A thumb ran across the corner of a page, breathlessly and with a sound only audible for the effect. Pages turned in a silent continuation, a smooth running-along of consciousness, unnoticeable but necessary all the same. The man's voice paused as the page turned, creating a static silence, his previous words ringing noiselessly through the air in the young child's mind, bouncing around without anything to bind them, a voice to give them structure. The pause allowed the story to breathe for a moment, barring itself to the present company in what was a very involved fashion. At least, it was when this man read it. When he read it, the story was a story in its fullest definition.
And the child lay and listened, covers pulled to their ears, mind being fought over for attention by the child's own fatigue and wanting to listen more to the story, to not give any treacherous indications of exhaustion for fear that it would end the tale harshly, like a ragged severing. That was not something to go to sleep to. The child thought they were very clever, burying the bottom half of their face in the covers as if they were cold, only to be hiding a yawn. Closing their rapidly heavying eyelids when they thought the man wasn't looking. Nodding, as if that slight movement would indicate complete alert and awakeness.
But the man wasn't to be fooled, a wisdom and knowledge keeping him well-aware of the child's quickly-dwindling consciousness. So he read, voice now tinted with a slight bit of soft amusement, corners of his lips curling up just slightly, half-aware of the story and half of the child who listened as intently as possible. He read, voice soft and unlike that of a usual adults, which lacked the mirth, the soul, the memory to place a story into words that were appropriately conveying. It was a voice like written words, running down the back of your neck soothingly, casting images across the mind's eye. Not so much a voice, more an enigma he created during these quiet, sacred times of the night.
He read, almost in a whisper though no one else could hear him, delicately, all the way to the very last period on the page. He ended it the way it should be, gradually and expectantly, softly as if laying down a paper-thin egg shell. And when he did, it was not a severing but a delicate pausing, punctuated by the cracking of the book's spine, the pressing of pages, as if the book were letting out a tired sigh, it too growing just as sleepy as the child. The man knew the child was pouting as he slid the book underneath the bed, a gentle sliding almost covering a disappointed sigh that, against the child's wishes and intent, turned into a yawn.
When the man sat back up, he smiled at the pouting child, but not in the usual adult way of smiling at a distressed child. There was no arrogance, no illusions of superiority, no mocking or ignorant apathy. There was tenderness, understanding past that of a child and parents. And this smile begrudgingly pulled the child from anger and towards disappointment and discontent. Bundling the blankets in small fists, the child said in a voice that sounded, to the child, hideously young,
"But I don't want the story to end." The man's eyes glistened quickly and he reached a hand over to the child, running it softly along sparse and soft hair, hand reaching behind the child's head without force. And the child knew what was coming, it happened every night, like a spoken lullaby. A true way to fall asleep. The man leaned over, pressed a true and loving kiss to the child's temple, and then whispered against the skin, voice washing over and becoming.
"I will come back tomorrow night to continue it. If you don't want, the story won't end."
"...You promise you'll come back?" There was a gentle laugh, one that never lost sincerity no matter how many times it happened.
"Of course, tomorrow night, and the night after that, an on until my voice is raw and you no longer need me. Until you decide you want the story to end, my child, I will be there to read it to you." And this time it was the child's turn to whisper, as if in secret, a mantra spoken in private reverence.
"Forever?"
"Until the end. After all, I am your Boogeyman."
YOU ARE READING
The Boogeyman's Lullabye
FantasíaMadeline Cadelle, like most any of us, had never thought of her own mind. It was a far-off place she knew nothing about. And that was true, but it was anything but far-off. It was inside of her, a place she never would have visited had her Boogey...
