Copyright owned by the creator

Here’s a story written on a whim.

Moonchild tiptoes to her bedroom door, holding her breath until reaching it. Gingerly she turns its doorknob, halting at the slightest squeak, continuing surreptitiously. When the lock releases, her heart skips a beat. She listens; silence. The door opens and a crack of gloom lies beyond. Moonchild’s apprehension grows. She looks back over her shoulder and sees her bedroom window. It’s open, just as she has left it when she pretended to sleep earlier on. Through it, she knows he is watching her, waiting for her. In the silver light of the moon she feels safe and watched. Outside her bedroom door the unknown lurks. The next step will be hers and hers alone. He’s powerless there.

Wind whispers behind her and she looks back. As though urging her on, the curtains swell out gently, and then retreat into stillness. Moonchild takes a deep breath and opens the door wider, enough for her to slip out. A moment is spent on adjusting to the darkness, and then as practiced, Moonchild closes the door and stealthily slinks towards the top landing stairs. The house is too dark for her to even see herself. The house is built this way, she knows. They would do anything to keep him out.

At the landing, Moonchild hesitates. The stairs are tricky. They creak and groan of age and there is no carpet to pad her footsteps. Knowing her captors, Moonchild is certain she will be caught then and there if any sound is heard. They’re light sleepers, and their suspicion rests solely on her whereabouts. Moonchild sees no other route. The only way is through that trap. She feels like giving up, fear and helplessness gnawing her. She cups her mouth, stifling sobs of sorrow while her eyes sting with tears. It is hopeless.

In that moment of despair, a slant of light creeps  in somewhere below as though revealed by a scudding cloud. Moonchild gazes at the feeble light. A beacon of hope amidst gloom, it beckons Moonchild towards it. At that moment Moonchild realizes, he’s trying his best to reach out to her. She should do her best too. She musters her strength and braces herself. She lowers her foot, and takes the first step slowly. Every proceeding step is just as slow, if not slower, and at every sign of noise a foot promptly lifts up, to find other places to step on.

At last Moonchild reaches the front door. She wastes no time in opening it, shoving the door wide, and hurtling for freedom. Upon reaching open ground, Moonchild gazes heavenward. Against the twinkling sky, there she sees her wonderful beautiful moon. Joyously she calls out,”Father!” and her form dissipates, essence melts into her father’s moonlight embrace.

The Johnsons woke up the next day to find their beloved daughter gone. They filed a missing child report but knew the effort was futile. The beautiful child they found running unsupervised in the woods under the fullest and brightest moon they’ve ever encountered had finally gone to whence she came and they knew, by the lady seer who counselled them, that she was never theirs.– Use of past tense is deliberate here.

Story copyright of Olee B.


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