“Under the bed,” he whispered, his voice tight, thready, his fear causing him to shrink into himself. “You haven’t checked there yet.”
Shit.
My smile faltered for a heartbeat, but I pasted it back on. My stomach clenched as I knelt down beside his bed. I swallowed hard, lifted his comforter, and glanced underneath. An errant sock. A few action figures. Nothing else.
Thank Christ.
“All clear.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Can I sleep in your room?”
Considering what I’d just gone through a few nights ago in my room, I was stunned he wanted to be in there at all. But if it made him feel better and helped us both get some sleep, who was I to say no?
“You bet,” I said, standing and lifting him into my arms.
As we stepped into the hallway, I flicked off his light. I’d only taken two steps when the lamp clicked back on, soft yellow glow spilling out into the hallway. I froze. Then I turned back, scanning the room. Nothing. I flipped the switch off again.
The light snapped back on.
Henry buried his face in my shoulder with a whimper. Irritated, and more than a little afraid, I spun around and glared into the empty room. With a huff, I flipped the light back off.
“Don’t worry, baby,” I murmured, rubbing his back. “There’s nothing there.”
Three pointed taps on my shoulder assured me otherwise.
I gasped, fear lancing through me as I whirled around.
No one was there.
“Fine!” I snapped at the empty doorway. “I get it. You’re here. Now leave him the hell alone.”
Without another word, I hurried to my room and locked the bedroom door behind us. It was a useless measure, sure. A locked door wasn’t going to keep out a spirit who was intent on being noticed, but maybe the illusion of a barrier would be enough to keep us from being haunted by nightmares.
Whether in our dreams or in the putrid, rotting, decaying flesh…
Chapter twelve
“Who’s that?” I asked Henry one afternoon while we sat at the kitchen table with his playdough. On his mat was the figure of a person with yellow hair. “Is it Addie?”
He shook his head without looking up, still pressing tiny buttons onto the shirt. “It’s David.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding. I tapped the table beside the playdough version of David. “I like his shirt.”
Henry grabbed the can of brown playdough and pinched a couple of pieces from the can and began molding them together. “It’s a jacket. He wears a jacket. This is the wrong color, but David likes it.”
“A jacket?” I echoed. “Very nice. Are those shoes you’re making?”
Henry nodded.
“Do you want to see what I’m making?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
He shrugged. “I guess.”
I blinked at him. “Youguess? Where are your manners?”
He heaved the long-suffering sigh of a much older person before answering. “Yes, ma’am.”
I gently touched his arm. “Hey, what’s going on with you?”
