He sat up in his bed, waking a bit more. The nightmare was slipping from him,
but there was something he couldn’t put his finger on, something different, something–
He listened, straining against the silence, but all he could hear was the quiet house around him,
the occasional tick from the empty downstairs or a rustle of bedding from his mum’s room next door.
Nothing. And then something. Something he realized was the thing that had woken him.
Someone was calling his name. Conor. He felt a rush of panic, his guts twisting.
Had it followed him? Had it somehow stepped out of the nightmare and–?
“Don’t be stupid,” he told himself. “You’re too old for monsters.”
And he was. He’d turned thirteen just last month. Monsters were for babies.
Monsters were for bed-wetters. Monsters were for– Conor. There it was again.
Conor swallowed. It had been an unusually warm October, and his window was still open.
Maybe the curtains shushing each other in the small breeze could have sounded like– Conor.
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