Night Temors

It is always the same after one of my long slumbers.

I stride down the hall unsure of how I arrived there. In the darkness I see a diminutive shape. I hear the shuffling of feet. Unsurprising as the shape is not lifting them. The half steps gain speed as the shape approaches the light from my taper. I take look around. Yes, it is exactly the same.

My home is charming. Silver chandeliers hang in every room; holding candles not gaudy light bulbs. Normally the fixtures and corners are adorned with cobwebs, but not now. Every time I hibernate there comes a knock I cannot answer. When I wake my old, dusty friends are gone. There is always a girl.

“Daddy?”

This one appears to be three or four. She stops inside the light and casts a wary gaze upon me. I am not the paternal figure she was expecting. She utters a sharp cry. I know from experience other souls will soon haunt my waking. Still I make the attempt, putting on my best and brightest smile.

“I am not your father, little one, think of me as an uncle.  Would you like a cookie?”

Previously uncertain eyes gleam to accompany her cherubic smile. That tiny head nods as one thumb creeps into her mouth. It is a testament to her grin that it can still be seen around that fist. I have her attention and I must keep it. What comes next is never easy.

“What is your name child?”

“Issbeff!” She plops her thumb from her mouth to speak her name. While she does she points at her chest with all the pride she can muster. She has the mush in her mouth most children her age do, but it is tolerable. I understand her.

“Well, Elizabeth, I need you to look at me. No matter what you hear keep looking at your uncle.”

She does not listen. They never do. Drawn by her earlier cry the mother and father charge into the hall. Upon seeing me they scream, and Elizabeth cries out with them. My presence has a different affect on adults, one to which children seem to be immune.

It takes only moments until the parents weep all the moisture from their bodies, leaving the child and I alone with two desiccated corpses. It takes much longer for me to soothe her. I finally do by making another offer of the cookie, and perhaps some tea to go with it. Taking her hand I lead the child into the kitchen. It will be days before the authorities arrive to claim her. I have to keep her alive until then. As we walk I ask her the all important question.

“Would you like to own this house one day?”

They always say yes but they never come back. I believe an adult who met me as a child would survive my murderous aura. Perhaps one day I will know for sure. Perhaps in fifteen years.

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