Mommy. It's cold.
The child's voice echoes from behind the thick, wooden door, through the foyer and into the living room, permeating the sound of the crackling fire, the screaming wind encircling the house, and the rattling of the snow caked windows.
Elizabeth rises from her armchair.
"Where are you going?" Henry asks.
"It's our boy," Elizabeth answers, looking at Henry with confused and sunken eyes.
"Elizabeth." Henry says her name in tender firmness. "Our son is gone. Whatever is out there, it's not our Thomas."
Mommy. It's cold.
"Don't you recognize our son's voice? How can we leave him out there?" Elizabeth pleads.
"We can. And we will. Because it's not him."
"You are a cruel, cruel man."
"Why? Because I have accepted the loss of our son?"
"You don't understand a mother's grief."
"Perhaps not. But do you think that the loss of him has not broken me? Or that I don't long to have our son back?"
"I've prayed every night that God would return him to us." Elizabeth's shoulders sink.
"If whatever's out there is a response to prayer, it wasn't God who answered."
"You're right." Elizabeth nods, walks to the whiskey decanter, pours a drink, and hands it to Henry.
"Thank you." Henry drinks, not tasting what Elizabeth added, and is soon unconscious.
Frigid wind passes through her useless shawl as Elizabeth opens the door.
She looks down at the small, hideous form grinning up at her with sharp, glistening, translucent teeth.
Mommy. It's cold.
About the Creator
Aaron Morrison
Writer. Artist. I write horror primarily, but dabble in other genres here and there.
Influenced by Poe, Hawthorne, Ligotti, John Carpenter, and others.
Everyone has a story to tell.
Author of Miscellany Farrago
instagram: @theaaronmorrison
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddall3 days ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Symphony
In the bustling city of Harmonia, where music flowed through the air like a vibrant river, lived a young composer named Lysander. He possessed a rare gift — the ability to hear melodies hidden within the wind’s whisper and the city’s heartbeat. Each day, Lysander would wander the cobblestone streets, sketching notes in his mind as he listened to the symphony of life around him.
By Princess Quismundo3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Creepy! It reminds me of the end of Pet Cemetery...
Movie playing in my head is terrifying! Well done!
wow, just wow. this is absolutely awesome. I love it!