by Blaise Langlois
“Yes. I see. Thank you, Jane.”
Mildred Beck stood on the orange shag carpet, the telephone receiver hanging loosely from her right hand.
“Mom?” a little boy’s voice asked. “Who was it?”
Mildred blinked. Sighing, she replaced the receiver and headed into the kitchen. “Oh, just Devon’s mom,” she replied, absently.
She walked over to the counter, grabbed a dish towel, and began tackling the pile of dishes in the sink. The little boy perched on the stool looked up at her, and Mildred smiled warmly.
“What did you do for fun today, Olly?” she asked.
“I caught a snake in the garden and then Devon and I caught some turtles. One was really big and tried to bite me, but I was too quick,” he said, grinning.
“You two were alone?”
“Yes.”
“By the river?”
Hanging his head, Olly revealed the answer to his mother’s question.
“I see. Now, Olly,” she began. The boy let out a tiny sniffle and his mother paused. Tears were brimming in his soft, brown eyes. Not a living soul could have scolded such a face. Instead, she said, “Would you like a treat?”
He nodded intently, causing Mildred to laugh aloud.
“It’s your favourite,” she hinted.
“A sundae? With chocolate sauce?” he asked. Mildred nodded, stifling a smile. “Yes, please!”
“Topped with a cherry,” she said, winking.
As Mildred fussed over the ice cream, she continued to ask a few more questions about how Olly’s day had been. In his typical fashion, Olly inundated his mother with an exact re-telling of the day’s events. In his mother’s eyes no detail could ever be too minute. She laughed as he regaled her with stories of bullfrogs, buried treasure, magical beasts and girls with cooties. Such an imagination for an 8-year-old!
Olly set down his spoon, his sundae only half-eaten.
“Are you feeling alright, Olly?”
“Ya. Just a little cold,” he said, shivering slightly.
Mildred went and retrieved an Afghan blanket from the back of the couch. Wrapping its bright colours around him, she held him tight for a moment and kissed the top of his head.
“Mom?” he asked.
“Yes, honey?”
“I don’t think I want any more. I’m not hungry.”
“That’s okay. Whatever you want, dear.”
A knock on the door interrupted their quiet moment. Mildred went to the door, stopping in the hall to check her reflection. She peered through the peep hole and spied Cheryl Clarke standing there, a frozen casserole, wrapped in foil, in her hands.
Opening the door, Mildred was practically knocked over as Cheryl rushed in, mascara running. She set the dish on the side table and wrapped her arms tightly around Mildred.
“Oh, oh, oh,’ she sobbed. “Millie, I just can’t believe it! Jane just told me. So young. Whatever you need—no matter what, I am here.”
Mildred looked toward the kitchen, an un-finished sundae on the counter and a puddle of water on the floor.
“Thanks, Cheryl,” she said, as she wept against her shoulder.
Emerging author BLAISE LANGLOIS will never turn down the chance to tell a creepy story around the Campfire. She has a penchant for horror, with published fiction and poetry through Eerie River Publishing, Pulp Factory E-zine, Ghost Orchid Press, Space and Time Magazine and Black Hare Press. Learn more here: www.ravenfictionca.wordpress.com