Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 10

Sanford dreamed about a boy that night. It wasn't a boy he recognized until he woke up and remembered the picture of his father and Aunt Claire. The boy was Jonathan, just about the same age as Sanford.

In the dream, everything surrounding him was black and shadowed. The world was quiet except for the sound of dripping. Sanford sat in bed shaking under the covers; he could see his own breath escaping from his mouth. DRIP, DRIP, DRIP. The sound was pestering. He covered his ears with his hands. When the boy stood over him he saw his wrists slit wide, gaping like eyes. Blood carpeted his hands. The floor—no longer visible—had become a lake of blood. The boy lunged.

Sanford woke up, feeling as if he crashed into his mattress after falling from a cliff. He was disoriented and sweating profusely, with no blankets on; he had kicked them off.

He looked at the clock; it was three in the morning. The only sounds were from the heavy wind and falling ice outside. It was Christmas morning, but his Christmas spirit was long gone.

Eric snored like always, a sound that made Sanford feel more at ease. He grabbed the blankets and tried to fall back to sleep, but he could only toss and turn. His mind raced. Thoughts with no solidity came and went, exhausting him.

Before he knew it, he woke to the sound of squeaking springs. It was morning. The sun was out and lit up the room. Eric was jumping up and down on the bed.

"It's Christmas, Sanford!" he screamed. "It's Christmas!"

He ran over to his brother and shook him until he was fully awake.  "Come on, get up!  You smell it?  Bacon! Mom made bacon!"

"It smells burnt," Sanford said, groggily.

"Mmmm crispy," Eric said. "I'm going out—you coming?"

"Go ahead, I'll be there in a minute."

Eric ran off in a blur, his one-piece pajamas gone in a flash of green. Sanford couldn't help but smile. It helped the memory of that dream float away, becoming a fuzzy recollection. Sanford got up and put on his annual robe, letting the warm flannel hug him.

Why is it so cold in here? He thought. His father usually had the wood-burning stove overly stuffed on winter mornings, and the heat would drift through the house, making it a sauna.

He stretched and yawned. Sanford took one step towards the bedroom door—then he heard it.

A scream.

His mother's scream.

He froze. It was over almost as soon as he'd registered it.

Sanford slowly walked towards the opened door. He stood at the doorway. The hallway never seemed so long; the kitchen and living room loomed ahead. One step and the floorboard moaned. He stepped back, hoping it would erase the sound from existence.

"Hello?" Sanford called out in a mouse-like voice.

No answer.

He tip-toed down the hall.

A breeze washed over his parched skin, cooling it. If he weren't so afraid it would've felt nice. But instead, it felt wrong and out of place.

Why is a window open?

"Mom?" he croaked.

No answer.

The portraits on the wall were tilted in dramatic angles, as if an earthquake had shaken the house. There was a large blank spot on the wall. A portrait was missing. Sanford knew which one it was. It was from a few Christmases ago and the four of them were gathered around the tree, staring blindly at the flash from Jonathan's camera, sitting on its tripod. In it, Sanford was looking off to the side and Eric blinked his eyes. It was far from perfect.