The family tree

The boy’s translucent image reappeared farther down the opposite corridor. Tabatha followed. As she approached, a door to her left creaked open on rusted hinges, the sound slow and deliberate. She gently pushed it the rest of the way.  The room beyond was nearly bare. A small, child-sized bed with a sagging mattress sat against the left wall, its iron frame corroded by decades of damp air. Nothing

else occupied the space—no toys, no clothes, no remnants of childhood except the faint, musty scent of old straw and mildew that clung to the plaster. Little Thomas stood on the far side of the bed, smiling widely, his small form glowing faintly against the gloom. 

“Well... come over here!” he waved his hand frantically.    

Tabatha took one step toward him, then froze as a deep chill raced down her spine. The child, impatient, ran over and reached up to grab her hand. His touch was icy cold, like plunging her fingers into winter river water. She shivered involuntarily but let him lead her to the edge of the bed. Her free hand flew to her mouth as she sucked in a sharp breath. Lightning flashed again, flooding the room with harsh, momentary brilliance.

On the floor beside the bed lay the decayed body of a small child, curled tight in the fetal position, skeletal arms thrown protectively over its skull as if still trying to ward off the final blows. 

“Oh God.” she whispered.    

Little Thomas looked up at her curiously as she gaped at the remains of the child.   

“You don’t have to be afraid of that.  That’s just the devil.” the child said, releasing her hand and sitting down on the bed.  Tabatha jumped as the door closed behind them with a thud.   

“Who told you that?” Tabatha asked, her voice finally returning.   

“Uncle Tommy did.  He used to always tell me he was going to beat the devil out of me... then one day he beat me until I fell asleep.  When I woke up he told me that this was what was left of the devil he had beatin out of me.”   

Tabatha sat down heavily on the bed, feeling tears in her eyes as she listened to the boy’s innocent voice.  Her eyes lingered on the skeletal remains of what she now knew was little Thomas.  

“Are we gonna play a game now?” the child asked, drawing her attention away from the cadaver.  She sniffled and wiped at the tears on her face.