Andy sat in the murky light of morning and stared down at the rising mists. The curtains at his window shivered. The air was awakening after a cold night.
Autumn chill slithered through Andy, but he didn't budge. He didn't reach for the sweatshirt folded on his dresser. He didn't pull the comforter from his bed. He ignored the crumbled leaves and twigs knotted in his hair. The mirror reflected his empty expression and the dirt smeared on his forehead and chin.
Ever since he escaped the forest, he sat there. Waiting. He stared through the mists to the tree line. His eyes bored into the persisting night.
When the sun finally boiled over the horizon, it lit his face, but he perceived only darkness. And, the voice. A child's voice.
Continue the new ghost story thread at The Clarity of Night:
Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 2
