Mother, by Casey Murphy
“Mother?” Bobby whispered to the darkness.
His old house had been boarded up for years, but he came back as regularly as he could, sneaking in through the broken window that led to the basement. There he sat with a lit candle waiting for his mother to come.
They all said she was dead, but he knew they were lying. She had come to him so often in the darkness as a misty white form that he knew she had to be alive. And she missed him.
The candle flickered. Went out.
“Now you’re mine. Forever,” the darkness whispered back.
Casey Murphy has been writing fiction since the fifth grade. She enjoys writing short stories about werewolves, zombies, and all things fantastical (with some general fiction and creative non-fiction mixed in). Her pieces can be found in Referential Magazine, Z Composition, CoffinMouth, Prism, among others. Feel free to visit her at: simplydelete.wordpress.com.