RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. * 
 
 
 
 His back was facing the window, where the racket was singing in the same stale pitch of old, thick glass vibrating with haste, stirring his stomach. It was late, and he worried of what accidents may have occurred while he was starting seeds in his tool barn. Perhaps a fire in the community, or a vehicle crash at a dark intersection. It could be one of the animals. He remembered a heifer that had complications giving birth last spring. When they had found her the next morning, she was as rock-hard as a statue, and her little one looked as though it had been frozen in it ’ s most horrific moment, trying to pry itself out of it ’ s mothers dead corpse. He had lost them both, but the bodies, if nothing else, kept coyotes away for a day or two. The old farmer had his farmhands drag them to the end of the farm where the forrest began. An easy lunch from an unfortunate loss. His stomach sank lower as his thoughts shifted from probable to tragic. He imagined his old wife, strong-willed yet frail in her stature, crumpled on the ground under a load too big for her to carry. He felt his mind race and muscles clench in the half-a-second it took him to turn to face the music. 
 
 
 
 As he turned, the rapping stopped mid-melody, and darkness filled the window where a human figure should have been. It was a windy evening, so the farmer dismissed the noise as twigs banging against the building. Squinting at the window, he sighed, thinking of the tragic death of a loved one he had fabricated in his head. He turned back to his seeds, but not before feeling slightly uneasy about the situation. 
 
 Sure enough, the second his back was to the window, the tapping began. 
 *RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. * 
 
 The farmer twisted around sharper than a cowboy taking a barrel turn at the stampede. The window was blank. His heart sank, and he began to feel as though there was more to blame for the tapping than just the weather. He tilted his cap up to scratch his patchy head, taking a few steps towards the window. He put his hand to the glass, and his old grey eyes to his hands. Nothing. 
 
 He turned on the heel of his rubber boots to find a *RAP-RAP-RAP* gnashing as his box pleat before he fully rotated himself. The warm fleecy lining of his flannel shirt might as well have been left on the sheep, as his blood ran so cold under his skin that goosebumps has risen like a million little mountain ranges. He didn ’ t turn back right away. He waited and listened, a third time, to the rattling of the window. 
 *RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. * 
 
 The longer he lingered, the louder the knocking became. 
 *RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. * 
 He feared the window may shatter under the force of impact. 
 *RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RA-* 
 
 He turned. 
 
 In the time he had taken to allow the bashing to continue, he had prepared himself for who could be on the other side. An escaped patient from the local asylum? A demon, or the Devil himself? A prankster youth from the community? A bear? An infinite amount of brainstorming while listening to the RAP-RAP-RAPing couldn ’ t allow him to brace himself for the figure he would see as he turned to face the direction of his frustration and curiosity. 
 
 He gasped, face to face with the last person he would have ever considered he would come face to face with. One hand landed just above his heart, the other over his gaping mouth. Never taking his eyes off of the ghastly figure, he made his way to the tool barns entrance. A few slow, sideways paces got him to the exit, and the hand on his mouth slowly made contact with the knob, shaking en route. From here, a quick sprint of adrenaline rushed through his body as he yanked open the door and jolted to the spot outside the window to confront the intruder. 
 
 Where there was once a being, there was nothing. 
 
 He looked down at the muddy ground to see a pair of footprints embedded into the soft soil. This was all that was left of the spy at the window. Cautiously, he fit his own feet into the stencilled impressions. A perfect fit. His heart raced. 
 
 In his rush to confront the uninvited figure, he hadn ’ t switched off the barn lights. Movement caught his eye and pulled his attention from the ground. Cupping his hands over his brow to get a better look, he peered into the window, forehead against the glass as the face staring back at him had been posed. The light illuminated a large, broad figure in rubber boots and an old mesh ball cap. Could it really be what he was seeing? 
 
 He raised a fist from his face, and hovered it over the window. Then, *RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. * The figure turned, placing a hand oh his chest. Slowly, his other covered his gaping mouth and deep, wrinkled features. *RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. RAP-RAP-RAP. * He rushed to meet the farmer outside. 
 
 As the door violently swung open, the farmer recalled the initial face looking back at him. The man who was rapping on his window. It was more of a reflection; a mirror image of an old farmer who was a striking image of the man with his seeds. The same cap, the same features, the same clothing and boots. In the second it took for the impostor inside the building to step out to meet the farmer, the farmers body shivered, remembering the bruising on the first ghostly face he had seen. There was blood trickling from his mouth and cracks in his skin. He had a look of death that was otherwise disputable because of the physical act of knocking and the figures open eyes. The farmer lifted his forehead from the glass to meet the impostor. 
 
 The boots and flannel shirt were replaced with a long dark cloak and scythe. The night was dark. 
 *RAP-RAP-RAP. * 
 
 

