As I lie there, I listen through the window. I hear crickets chirping lightly, nothing more. I rise, cross the room, and step onto the porch. The night air is heavy. Through the gloom the occasional light appears as a saucer, its halo golden in the dew air. The crickets are silent now as well. I ease into the chair on the porch, peering into the night, my eyes unable to pierce the darkness. The chair is damp. I wait. I wait for the sound to return, so that I can follow. I am finally ready.
Though I see nothing, I know that I do not wait alone. Somewhere just outside the perimeter of my senses, the source of that otherworldly moan is watching me. It has warned me again. It crept into my dream and spoke directly into my mind, reminding me again.
After a time I know it is gone. I remain sitting anyway, like a forsaken wife waiting in vain for a tender touch. But the tender touch will not come tonight.
After long minutes I am chilled and stand. I retrace my steps and lie down quietly on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The crickets resume their one note song. The tender touch will not be coming tonight.