Midnight – Flash Fiction

Sometimes I’m afraid of the dark.

I know my mother is asleep in the other room, but shadows lurk in the corners of my own. They have long fingers that stretch towards me. I feel the ghost of them on my cheeks and chills rack my spine.

Other times they look like snakes, writhing and wiggling towards me, their forked tongues tasting my fear. Raven black scales reflect the moonlight streaming in through the window.

I clutch my blanket in my fists. I’d close my eyes, but that makes the terror worse. Whatever my brain invents is far worse than the reality of it.

The shadows in the corner of my room are simply that. Shadows. Right? Just tree branches, dancing with the wind outside.

The sound of the radiator hissing echoes through the empty house. My hands tremble. My breath is shallow. Light reflects off a pool of liquid black undulating in the corner by my bookcase. I hear the heavy body drag across the floorboards.

How much longer until the sun peeks through my curtains once again?