Skeleton Scares Little Boy to Death

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t thing? Oh no! It’s a skeleton!Timmy pulled the cover over his head, leaving just a crack to watch the bony intruder. It walked slowly toward his bed. It looked left and right, up and down, but never right at him. It sat on a chair almost close enough to reach. It looked calmly out the window with its elbow on its knee and its hand on its chin.The skeleton pondered. Should I look at Timmy, hold up my bony hand and call the soul from his body? When my sockets meet his eyes, he will fall silent, no matter how great the urge to scream.The skeleton wavered. To kill or not to kill? Timmy will be happy here for a while. He loves playing with his friends. Next weekend he goes to Kennywood Park. That will be tremendous fun. But in a few years his skinny arms will mark him as a weakling, always the last one picked for dodgeball. No girl will want to dance with him. Then he will get a super-high score on his SAT. For the rest of his life he will feel inferior and superior to people he might otherwise love.Timmy prayed the skeleton would go away. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Oh yes, yes! That’s Daddy! Oh no! He’s not coming in the room! He just turned on the bathroom light. He’s brushing his teeth. How long is that skeleton going to sit there? Oh please, Dear God, tell Daddy I need him to come and save me from

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that thing!Alas, Timmy’s father finished brushing his teeth, then walked to the master bedroom without looking in on his son. Nobody else came up the stairs. The television played. The breeze blew. Timmy dared not make a peep or move a muscle. He could not take his gaze away from the skeleton. And then it happened. The skeleton stood up slowly. It turned away. It went back into the closet and closed the door.Dear Reader, “scared to death” is just a turn of phrase, and we all know life is short. You came this far suspecting the author would break the rule against killing a child in his fiction. Now, instead he breaks the rule against talking to you directly. Even worse, like some nineteenth-century novelist, he put a moral in his tale.You see, what Timmy really feared about the skeleton, without exactly knowing why, was that someday he would become it. He only recovered from the trauma twenty-three years later. His childhood home went up for sale. Tim went to the Open House. The closet stood empty.<figure id="c71d"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/0*BdBsIKwTa3_8uQbc"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jpvoong?utm_source=medium&utm_medium=referral">Jessica Voong</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com?utm_source=medium&utm_medium=referral">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure></article></body>

A Short Story about a Short Life

Timmy hugged his pillow in the bottom bunk, reliving the hug Mommy had given him after prayers when she tucked him in. With eyes closed, he listened to muffled sounds from downstairs. The Lawrence Welk Show broke for a commercial. Mommy and Daddy talked about tomorrow. His older brother asked a question about homework.

A disturbing thought came to Timmy. Did Mommy forget to leave the door open a little bit? He peeked. Good. Soft golden light poured in from the hallway. A cool summer breeze blew softly through the window. Wouldn’t it be nice to have air conditioning and a color TV like Benjamin on Valhalla Boulevard where the rich people live?

Something still felt wrong. Timmy looked at the window. Mommy forgot to pull down the blind! Some monster could look in from outside. And what is that creaking? Oh no! It’s coming from the closet! I can barely see anything. The door is opening! What is that thing? Oh no! It’s a skeleton!

Timmy pulled the cover over his head, leaving just a crack to watch the bony intruder. It walked slowly toward his bed. It looked left and right, up and down, but never right at him. It sat on a chair almost close enough to reach. It looked calmly out the window with its elbow on its knee and its hand on its chin.

The skeleton pondered. Should I look at Timmy, hold up my bony hand and call the soul from his body? When my sockets meet his eyes, he will fall silent, no matter how great the urge to scream.

The skeleton wavered. To kill or not to kill? Timmy will be happy here for a while. He loves playing with his friends. Next weekend he goes to Kennywood Park. That will be tremendous fun. But in a few years his skinny arms will mark him as a weakling, always the last one picked for dodgeball. No girl will want to dance with him. Then he will get a super-high score on his SAT. For the rest of his life he will feel inferior and superior to people he might otherwise love.

Timmy prayed the skeleton would go away. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Oh yes, yes! That’s Daddy! Oh no! He’s not coming in the room! He just turned on the bathroom light. He’s brushing his teeth. How long is that skeleton going to sit there? Oh please, Dear God, tell Daddy I need him to come and save me from that thing!

Alas, Timmy’s father finished brushing his teeth, then walked to the master bedroom without looking in on his son. Nobody else came up the stairs. The television played. The breeze blew. Timmy dared not make a peep or move a muscle. He could not take his gaze away from the skeleton. And then it happened. The skeleton stood up slowly. It turned away. It went back into the closet and closed the door.

Dear Reader, “scared to death” is just a turn of phrase, and we all know life is short. You came this far suspecting the author would break the rule against killing a child in his fiction. Now, instead he breaks the rule against talking to you directly. Even worse, like some nineteenth-century novelist, he put a moral in his tale.

You see, what Timmy really feared about the skeleton, without exactly knowing why, was that someday he would become it. He only recovered from the trauma twenty-three years later. His childhood home went up for sale. Tim went to the Open House. The closet stood empty.