I was being kept awake at all hours by prankster axe murderers.

I couldn't figure out what the noise was, at first. I'd be lying in bed, half asleep, and in the darkness I'd hear the rustle-rustle-rustle of fallen leaves as someone (or something) approached my house. Then there'd be a pause, as I stared wide-eyed into the darkness, my mind reviewing old horror movies for any tips on how best to deal with crazy axe murderers who showed up at your house in the woods after midnight. But all the clips that came to mind were cautionary tales at best.

A few moments after the rustle-rustle-rustle, there'd come a knock! knock! knock! that vibrated through the walls of my house.

Finally, I got up to answer the door. Well, why not? It was probably just some poor guy with a hook for a hand, whose car had gotten a flat near my house when he'd fled the asylum. Probably he wanted to use my phone, which he'd be disappointed to learn was out of order. And if he brought his axe with him, what of it? No doubt it was simply his favorite axe and he felt nervous leaving it in the car. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

But when I opened the door and peered out, there was no sign of anyone.

So I went back to bed, and minutes later it happened again. Rustle-rustle-rustle, getting closer and closer. Rustle-rustle-rustle. Pause. Knock-knock-knock.

I got up once again to answer the door. Once again, no one was there. It seemed this was one of those pranksters who knocks on your door and then ditches. But in the middle of the woods? In the middle of the night? Pranksters had apparently gotten a lot more ambitious since I was a kid.

When it happened a third time, I was ready. A second after the knocking, I threw open the door.

But, like the hypothetical mailman, it seemed the axe murderer/prankster could not be observed.

I went outside to investigate. Yes, I realize that's exactly what the axe murderers want you to do, but I did take the dead flashlight with me, at least. While I couldn't see anything by it, it might come in handy for clobbering an axe murderer on the head. (Or so I hoped.) Besides, the flashlight only had to get me to the woodpile, where I had an axe of my own.

I stepped outside, and tiptoed toward the woodpile. I set down the flashlight and wrestled the axe from its stump, rocking the blade out of the groove with the world's loudest and squeakiest creak that echoed throughout the hills. Every axe murderer in Washbear County surely heard me. I raised the axe up over my shoulder like a batter waiting for a good pitch. Behind me, trees gossiped and conspired every time the cold wind blew. Their branches clattered together like the dry bones of skeletons. Out of the corner of my eye I could see gnarly twig-fingers reaching out towards my neck. But whenever I whipped around, they all pretended to act normal.

I heard the noise again. Rustle-rustle-rustle. I choked up on the axe handle. My eyes searched for whoever was responsible for those footsteps. But the air above the rustling leaves was empty. Could it be that whoever was making those footsteps was . . . invisible?

Then I heard the knocking. Knock-knock-knock. There was no one standing at the door.

I looked down, and then down some more, following the sound.

And that's when I saw one of the flying squirrels.

He'd found a little trench under the house, where the bottom of the house did not sit flat on the ground. He'd chosen this spot, apparently, to stash nuts for the winter. As I watched, he jammed a large round nut into place with his teeth, knock-knock-knock, and then patted it into place the rest of the way with his tiny paws. He looked like a tourist trying to pack an overstuffed suitcase.

Satisfied, he turned around and started back toward the trees. But he paused, sat up, and sniffed the air. As he spotted me, his funny flattish tail gave a little twitchy wave. He said something to me in his click-click-squawk-squawk voice, which sounded like he was being fast-forwarded at super speed. I'm pretty sure he was saying, "Hey, what are you doing up? I went shopping. Got us some nuts for the winter. You're welcome." And then he twitched again and scurried off, probably not for the last time that night. Not for the last time at all.

I sighed and lowered the axe, both relieved and disappointed, like a batter who just got walked.

And then, at that moment, I heard a much bigger rustle from behind me. My panicky mind ran through the likely suspects: The evil-universe trees! The axe murderer! The Bigfeet? My heart made to jump right out of my chest like in old cartoons. The axe slipped from my grip with a thud. I whipped around and leapt into a surefire (I hoped) martial arts pose I'd learned as a kid. My arms shot up as if I were chained from above by my wrists, and I stood on one leg, ready to do battle. "If do right, no can defense," Mr. Miyagi had promised Daniel-san. But, Mr. Miyagi also said, "First learn balance." That was never exactly my strong suit. After hopping for about two seconds I crashed to the ground.

As I scrambled back up, who should come shuffling out from behind the compost pile but the possum. She was about as stealthy as me, which just goes to show that possums would not make good ninjas. We both froze, the possum and me. With her strange white face and kohl-black eyes, the possum looked like a mime. I didn't see any babies on her back this time; maybe they were home with a sitter? To be honest, the possum looked a little drunk. She dropped whatever she'd been eating, which smelled like a fermented pawpaw.

I left the axe where I'd dropped it, and the possum left the fruit, and we both backed away and slinked off in opposite directions, like acquaintances who'd run into each other somewhere embarrassing, maybe Vegas, and were pretending not to know each other.

That probably happened to mimes a lot, come to think of it.