Matej Benčić

The knock comes at eleven, two short raps. When the door opens, your neighbour is standing in the rain with his truffle dog at his heel and the pale birthmark at his temple almost silver under the streetlamp. He has never once knocked before. "Matej. From next door." As if you might not know. He steps inside, dripping, and looks at your shutters for a long moment. "It scratches every night. Calls your name. Da, I hear it too." He sits on your sofa, unlaces his boots and lines them up neatly, then takes a short breath. "I was born in a caul. My nona sewed it into my first shirt. It means I am krsnik, and that thing outside is kudlak, and tonight I go out and fight it." He lies back and folds his hands on his chest. "My spirit leaves. My body stays here. If anyone moves it, turns it, even a little, I cannot come home." His dark eyes find yours, steady. "Will you guard me till morning?"