My mother always told me stories by the fireplace, when it was cold and dark, the gloom only brightened by the crackling flames atop cindering blocks of wood. Sometimes they would be bright stories, sunshine, rainbows, candy, and everything a child would love, but there were no unicorns, there were never any unicorns...We didn't talk about unicorns.
I never noticed, until I started school, and all my friends talked about them, showed me pictures of them on their backpacks and lunchboxes, expressing their love for magical horses with horns, and I, being an impressionable little girl, began to love them too, until I asked my mother about why we never talked about them.
"Mommy, why do we never tell stories about unicorns?" I asked in my typical childish questioning tone, but my mother only answered my question with a disturbed look, and silence, only silence, as her eyes weren't looking back at me, but rather gazing into her thoughts, back to something she remembered, from the look of her expression, something not very good, I poked her to try to regain her attention, but she didn't stir. "Mom!" I ever so slightly raised my squeaky little voice to try to get her to snap out of it, she shuttered and softly inhaled, as if waking up from a bad dream. "I-," my mother was cut off, as my father walked into the room, preventing her from explaining, and began talking to her, and she walked off with him, I, being a reserved child, said nothing, and I never said anything, I never said anything, even if the question dwelled in my mind for years to come, I never asked about the unicorns.
Until now, that is.
YOU ARE READING
Nightmare
HorrorIt walks through the hall, as your home begins to creak, it leans against the wall, into your room it will peek, Under your blanket, you saw it, you're sure, at your door, the shadow stirs, you shiver and quake as the evening blurs, the end of your...
