text: James sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace, watching his wife, Emma, and young son Charles clean up after their meager dinner. It was times like this, deep in winter with little food to put on the table, and the recent fighting between settlers and Natives, that made him regret leaving New England and coming west. But he had been able to buy a modest plot of land for himself and his family, and it wasn't as crowded as the eastern States, with more and more people immigrating from Europe. Still, he sometimes missed the crowding and industrialization; it was easier to stay fed in the winter, at least. His musings were cut short by the stirrings of a bowel movement. He threw on his coat and hat, dreading the winter night. He lit his lantern, stepped out the door, and began the short trek to relieve himself. It was a cold night. Snow was falling, and the wind cut deep. He huddled himself against the weather and quickened his pace. As he approached the outhouse, he paused. He saw something. It was darker, somehow blacker than the surrounding night. It looked as if an emaciated giant lie in wait for him behind the outhouse. Long, thin fingers curled around the sides, an inhuman face with sunken eyes peeking, staring at him, from over the roof. Gooseflesh began to prickle his skin. He couldn't move. The sight had frozen him more surely than the frigid temperature. After taking a moment to regain his nerve, he extended his arm out, bringing the lantern closer to the outhouse, and rubbed his eyes. There was nothing there. There couldn't be. A trick of the weather, then. He walked the final yards to the outhouse and sat down inside. As he was getting settled, he heard footsteps in the snow, circling from outside--too fast. Worse was a scraping as if someone was running their fingernails along the wooden walls. Then he heard a voice hard to describe. It was almost a whisper in the wind, yet deep and profound. He felt a thrumming in his chest as it spoke. It spoke in a native language he did not understand. maajaa maajaa maajaa His heart was pounding. He was vulnerable, pants down, in a four feet by four feet box. It was winter, but he began to sweat. He felt his stomach sink and he couldn't quite make his lungs work. He could almost feel the creature breathing on his neck. Its presence was heavy, suffocating. Sheer terror gripped him. He fled from the outhouse, half-clothed, toward the safety of his cabin, stumbling more than once in the snow, too afraid to look back. Afraid that if he did, he would see spindly, unnatural fingers grasping at him from the dark. He burst through the front door and latched it behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, as he could barely keep himself upright. He stood there, panting, trying to regain control of himself, eyes darting back and forth in primal panic. His wife glanced up at him with concern. "Are you okay? You're as white as a sheet." "Just cold is all.