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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A little boy is going to bed when he hears noises coming from his closet.
I'm thinking of taking this story and expanding it into a feature-length movie. I'm not sure yet. Let me know what you think.

Submitted: November 10, 2008

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Submitted: November 10, 2008



I met a new friend the other day.  I was in my bed, and I heard a voice in my closet.  At first, it sounded like someone mumbling.  Talking to himself, I suppose.  I couldn’t make out any of the words.  The voice sounded deep, and a little scratchy.


The clock said it was 1:37 a.m.  I turned on my bedside lamp, and sat up.  The voice continued for a moment, then stopped abruptly, as if interrupted.


It spoke up. Pardon me.  I didn’t mean to wake you.  The tone was friendly, but still somewhat hushed.


“Who are you?” I asked.


You may call me Frederic, if you like.


“Hello, Frederic,” I replied.  “I’m Thomas.”


How old are you, Thomas?




Would you like to be my friend, Thomas?




Come to the closet.


I got out of bed.  I put on my Power Ranger slippers, and I walked toward the closet.  When I got to the closet door, it creaked open just the tiniest little bit, and Frederic began whispering to me.  I listened very carefully.


Have you got that?” he asked.


I nodded fervently.  I couldn’t see his face in the darkness of the closet, but I knew he was smiling his approval.


I quietly opened my bedroom door, and sneaked out of my room, down the hall, and into the kitchen.  When my business in the kitchen was done, I went to my parents’ bedroom.  I opened the door ever so slowly.  My mother woke up as I approached her side of the bed.


“Tommy?”  She squinted her eyes at me.  “What’s wrong, baby?”


I didn’t say a word.  My mother saw that my right hand was behind my back.  She asked what I had in that hand.  I slowly took my hand from behind my back, revealing the 3-inch-long blade that I had taken from the kitchen.


A few minutes later, I returned to my bedroom, my pajamas stained with my parents’ blood.  I approached the closet door.


I’m proud of you, Thomas,” Frederic said.  A long, black hand extended from the closet and patted my head. Very proud, indeed.

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