Midnight

The tree swished in the wind, branches clawing absently at the thin-paned glass of the girl's window.
It looked like a witches' hand from behind the thin, gauzy curtain; long-fingered and sharp, scratching, begging for admittance.
Pulling her soft, silk blanket to her chin, the little girl clenched her teeth and stared at the tree branch. Her yellow pajamas were stained with tears, her eyes dry from spilling them, her screams were unheard, still building behind her ribcage.
It wouldn't have mattered if she screamed anyway; no one would have cared. Her father would just come in, tell her to be quiet. Neither her father or her mother believed her. 'It's just the tree, dear. Just. The. Tree.'
The rapidness of the scratching from the tree branch increased with the wind.
A raven outside took a perch on 'The Witches' Hand', yellow eyes searching the window. Its black, glossy feathers glistened in a stray ray of moonlight, and it tilted its head at the sound of near-silent sobbing.
Taking wing, the raven flew down and landed at the pane of the little girls parents' window, cawing and cawing. Warning, almost. Warning of some evil, warning of darkness.
The window opened, and the burly man that was a father of a single child and a husband to a loving wife waved the raven away irritably, then snapped the window closed.
Flying back up again, the raven landed back on the branch that was scratching at the window, once again hearing the sound of the wind, the sound of the girls' sobbing.
The raven cawed again.
Irritably, a light flickered on inside the parents' window. Not a minute later, the father came out, a shot at the raven. The raven dodged lithely, and took wing into the night.
Back inside, the girl continued crying. She had been glad for the raven's company; something else that was alive, something that believed her, something that knew of the danger she felt when that 'hand' scratched at the window.
Not much later, the 'hand' stopped completely, resting idly on the pane, though the wind continued to howl.
Frozen with horror but compelled by curiosity, the girl sat, eyes as wide as frisbees. Then, slowly, she got out of her warm bed. She crawled over to the window, and, carefully, pulled the curtain open.
The tree continued moving with the wind, the only thing still the 'hand'.
But not for much longer, as the 'hand' moved suddenly, pulling the little girl out the window without so much as a scream before her body, broken, hit the ground below.
The parents heard the crash, and ran outside into the wind.
Over the screams of the mother and the sobs of the father, the wind carried a cacophony of cawing, almost like laughter.