The Last Bedtime Story

I’ve been a companion for over a decade, and I’ve learned to read the subtle signs of a house in decline. But when I pulled up to the sprawling Victorian on Maple Street, the decay was almost overwhelming. The porch sagged, the paint peeled like dead skin, and the windows were black, staring out like empty eye sockets. My client, Margaret, lived here with her son and his wife, who were attending a charity gala that night. The agency had sent me because the regular caregiver had quit after one visit, citing ‘personal reasons.’ I should have known then.

The door was opened by a tense, thin woman named Carol, who looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She clutched a tablet with a detailed list of instructions, but her eyes kept darting to the staircase. ‘Mother is in her room,’ she said, her voice brittle. ‘She might be a bit… confused. But she’s harmless. Just read to her until we get back, around midnight.’ She handed me a worn book, its cover so faded I could barely make out the title: ‘The Last Bedtime Story.’ ‘She loves this one. Please, just read it. Don’t engage in conversation. And whatever you do, don’t answer the phone.’ With that, she and her husband practically fled out the door, leaving me alone with a strange unease and that book in my hands.

The house was suffocating, filled with the smell of dust and something faintly sweet, like decaying flowers. I climbed the creaking stairs to Margaret’s room. The door was ajar, and a pale, thin woman with wisps of white hair sat in a rocking chair by the window, staring out at the overgrown garden. She didn’t turn when I entered. ‘Margaret?’ I said softly. She rocked, a slow, rhythmic creak that made the hairs on my neck stand up. I noticed a phone on the nightstand, its cord cut, lying useless. Ignoring the instructions, I picked it up – dead. The landline in the hallway was also silent when I lifted the receiver. The house was effectively cut off.

I sat in the chair opposite Margaret and opened the book. The pages were yellowed, the print old-fashioned. I began to read aloud. The story was about a child who discovers a hidden door in the attic of her house, leading to a world where the dead can be visited. As I read, Margaret’s rocking stopped. Her head turned slowly toward me, her eyes milky with cataracts. ‘You’ve come,’ she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. ‘He’s been waiting so long.’ I tried to ignore her, continuing with the story, but the words felt heavier, as if they were being spoken by someone else. The air grew cold, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen and stretch.

Then I heard it—a muffled scratching, like finger nails on wood, from the closet. Margaret smiled, a terrible, knowing smile. ‘That’s him. He’s eager. He likes the story. He wants you to read to him.’ I slammed the book shut, my heart pounding. ‘Who?’ I demanded. ‘My son,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘He’s been gone for so long. But you can bring him back. Just finish the story.’ The scratching grew louder, more insistent, and the closet door began to rattle. I felt a primal terror grip me, but I forced myself to open the book again, my eyes scanning the final page. It said: ‘And when the child closed the door, she knew that she could return, but only if she brought a new soul to read the words.’

I looked at the closet, seeing the door slowly creak open, revealing a darkness that seemed to breathe. A small, pale hand emerged, reaching out, and a child’s voice whispered, ‘Read to me.’ I screamed, dropped the book, and fled. I ran down the stairs, through the front door, and into my car, leaving Margaret in her rocking chair, still smiling. I drove for miles, my hands shaking. When I finally stopped, I called my supervisor, who was silent for a long moment before saying, ‘We’ve had reports from that house before. They never last. The child—Margaret’s son—died in that room fifty years ago. He was told a bedtime story by his mother when he was sick. She never finished it. He’s been waiting for someone to complete it.’ I looked at my rearview mirror and saw, in the back seat, the tattered book. And in the corner of my vision, I glimpsed a small, pale figure sitting in the passenger seat, its head tilted. ‘Please?’ it whispered. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the figure was gone. But the book was still there. I’ve been driving ever since, but I can’t seem to get away. And I know, on some lonely road, I’ll finally have to open it again.