It’s rainy and gloomy and perhaps time for a creepy story? I wrote this short piece for a scary story read-aloud a few Octobers ago and titled it “Comforting Flesh”

"My stomach tightens like a serpent coiling up in fear, but I can’t eat yet. I have to watch over little Dylan. His curious feet shuffle around the trees behind his house, through the graveyard of damp leaves & pine needles, as a crisp breeze slithers through the bone-shade bark.

It’s just us two.

While *you* sit inside by the window, keeping a motherly eye on him from afar, fingers around a glass stained red.

He picks up a dead branch and then stares at me. Those brilliant gray eyes, like a part in a stormy sky. Always watching, always curious.

'Want to play?' He asks with a giggle.

A snapping twig splinters the still autumn air, and his head whips around. I gaze over to the bundle of firs wherein the sound crackled, and I move close to investigate.

I must protect little Dylan because his candy-hued plaid shirt stands out among the dead foliage.

You call. Dylan smiles. I gnash my teeth.

The sky is the same vivid red as exposed muscle, with tendons of white twisting at the edge. Crushing night is coming.

I follow Dylan, his obsidian curls bouncing as he runs, and I make sure he gets inside safely. While you and he eat, I stand in the kitchen and fight off my own hunger. Your careful eyes avoid me, like always.

I feel unwanted. It’s best that I leave.

I climb the stairs. The house creaks like popping joints under my feet. 'This house is so old,' you say softly, warmly. Like a mother should. You pretend I’m not there.

Darkness above swallows me, and I move into Dylan’s room.

The muscle-pink sky peeks through the slits in the shutters. I should check that there are no monsters under his bed, like he asked me to last night. My nails graze the comforter. It’s so soft, and my shoulders unclench knowing he’s so cared for and so comforted.

The muffled voices of son and mother approaching the door jerk my attention from the gaping darkness under the bed. Once more, you ignore me as you help Dylan change into pajamas.

You go into your room down the hall because your head begins to hurt.

He pulls out a book full of brutal lines and stark colors, pictures of monsters with horns and pig noses living on an island.

Dylan sits on his bed and flips through the book. He only looks up once in a while to make sure I’m there, and I assure him, like every night.

You hear him whispering to no one.

When it’s bed time, the lights flicker off and the snake in my bowels coils again. I splay my razor fingers, loosen my jowls. My rigid feet crack as bones unfold forward. The blankets are so soft, so warm. So is flesh.

The jagged shriek Dylan makes as my fangs sink into candy-hued meat is sweet like the bone marrow drip . . . drip . . . dripping down my gullet.

My cracked-mirror sneer. My sopping teeth. Bits of pajama cling to the back of my throat. My stomach finally feels full after days of waiting, after days of scaring off other monsters . . . because he was always *mine.*

The door swings open and buttery light floods the room. My sharp body casts a crooked shadow, and although you cannot see me, the splotchy red blanket unsnarls a shriek from you as well.

I slither past you, my silhouette moving in wisps, and I whisper cold breath on your neck, which makes you jump.

I seep out of the gap under the front door and melt into the night, finally fed."

(making sure this thread didn't break was more stressful than it needed to be)