By Janni Lee Simner.
Read by Jonathan Chaffin.
Once the light got in, it snaked up the walls, hundreds of little silver strands of it, and the strands wove themselves into pictures.
The pictures were of his parents. They showed Andrew the night Mom and Dad had disappeared, over and over, until the hurt in his chest got so bad he thought he would explode. He tried closing his eyes, but even through closed eyelids he could see the scenes the moon painted — all in silver, with none of Elizabeth’s colors, but sharp and real just the same. He saw Mom and Dad walking down the city street, holding hands, Elizabeth and Andrew just behind them. He saw the mugger jump out of the shadows. He saw Mom being hit and falling to the ground, where her head smashed against the pavement. He saw the knife go through Dad’s chest.
But in the pictures, Mom died of the falling, and Dad died of the stabbing. That wasn’t right at all.
The moon had stolen Andrew’s parents. So why would it draw him pictures in which that hadn’t happened, in which other things had happened instead? Andrew wondered about that for many nights before he came up with an answer.
The moon didn’t want him to know what it had done. Or now that he knew, it wanted him to forget.
Happy Friday the 13th!
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