A Badtime Story

Jacob grinned a fat cheeked, closed mouthed grin which gave him the look of a stitched doll. His twin, also named Jacob, nodded and clapped.

“Keep it closed, little brother,” he said. “Keep it closed until the light goes off.”

Wiping her hands upon a cloth, Nurse Mariam returned from the below rooms in time to catch the last comment. “It is Tuesday. Tonight you must leave the light off. Remember that, children.”

The twins nodded. They appeared blue and bloodless by the thin light of their bedside lamp, as though the night were feeding upon them to fatten its hours. Jacob finished sewing himself into his night gown and then helped his brother into his.

The elderly nurse took her cloth and cleaned their ears with it. Then after the boys had climbed beneath their sheets she stepped to the pulpit at the foot of the bed and read their story. “…leaving nothing but dirt and leaves and the faint smell of barely noticed pets,” she finished, tucked them in, extinguished the lamp and then kissed their heads. “Goodnight. Leave the light off.”

The twins lay beneath the tight restraint of their bleached white sheet and waited, listening to her receding footsteps.

“Do you…” said Jacob.

“Mmff mimmfff momfff,” said Jacob.

After a while, the sharp pecking of Nurse Mariam’s feet ceased their feeding upon the wooden floors and the house creaked with relief. As one, Jacob and Jacob sat in their iron sprung bed and turned to each other.

“Careful, little brother,” said Jacob, holding out his hands.

“Lmpff,” said Jacob.

“Now,” said Jacob.

The younger twin, born just two screams after the elder, opened his mouth to the sound of a rust-dry squeak. This was followed by a soft thud.

“Where is it?” Jacob patted the covers around him. “Where has it gone?”

The other Jacob’s grin returned, only less fat this time. He too began to pat the covers, though with all the gentility of a whack-a-mole game.

“We must find it,” said Jacob, his voice a hushed panic. The squeak became a squeal and both Jacob and Jacob swung their legs over the side of the bed. “I can’t see it. I can hear it, but I can’t see it.”

“Easy,” said Jacob.

“No!” said Jacob.

But it was too late. The twin had snapped out his hand and twisted the knob on the lamp. It flared briefly into life, drawing upon the myriad of shadows to lift its head above the brass ring before it sputtered and died. The children caught sight of twelve tall figures standing in their room. Each wore a heavy shroud and their arms were stretched out revealing a single bony finger pointing towards the twins.

The twins fell to the floor and closed their eyes and lay there until morning.

Jacob moved only once, to snatch a tiny creature scurrying down his arm. But the light remained off.

Which was fortunate for both of them.

Goodnight.

—

Illustration © 2017 Carl Pugh

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