The Boy in the Old Clothes

One summer evening, when I was still young, I found myself unable to sleep. My small bed was pushed against the wall, facing the open archway to the hall. A simple sheet hung where a closet door should have been.

My family was still awake elsewhere in the house. After getting a drink of water, I returned to my room and settled into bed. I faced the wall for a time, but a strange feeling made me roll over.

There, standing just beyond the draped opening, was a young child. He appeared to be no older than five. His outfit was strangely formal and old-fashioned, like from a history book. A cold fear gripped me and I called out for my parents.

My first shout did nothing. The boy remained perfectly still. My second, louder cry caused him to dart behind the hanging cloth. The sheet swayed as if from a sudden breeze. My mother arrived moments later, but the space was empty.