Elara hadn’t slept soundly since she’d been released. The clatter of the processing plant where she now worked, followed by the suffocating silence of her childhood bedroom, played tricks on her mind. She’d clock out at four, the harsh fluorescent lights of the warehouse fading behind her, and be asleep by seven, the rural darkness outside pressing in. Her parents’ farmhouse, isolated by miles of whispering cornfields, offered no comfort, only an amplified sense of vulnerability. Tonight, the television flickered with a late-night infomercial, a meager bulwark against the encroaching night.
She’d turned onto her side, facing the unfamiliar chill of the far wall, the drone of the TV a lullaby. Sleep was a slippery thing, moments away from being grasped. Her bladder, however, was a more insistent master. As she shifted, preparing to rise, a shape solidified in the far corner of the room, where the moonlight struggled to penetrate the grime-streaked window. It was a boy, unnervingly still, his gaze fixed on the worn floorboards.
He was slender, his pale skin almost luminescent in the gloom. A navy hoodie, hands tucked deep into its front pocket, concealed his form. His pants were a dull tan, and scuffed, dark boots rested on the floor. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t acknowledge her sudden, stiffening terror. Elara’s breath hitched. This wasn’t a dream. The silence in the room deepened, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic hammering of her own heart.
She wanted to scream, to run, but her limbs were leaden, bound by an invisible force. The boy’s head slowly, agonizingly, tilted upwards. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were not those of a living child. They were pools of infinite, ancient sorrow, and something far colder. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a gesture that promised nothing good. He remained rooted to the spot, a silent sentinel in the oppressive darkness of the country night, a tableau of dread that would forever be etched into Elara’s waking nightmares.