Sometimes, The Light Hides Things As Well

On moonless nights, Mother would usher us to bed early. She’d tuck us in. Snuffing the lamps and dousing the fire, because the coming spirits couldn’t see in the dark. And we’d be safe.

We’d sneak out of bed to watch mother’s rituals from the doorway of her bedroom. Cheeks against the jamb, toes never over the threshold. She’d sit on edge of her vanity, facing the mirror, eyes closed tight, the bed sheets wrapped loose around her legs and shoulders. Every lamp from the house, burning and surrounding her.

The only light for miles, concentrated in one small place.

 

Prompt courtesy of Jane Dougherty‘s Strange Sunday Challenge.

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