“Going up to bed already?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s gotten into you? I thought you loved this show?”
“Seen it too many times. Night Dad, night mum.”
The boy hurried upstairs, the blue light lighting his way, and the overlapping sounds of the television chasing him as he broke into a run up the flight of stairs leading to his bedroom.
He closed his bedroom door and leant against it for a moment, breathing heavily. He listened for any signs that either of his parents had followed him.
Nothing.
So without wasting any time, he went to his bed, arranged the pillow length-ways on the mattress, covered it with his pyjama shirt, and to complete the illusion, carefully draped the sheet over the top of the pillow, right were his head would have been. Sam stepped back and squinted at it. It would do.
He trod lightly over to the window and quietly opened it. He clambered out and onto the tree. It was still day, but dusk was fast approaching. The boy slid down the smooth bark of the tree and set off. Gradually, the shadows took fierce possession of the bushes and trees around him.
Approaching the thicket where Jules had said he would meet him, and bring him to the other older boys, Sam heard something cry out. He started. Cautiously moving forward, he could see shapes moving about vaguely in the half-darkness. A stifled cry; the crack of broken glass; a high-pitched laugh. He squinted in vain. The rumblings of words and strange noises fell upon each other as they reached the boy’s ears.
He took another step forward, squinting still.
A blurred dark shape darted into his face: the crow flaying his skin with both claws and beak.
He cried out abruptly.
All was quiet on the beach just beyond the bush, then came several shouts of surprise.
He broke into a run, the fetid breath of the bird still lingering in his throat. He charged onwards, blindly.
Sam pushed through the bushes, branches whipping him in the face. He struggled through, the leaves and branches that surrounded him brushing against him like witch’s claws, relentlessly clutching after him as he stumbled.
The noise behind him grew fainter and fainter as he continued on, sightlessly.
He began to approach the house. He could see the faint blue glow of the television outlining the silhouettes of his parents through the bay windows, and he took every precaution as he snuck past to the tree. He climbed up the tree, advanced along the branch, slowly opened the window, and slipped quietly back into his bedroom.
The bed was empty.
He felt the sensation of plunging into a bottomless abyss as he stared at it feebly.
His mother must have come up to check on him, and discovered his trickery. He opened the door and went downstairs; it would be pointless to act as if nothing had happened. The tears rolling from his eyes now mingled with the blood on his cheeks.
The light of the television danced on the furniture and the walls, projecting deep shadows that swirled in the hidden recesses of the room. His mother and father sat with their backs to him, their eyes locked onto the television. The eyes of the third person sitting next to them slid away from the screen and onto Sam.
Sam stood paralysed on the threshold of the living room. The stranger, who had his build and wore his pyjamas, advanced toward him in silence.
Sam refused to look at his face.
The other stopped in front of him and lifted a hand. The stranger’s hand moved towards his throat, and he felt his flesh being crumpled and torn.
The hand withdrew, covered with bloody feathers.
Shaking, as if on the edge of a chasm of dark shadows, he saw them rise slowly in the air, thrown up by the stranger in a contemptuous gesture.
They fluttered a moment, like stars flickering faintly in a fading velvet sky.
And then there was only the dark.
