The prompt for Ronovan’s challenge this week is a (very tiny) picture.
The title of my story is:
A safe place
William turned on his pillow to face the door. It always came through the door when he wasn’t looking. He scattered toys on the floor so he would hear if it tried to sneak up on him, but his mother always tidied them away when she looked in on him before she went to bed.
He’d asked her not to do it but she’d said “It’s dangerous, Pugsley. Somebody might fall on them and hurt themselves.”
Yeah, that’s the idea, he’d wanted to say, but how could you expect a woman who called you ‘Pugsley’ to understand anything important like that?
It was too late now. He daren’t get out of bed. The house was silent and dark, and if he moved it would know he was awake. He hated the house where the thing lived. He hated his parents for letting it live there. The storybook told him there was a place where the thing wouldn’t find him. Where not even his mother would find him. When he saw a shooting star, he made a vow that the next time the thing came, he would go there.
The door creaked. Fear made his insides turn over on themselves, and he clutched the plane in his fist. The shiny metal felt solid and comforting against his sweaty palm. He ran the wheels over the sheet to test that everything was working. The door opened a little further. He could see the darkness of the hallway drifting into the room, hear the cold, clammy sound of breathing.
“Now,” he whispered.
The wheels whished across the sheet; the engines rumbled to life. William clung to the shuddering fuselage, his teeth gritted in a smile of triumph. The door flew open but he was already gone, another star in the night sky.