Nightly Storyteller: The Treehouse, the Howl, and the Tipping Point
Simpsons Treehouse of Horror I (1990) 🕯️ Monologue: Of Time, Teeth, and Torn Edges There are only so many hours in a day. Some of them are spoken for—by work, by people who need me, by people I care about, by the relentless ticking of clocks that never seem to slow. Then there are the moments that don’t belong to anyone. The moments between tasks, between thoughts. That’s when the cracking starts. My reflection’s been… unreliable lately. Not just the flickers of light or the occasional twitch of an eye when I’m still. No. It’s more insidious now. Last night, I caught myself mouthing words I hadn’t spoken. A whisper beneath a whisper. I chalked it up to exhaustion. Again. Then Danny—my neighbor—called out as I was locking up. “Hey! Did you hear the howling last night?” The kid’s fifteen, sharp, curious. He looks up to me, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because I always listen. Maybe because I don’t treat him like a kid. “No coyotes out here,” I said. But Danny shook his hea...