Rushing from the closet, he pounded across the floor to the bed where I cowered…praying, for it to stop, praying that it wasn’t real, praying that...the dead boy from the closet would leave me alone. Balling myself tighter I waited to feel his small, grimy, dead hands clawing into my body. But they didn’t. In an instant, the room fell silent. Surrounded by the fear-filled odor of my own urine, I hid, straining to listen over the pounding in my ears…was he waiting for me to look? Without. I knew I would at some point or he knew that I was reacting just as I had before, moving from ‘no’ to ‘well maybe’. He told me he suspected they both were watching me anyway. Which made my walks across to him that much more interesting. Of course, quiet as our little ‘Close’ was my biggest worry was being seen by a neighbour, rather than my own sons. He got me a few times to engross this ‘going across to him’ routine, by calling me, around 9:20pm which was about 10 minutes before the usual. More

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