I was preparing for last night's night-out with a friend. The impetus of the same rituals was merely the physical memory of my mortal shell. My mind was elsewhere as I was brushing my teeth then. My absent-minded stares wandered around the small dining-kitchen room of my boarding house and soon found its way into the small window at the back of the room.
Unintelligible shapes of the young night toyed with my vision, but I did not heed them. A breeze made its way in, its coolness making me aware of my surroundings. I stopped brushing my teeth for a few seconds to smile and properly appreciate what little view I had of the world outside that quaint house. It was not much, being dominated by our neighbor's roof with a few thin branches of malnourished trees here and there.
Now that I was paying attention, the view became clearer as my eyes were able to properly focus on the object of their gaze. A chill ran through my spine and the familiar tingle of waking goosebumps ensnared my senses as I began to comprehend what was a mere blurry shape just moments earlier.
It was a man. He sat on our neighbor's roof with his back to me. I could tell from the way his head turned slowly here and there that he was observing his surroundings. That was my sense speaking. Instinct told me that he was searching. Primal fear whispered to me that he was a predator. Logic concluded that I was the prey.
My senses went into overdrive and I realized that my mechanical brushing stopped. I deduced that it must have stopped minutes before I learned of it, but that was hardly important. Scenes played themselves in my head, as sinister and as bizarre as my forebodings. Skepticism urged me to take a closer look, which I did.
It was a man, yes. His back, a darker shade of gray against the evening, was turned. His hair, black, was short. He was atop the roof, his hands lightly clutching its edges. I reasoned against occultism that he might be a burglar, occultism pointed out the odd things I glossed over. His hands were too long, and his fingers spindly. He wasn't wearing anything, preternatural shadows maybe, but not clothes. His legs were shadow and vapor, mere outlines in the darkness, nothing more. There were no lights, since no one was ever around in that house during summertime, but I saw him in the darkness.
I had no choice but to concede defeat against the supernatural and turned about to finish my brushing. All that was needed was a quick and thorough brush anyway. As I was gargling, I thought of the man, who still had his back turned while glancing about when I decided to not make anything more of the incident despite my goosebumps, which never went away. I finished, turned off the lights and was about to leave the room when I heard rattling scrapes against the metal screens of the window.
There were no trees whose branches were within reach of our boarding house kitchen. The first thing that came to mind were those long hands and spindly fingers, and what nails they possibly had.