The Shadow At My Window

The twigs scrapped gently across the glass and gave off a quiet scream of unnerving melody. For Tom this was beginning to seem comforting. As everything had changed for his family it was almost pleasant to hear something familiar to his young mind. It had been a damaging year.

First his father loosing his job then the abnormal ailment that had seemed to worm it's way into the home, taking the life of Tom's father and younger sister. Now it was only he and his mother, who, if Tom was being honest, thought that she would doubtlessly be happier without him in her life. Though the loss was recent he reminded his mother Sarah, of his father. The poor widow had a rather delicate mind, and was prone to being melodramatic. It mattered little that her remaining ten-year old child had been contaminated by the disease could be suffering greatly, she had made her feelings known.

Sarah was open and blatant with her grief. Flaunting it before all who were present.

So on that distinct night, in the budding hours of the morning, before the dawn rose great and tall within the horizon, the trees danced across Tom Worp's window and sang their chilling songs for his ears.

He had the candles next to his bed lit and plump pillows supporting his raised figure as he gently thumbed through the pages of an illustrated book that his sister Mary had been chiefly fond of.

As he turned the final page the embers in the fireplace suddenly began to fade as though someone was going to them one by one and putting them out.

Tom shivered at the sudden cold draft that swept under the door and windowsill. The thick curtains began to billow and curl making the window plane against the far wall visible. And there, leaning against one of the solid limbs of the bare elm was the shadow of a man with two large brilliant red eyes, the kind you see in nightmares and fairytales. His lean frame and features impossible to distinguish against the gleam of the candles.

The shadow man terrified him, to the point of leaping under his blankets covering his head with his pillow. It was at that time that he heard a soft giggle coming from the rocking chair next to his bed.

"Come on out Tom. He won't bite, I promise." The voice was high, feminine and held a musical quality that instantly relieved the tender Worp of his quivering.

Haltingly sitting up, he looked to the woman who was rocking in his mother's old chair. Her smile small and delicate, her hair a gleaming white that shine like gold in the candlelight. Skin that was pale and soft like the moon, held a glow that seemed to push the shadows away.

"Are you an angel?" Asked Tom with the sincerity only a child could call-up.

At the words the smile widened to a grin.

"How flattering you are Tom." After a moment of quiet thought she spoke again. "I suppose in a way I am." Reaching forward and plucking the book from Tom's hands she studied the cover.

Tom's eyes began to fill and the strange man at the window was briefly forgotten.

"Have you seen my father and sister? She's about seven and this tall," he made a motion of her approximate height, "and she has blues eyes and brown hair like mine..."

Tom's voice gradually faltered as his eyes slipped to the "angel" sitting by his bed.

Her smile was still in place but it seemed strained and ridged; her eyes still held peace but were also full of pity.

"Tom were you close with your sister?"

Worp's nod was one of bleak dejection; his dear friend had left him in the middle of a game he could not finish alone.

The boy's hushed tears dripped onto the fleece quilt, causing the gown clad woman to gather him in a fragile embrace.

"I can you to her now if you like Tom."

Disbelief stained his face as he pulled away. Then almost as though a curtain falling understanding developed.

"It's to die now isn't it? Mamma and Papa once told me that an angel would come to take me to Heaven one day, and the doctor said I didn't have long to live. It that it? Are you my guardian angel?" All of this was said with such a hopeful worry that the woman was silent for a time.

"Tom," by this time her smile had faded to a frown of slight irritation, " you must decide now if you want to be with Mary. I will not offer this again and time is running out. What do you want to stay here longer in pain and boredom or would you like to leave all the cares of what could happen and come with me?"

A still moment followed these words. Tom had never thought of it like that. He could be with Mary and Papa playing to his heart's content and not have to worry about Mamma or his sickness anymore. All he had to do was tell his angel.

But something was wrong.

Tom turned suddenly to the window and searched for the shadow man, unable to find the tell tale eyes at the window. He then felt chilled stiff fingers running through his hair and turned to face the woman, his eyes rounding in shock and terror.

There was the shadow man, red eyes glossy and deathlike fingers moving, holding a marionette's wood cross, expertly twisting the polished controls with way and that.  Below him sat Tom Worp's angel. Her hands placed lightly on the illustrated book which rested in her lap.

She grinned suddenly making the screws around her mouth whine somewhat.

"How about a story while you think?"

The abrupt proceeding of the rocking chair hid the low cry that came from the hinges of her fingers as she opened to the first page.