Apple, anyone?

I encountered Them. An odd pair, outlined in grey strokes against a purplish thunder-headed sky in a slight rain. They had walked a long time in a wind armed with newly acquired teeth. October had passed silently. It was the first day of the new month. And the day that for every year of my life afterwards I would spend in my room, half slumped over and sick to my stomach. Awaiting what was to come.

I'd woken that morning stiffer and colder than usual. Glancing left, I noticed that, sometime during the night, a wind had thrown the window wide. Thin curtains in dire need of replacing flapped gloomily in the early grey morning. I rose and, crossing the room wearily, pushed the window shut and slipped the hook back in place. I don't know why I bothered - the thing was rusted and loose anyway. Yet another thing that I'd long told myself I'd replace. In looking out, I noticed, first disbelievingly and then with quiet resignation, the aforementioned figures traveling the long, winding path underneath that darkly-set sky. No one had reason to ever come this way. It was why I had stayed. Had, they, perhaps, made a mistake? But, alas, only a short moments more of observation made unmistakably clear: they were coming this way.

Although I'd never been one to enjoy hosting guests, I nevertheless decided to humor the unexpected arrival. I dressed, tidied, drew open the curtains in the main room and set the water for tea. When the knock came, I answered with the key surreptitiously hidden in my hand. In case of distinctly unwanted guests, I'd throw shut the door and bolt it. Although not as young as I'd once been, if it came to, I was more than capable enough of using force. A long time ago, I'd had to use it almost every week.

Whatever expectation I had became immediately overturned at the sight that greeted me on the front steps of my home. The man, at first glance, appeared as any other sharply dressed figure on the streets of some city - tall, neatly groomed, with an air of purpose and an undercut cunning. However, upon closer inspection, there were some oddities that gave me brief pause.

For one. His overcoat, an unremarkable shade of grey, had smallish buttons shaped as eyes. They gleamed in the greyish light and appeared to blink as he breathed. Glancing up, I found his face to be hard lined and tired. He had pale lips and dark half moons under his eyes that resembled bruises. The eyes themselves - every few moments or so, they'd roll back into his skull and I'd be left staring at a pair of blank slots. I did not have the feeling that he had any control over the unusual habit - he eyed me where I stood with a flat, unchanging expression and gave no outward sign of discomfort during those odd half-second instances.

I shifted slightly in the doorway and glanced at the second companion.

The pig was large. Covered in coarse black hair shining almost indigo in the heavy light, it stood leaning heavily to its side and seemed to favor a leg. Its mouth was half open and I could make out the pink lining of its bottom lip and yellowed points that were teeth. I did not, I realized, particularly like the way it eyed me - there was something a bit too intelligent about its eyes. Before I could make any further observations, a smooth voice interrupted my train of thought.

"Would you like an apple?"

I blinked, looked again to the sharply dressed man with the white-slated eyes that came back again to focus. When I did not reply immediately, he produced a crisp green apple from the inside pocket of his overcoat. He held it out to me. I half registered the fact that it had begun to rain - the wind had picked up, pushing raindrops onto the front porch. The pig shifted, the boards creaking under its feet. The strangers eyes rolled back, flashing white, and rolled forward again. The apple appeared to float in the air. After a long moment, I found my voice.

"I- no, sir."

His expression remained unwavering.

"It's for the pig."

My brow creased.

"What?"

"The pig. The apple is for the pig."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. He'd come all this way, beneath a sky that since yesterday had promised stormy weather, for this? I lived several long miles from the nearest town with no proper road. I pressed my lips together and leaned back a bit, suspecting a joke I was in no mood to entertain. Many years ago such a thing had happened on a few occasions, but usually it had been the townspeople with their hurled eggs against my windowpanes or young boys with their shrill, sharp voices and sharper insults.That had been long ago, though - I thought they'd forgotten or grown bored of me. Apparently not. It was almost commendable. The man with the rolling eyes and the black pig. Really. They'd outdone themselves this time.

I made to close the door.

The next few things happened fast.

Like an eagle diving for its prey, the man sunk to his haunches in a fluid, sharp motion. All at once the apple was rammed between the pigs' jaws and a silver shape cut through the air. The man, eyes rolled white, had whipped a knife from his sleeve, arcing it towards the unfortunate porcine's throat. The slash sent black liquid splattering over the porch. The rain by now came down in torrents and the wind had risen to a scream. Or, perhaps, it was my own. I reeled backwards, losing my footing, and came down hard on the floorboards, the door flying open.

When I looked out again the man was gone. The pig remained where it was slumped on the porch. The black pool in which it lay spread rapidly, mixing with the rain and rippling as the biting wind passed over it. The apple hung loosely from the pigs' lips, half crushed and spilling juice. I noted almost absently the fact that the animals' eyes were still open. They seemed to stare at me, twin slots of empty black. A crack of lightning sent a flash of silver over the newly made corpse and, for a moment, it appeared as though the pig was still alive, observing me with those horribly, horribly intelligent eyes.

I don't remember too much after that. Days passed. I'd buried the pig and washed the blood from the porch. Days became weeks, and then months. A year.

It was the last day of October.

It happened the same every time.