Let There Be Dark (Resurrected Horrors Book 3) by Allen Lee Harris

Author:Allen Lee Harris [Harris, Allen Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Capricorn Literary
Published: 2018-10-12T20:00:00+00:00

10

Peter was in bed.

There had been a good bit of protestation—after all, Matt and Cathy let the boy stay up till ten—but Simmy had prevailed. “Simmy’s done raised more little insignificant white boys than both them two put together,” she said, clasping her hands over her ears to indicate that she was deaf to any further pleas. She was about to close the door to the boy’s room when he jumped back out of bed.

“Where you going to?” Simmy demanded.

“I’m gonna get Tigger.”

“Tigger? Whatchew want him for?”

“To sleep with me.”

“Whatchew want to be sleeping with that worthless ol’ cat for?”

Peter didn’t bother to respond to this. After all, he had only been sleeping with Tigger for the last four years, during which period Simmy had been asking the same question. Sometimes—when Matt wasn’t there—Simmy actually tried to put the cat out for the night, along with the rest of the menagerie, using subtle devices like setting a saucer of cream on the back porch. Simmy adhered to the school of thought that credited cats with the power to suck the breath out of babies—and, in her eyes, every night Peter slept with Tigger, he was running the risk of feline suffocation. Peter tried to argue with her— not about the basic premise, which he realized was hopeless— but about the minor one: “I’m not a baby anymore. Don’t you think I’m big enough to push him off me if he was trying to suck my breath out?” But Simmy was undeterred: Her belief in Peter’s fragility was one of the underlying motives of her behavior.

The safety matches, which she had to use four or five times a day to light the oven, were kept hidden at the top shelf of the pantry. To retrieve them, Simmy had to mount a stepladder, at considerable risk to health and hip. Anytime Tommy or Matt left a book of regular matches around the house, they had hell to pay. “What if Peter was to get holta them?” she scolded, briskly confiscating the alleged items of danger. In her mind, Peter was as fully flammable as the Hindenburg, ready to blow up at the slightest spark.

“I done told Mr. Matt,” Simmy went on, “one morning I’m going to come in here and find you with that big ol’ worthless cat a-sitting on your face, the breath clean sucked out of your lungs.”

“He sleeps between my legs, Simmy.”

“I don’t know ’bout that. Wouldn’t want nothing sleeping between my legs.”

“Can I just go down and get him? Please?”

“I reckon, but you be fast.”

And Peter hurried down the steps.

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