Lily Clark

Family Traditions

I was five years old, finishing my adventure for the day. From the hours of action in the woods, I had lost a ribbon from one of my pigtails, one side of my hair hanging free. I knew I needed to start heading home soon, but the rocks and small animal bones that clinked together in my pockets reminded me of where I needed to go before I could head home. 

Inside my playhouse, carefully emptying out my pockets, I paused. Outside, I heard the sound of crunching leaves, ominously close. I would’ve dismissed it as an animal if it wasn’t for the heavy, labored breathing that accompanied it. I sat as still as possible until the wheezing and crunching left. As soon as it did, I sprang up and sprinted home. 

That night, after getting tucked in, I told myself to forget it. It was probably just a sick deer, right? Still wide awake, my eyes drifted to the moonlight seeping through my window. My open window, with something sitting on its sill. After getting closer, before I even realized it was my lost ribbon, something else caught my eye. 

Wheezing and clutching the outdoor wall right next to my window, sat a sagging, old man, mouth agape and smiling. Drool dripped from his lip and pooled on his wrinkled hands, fidgeting together on his chest. His small, dark eyes seemed to be popping right out of his skull, pointing in different directions, but still looking right at me. Right as I screamed for my parents, he sprinted for the forest, stumbling and giggling uncontrollably to himself. 

23 years later, I still wake in a cold sweat, crying for my parents. But, lately, I’ve been doing it even more. Especially since my daughter’s missing bow appeared on her windowsill.