Michael ate dinner with his grandfather clock and faded, yellow curtains that night. He never had time to eat dinner like he use to, when he actually cared if he was missing a meal. Not like this with a heavy pile of food in front of him and a hunger building inside, ready to leave his plate empty in a few minutes. It was a surprise for the young man to experience this moment and honestly, he wasn't sure what to do first.

The clock- his clock continued to tick faintly at the end of the room, its large body huddled against bleached-white walls as Michael decided to pick up a fork and dig in. Its wooden face stared out with a biting expression towards the kitchen, but its dinner companion for the night chose to ignore it. It was already too much for Michael to be sharing a meal with these old acquaintaces.

He continued to eat silently, occasionally setting his fork down to grab the glass of milk that sat near his country-styled plate. It wasn't just the milk the young man couldn't put down, either. The bottle of whiskey he had placed much earlier on the table in that afternoon seemed to move closer to him while the cheap, five-minute stuffing leftovers and greasy chicken moved further away. At first only fleshy fingers curled around the bottle continuously, like a bad habit. It only took a few more minutes until it was kissed by trembling lips.

Michael's silver-rimmed glasses, which normally sat perched on his face, tripped down the bridge of his nose and rested faintly at the bottom like a sinking ship after taking a quick swing of whiskey. Taking a longer swallow in a bit of startled surprise and closing his blue eyes, he swallowed loudly until breathless. The grandfather clock continued to tick, even when the man nearly smashed the bottle against his hand on the table.

The clock continued to press on.

"Christ."

Michael ran a hand up along his ragged, swarthy hair, his locks pressed deeply against his fingertips. His hand went down further, running down his unshaven cheek before clasping over his lips began towonder if there was something he was forgetting.

When he had finished eating, he pulled back the curtains, only pausing long enough to peek outside. He saw nothing but pitch blackness rubbing itself against the sky. Satisfied, he sat back against his chair, humming. Humming a soft tune briskly before carressing the plate, bottle, and glass of milk with a steady fingertip.

Today had been a strange day. Perhaps the strangest of all Michael Becker had ever seen. It wasn't every day one could go down Main Street in silence while parked cars sat scattered along the street unoccupied. Empty. Entirely empty. If he hadn't checked his calendar several times later that afternoon, the man would have mistaken today for a holiday.

A strange day indeed.

Still, while many of the buildings were locked, some were not. Even then, nobody was in the unlocked businesses, such as the grocery store or the laundromat. Not a single human had rushed down the road back and forth on that busy Sunday morning.

Maybe everybody was attending church, Michael thought to himself as he drove on and on in silence early that day. Maybe everything and everyone was at home or at church. Maybe that was it.

Somehow, it didn't matter. Still too surprised that everybody was away from his life, Michael decided later that day, after sitting in his living room and reading his science magazine, he would make sure. You know. It wasn't a huge deal, yes? After all, it was all in his mind. He was just being silly. Sure enough Mr. Kents or Abby Gussientire would be nestled into their homes for the quiet afternoon like most people. Mr. Kents cleaning out his garage before a harsh winter would approach, Abby talking to her cats, Joey and Penguin.

Nethier of the two were there when Michael checked. The garage door hadn't been opened to reveal embarrassing amounts of garbage nor the felines prancing along the corners of their house. Mrs. Kents, too, was gone. Even though the elderly lady andMichael never got along, he was afraid of not seeing her in the kitchen when he went around her house to inspect.

Still sitting in his chair and now humming more softly, Becker wished he had more liquor on him. He could, of course, go back down on Main Street and perhaps steal some at the store. At least then there would be a sign of life. A cop could swingby and arrest him and then he would be satisifed to know he wasn't going mad. Mad with silence. Mad with frustration. Mad with anger.

But there would be no one. He knew that. He knew it all along and Michael only lowered his head on the table and silently made a dry sob noise that heaved from his lips. It took all his strength to lift himself from his chair before grasping his plate and glass of now sour milk.

Dinner was over.

He was already tired of being around his grandfather clock and yellow, faded curtains, although he checked to look outside again one more time. Just to make sure. . .

Obviously displeased withthe result, he continued to march on silently under the dim glow of candles around the rooms of his shoddy household. Michael feared that his power would be gone as well, like the people around him so he had placed lighted candles to make sure hewould be able to see.

To the kitchen he continued until gradually laying his crockery in the kitchen sink, making sure that his suit would go untouched by the remaining filthy water he left alone hours ago. It wasn't untilthe manleft to go read the Bible in his living room, crushed between his leather chair before making the decision just to go upstairs to his bedroom.

That night seemed more forsaken as Michael came to realize that there was no one else left. He was alone now and laying across the bed in silent presentiment, he kept his suit on as he was too afraid to take it off. Even his glasses sat steadily on his face as he shifted his eyes in the black darkness of the night, wondering what tomorrow had to offer.

Then, as he sat alone in his room, he heard a knock at his door.

I'm not exactly sure where I heard it, who said it, or how it went, but somewhere I was told this: "The last person on Earth will be alone in their room in darkness and when they think it's over, when nothing is left, they will hear a knock on their door."

I just took that sort of thought. It was too good to let go, like a folklore that we haven't discovered just yet. If anything can creep me out, it's a wonderful folklore that was passed on and on throughout our history.

And what happens to Michael Becker? . . .I don't know. I don't really want to know. I mean, do you?