The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
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He dreamt that he was sitting back out on his lawn, in his favorite fluffy orange chair; the one that looked like it was made for a goofy-ass clown but felt as comfortable as a cloud. Ahead of him, looking at him from between two trees, stood his father. Tom had a vague memory of his dad from the four years he had known him, but mostly his mind's image of his father had been put together from old photographs that his mother had taken. His old man wore a gray lawyer's suit with an untucked tie that was the color of blood and roses. His hair wasn't straight and brown like Tom's or Mrs. Feldon's, but a curly, raven's black. Also unlike Tom and Mrs. Feldon, Mr. Feldon was skinny and pale.
"Tom!" he called, with his thin cheeks stretched in a lunatic's smile. "Thomas, come over here! Come over here and see me!"
Tom's mind felt foggy, kind of like the way it did when he was getting a good alcohol buzz, but not quite. The bad feeling from earlier had left him entirely, and there was no mistaking the faint outline of excitement he felt at seeing his father; he wanted to run over there. Still, he wasn't stupid. He was at least sixty pounds overweight, he was inclined to panic at the first sign of danger, and he was a loser in every sense of the word.
But he wasn't stupid.
Tom had absolutely no intention of getting within reaching distance of a person he knew was dead, even if it was his old man. He slowly got up out of his chair and stared, trying to muster up the strength to say something; anything. His heart was beating heavily in his chest; he could feel hot sweat dripping from his armpits and the rolls of his gut. His legs were locked up like stiff wood.
"Tommy, you come over here now," the mad grin had disappeared from Cory Feldon's face; what replaced it was a stern frown beneath dark, spooky eyes. It transformed him somehow; it made him look less human.
"Don't make me come over there," said Mr. Feldon in a warning tone. "I was always good to you, Tommy; don't you make me come over there, boy."
At these words, combined with the spooky staring face, all desire to run to Cory Feldon left Tom. Still perhaps he would have stuck around a bit longer if he hadn't been in such a state of terror, just to hear his dad's voice some more. He didn't believe the thing glaring at him from the woods was really his father, but some part of him was still eager to stay; that part of him wanted to make sure that his dad wasn't somehow still alive, as crazy as the idea was; however, Tom did not stick around. He was completely gripped by a feeling of panic, and as soon as the thing that looked like his dad took a step forward, Tom's legs unlocked, and he turned to run back toward the house, his sweat turning icy-cold in an instant.
He dreamt that he was sitting back out on his lawn, in his favorite fluffy orange chair; the one that looked like it was made for a goofy-ass clown but felt as comfortable as a cloud. Ahead of him, looking at him from between two trees, stood his father. Tom had a vague memory of his dad from the four years he had known him, but mostly his mind's image of his father had been put together from old photographs that his mother had taken. His old man wore a gray lawyer's suit with an untucked tie that was the color of blood and roses. His hair wasn't straight and brown like Tom's or Mrs. Feldon's, but a curly, raven's black. Also unlike Tom and Mrs. Feldon, Mr. Feldon was skinny and pale.
"Tom!" he called, with his thin cheeks stretched in a lunatic's smile. "Thomas, come over here! Come over here and see me!"
Tom's mind felt foggy, kind of like the way it did when he was getting a good alcohol buzz, but not quite. The bad feeling from earlier had left him entirely, and there was no mistaking the faint outline of excitement he felt at seeing his father; he wanted to run over there. Still, he wasn't stupid. He was at least sixty pounds overweight, he was inclined to panic at the first sign of danger, and he was a loser in every sense of the word.
But he wasn't stupid.
Tom had absolutely no intention of getting within reaching distance of a person he knew was dead, even if it was his old man. He slowly got up out of his chair and stared, trying to muster up the strength to say something; anything. His heart was beating heavily in his chest; he could feel hot sweat dripping from his armpits and the rolls of his gut. His legs were locked up like stiff wood.
"Tommy, you come over here now," the mad grin had disappeared from Cory Feldon's face; what replaced it was a stern frown beneath dark, spooky eyes. It transformed him somehow; it made him look less human.
"Don't make me come over there," said Mr. Feldon in a warning tone. "I was always good to you, Tommy; don't you make me come over there, boy."
At these words, combined with the spooky staring face, all desire to run to Cory Feldon left Tom. Still perhaps he would have stuck around a bit longer if he hadn't been in such a state of terror, just to hear his dad's voice some more. He didn't believe the thing glaring at him from the woods was really his father, but some part of him was still eager to stay; that part of him wanted to make sure that his dad wasn't somehow still alive, as crazy as the idea was; however, Tom did not stick around. He was completely gripped by a feeling of panic, and as soon as the thing that looked like his dad took a step forward, Tom's legs unlocked, and he turned to run back toward the house, his sweat turning icy-cold in an instant.