“Timmy stop it you’re scaring me!” Amy’s four year old voice grew shrill as her older brother’s shadow filled the room.

“Bwuahahahahahaha, haaa!” Cried Timmy as his eight year old frame reached for his sister from behind the lantern.

“Knock it off you two, it’s time to sleep!” Grandpa’s booming voice came up the stairs to their attic room. There was no anger in it, just Grandpa’s constant grumpiness.

Amy pulled the blanket from over her head. Pulling strands of dark hair away from her face she said with a glare, “See, I told you they’re still up. Better stop now, or else they’ll make you listen to RPM!”

Timmy picked up the lantern and placing on a shelf, “It’s NPR dummy, come on let’s go to sleep.”

Amy stuck her tongue out at her brother and burrowed into the covers.

“Good night Timmy!”

“Night sis.” Timmy lay on his back looking at the ceiling. It was lit by the faint glow of the full moon through their bedroom window. Luminescence played between their beds, deepening the shadows of the room. The light faded in and out as a faint rumble of thunder filtered through glass.

Timmy closed his eyes, thinking about what would happen tomorrow. He smiled to himself thinking, Mom and dad will be home from their trip! We’ll get to go home and I’ll be back shooting hoops with Derek and the gang. He was already throwing free throws down the driveway in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

Silence fell. The sound of the TV turning off and low voices moving away to a far bedroom drifted up the stairs. Outside wind moved naked branches. The familiar creaks and groans of a house settling down for the night popped and hissed in the dark.

“Timmy. . . . Timmy!” Amy’s voice hissed in the night, muffled by layers of blankets. Tim opened his eyes, looking at the pitched ceiling. Peeling paint marked weird designs down the sloping walls.

His sister’s voice grew indignant. “Timmy please! Stop making scary hands in the window. Timmy please you big dummy, it’s scaring me.”

Timmy rolled onto his side and looked at the other bed. Amy popped up from the covers. Her mouth twisted into her “Mad-at-you” face.

“What are you talking about? My hands are right here.” Tim raised both hands and shook the fingers at her.

Eyes widening in alarm Amy sat ridged, color draining from her face. She gulped and pointed a shaking finger to the floor.

“Then who’s hand is that?”

Photo/Editing credit to Jarom Neumann Check his artwork out here:

3 thoughts on “ Bedtime

    1. What are the chances? I always wonder when I just come up with an idea how many, if any, other people have the same thought. That’s crazy. I’ll have to read your piece and then we can see who’s is best. I like your website/blog.

      Liked by 1 person

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