“I don’t want to go to church!” the little boy shouted at his mother. The young woman was waiting impatiently at the boy’s door, holding his freshly pressed church clothes.
“Only bad boys skip church,” his mother warned. “If you don’t go, you don’t get to go out for breakfast.” The boy huffed. “”Don’t you want to get French toast with me this morning?”
The little boy made a face, then climbed out of bed. “Yes,” he grumbled as he took his clothes from his mother.
“Good boy,” she said sweetly, ruffling his hair with her fingers.
Five years later, the Sunday routine remained the same.
“I don’t want to get up!” the boy cried. He threw his blankets over his head.
“That’s too bad,” his mother said. “Get out of bed or I will drag you out to the car in your pajamas. Is that how you want to show up to church?”
“I don’t want to go to church,” the boy whined. “It’s boring.”
“That’s because you don’t pay attention,” she snapped. “Five minutes, then I’m dragging you out.” The boy stayed under his blankets for two more minutes before he decided to throw on some clothes and run out to the car where his mother was waiting.
Three years later, his attitude had not changed.
“I’m not going,” the teen stated flatly.
“You can make that decision when your eighteen,” his mother replied, unfazed. She had grown tired of arguing every week. Instead of threatening to withhold breakfast, she used what she knew he would hate most.
“Be ready in ten minutes, or you’re not going out next weekend,” she informed him.
“That’s not fair,” the teen griped.
“Nothing ever is,” she said sarcastically. The boy complained again, but eventually went along with his mother.
The Sunday after his eighteenth birthday, though, things changed. The young adult was awake when his mother walked into his room that morning.
“I’m leaving for church in fifteen minutes,” she said. “You can stay here if you’d like.” The boy smiled in delight.
“I think I’ll go back to sleep,” he replied, turning over in his bed.
“It’s your choice,” his mother nodded. Fifteen minutes later she was gone, and the young man was tucked comfortably in his blankets.
That’s when he heard it.
It started out as a low moan. For a minute, the boy thought that his mother had left the TV on. The sound seemed to be moving through the house, knocking into things as it went. The moving sound finally stopped in front of the young man’s bedroom door.
He was sitting straight up in his bed, clutching the blankets tightly. He watched in terror as the door clicked open a few inches. He held his breath, waiting to see what had done it. Suddenly, the door flew open, revealing what was behind those sounds. The boy screamed.
The next week, the boy was up early. He made coffee for his mother, then accompanied her to church and brunch.
Thank you everyone for reading! This is a short story I wrote while I was at work one day. I hope you enjoy it! The past few weeks have been crazy, and it’s been tough to get stuff done. Hopefully I’ll get some more actual writing done. I don’t think I’ll have as much done this month as I’d hoped (very sad face) but I’m getting there. We’re having some oddly warm weather out today, so I think I’ll stay in, hide under a blanket with the cat and get some work done.
Until next time…