Fearie Tale

Erica stared out of the kitchen window, hands submerged in lukewarm dishwater. The dishes clinked softly, the dull rhythm fading into the hum of her thoughts. Out in the backyard, the leaves had started to fall, casting brittle yellow patches over the browning grass. It was late September, just cold enough to keep the windows shut, and just warm enough that the air inside felt heavy and close.

Jared, her son, was playing near the old oak tree. She could just see the top of his head bobbing behind the swing set. He'd been quiet all day, unnervingly so. No questions about cartoons, no whining for snacks. Just silence, punctuated by the occasional snap of a twig or the swish of leaves being gathered into piles.

Last night, he hadn't slept. Not really. Erica had heard him muttering to himself in the hallway at two in the morning, his small feet padding down the hallway. She found him standing by the front door, staring at the doorknob as though waiting for it to turn on its own.

She'd led him back to bed, his hands cold, eyes far away. "What were you doing, honey?" she had asked, her voice a whisper so as not to wake Ben.

"I was talking to the lady," Jared had replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"What lady?"

Jared shrugged. "The one outside. She watches me."

Erica frowned. Kids had wild imaginations. He'd been watching too many shows, too much YouTube when she wasn't paying attention. She'd tucked him in and stayed with him until his breathing evened out.

She dried her hands on a towel and stepped outside. The air hit her like a cool breath, laden with the earthy smell of decaying leaves. Jared was crouched down, digging in the dirt beneath the oak.

"Jared?" she called softly.

He didn't look up.

She walked closer, her sneakers crunching over the dead grass. "What are you doing, buddy?"

He froze, his hand mid-dig. Slowly, he stood, turning to face her. His eyes—those big brown eyes that had always been full of life—looked... wrong. Distant. As though he were looking through her instead of at her.

"I have to make it ready," he said, his voice flat.

"Make what ready?"

"The bed. She says it has to be soft for her to sleep."

Erica glanced down at the pile of leaves Jared had been gathering. It wasn't a pile at all. It was a small, neat bed, shaped just like a person, long and narrow.

"Who, Jared? Who says that?"

"The lady in the leaves." His voice was a whisper now, barely audible. "She watches me at night."

Erica crouched down, her hands now shaking as she fought back an encroaching chill. She touched her son's arm. "Jared, there's no one here. Just you and me."

He blinked, as if waking from a trance, but then his gaze drifted over her shoulder.

Erica's breath hitched. Slowly, she turned her head.

The backyard was empty. But the air felt colder now, oppressive, like something unseen was pressing down on them. The wind picked up, stirring the leaves in the bed Jared had made, scattering them slightly.

She tightened her grip on his arm, pulling him closer. "Uhm... We're going inside now, okay?"

Jared nodded but said nothing. His eyes never left the bed of leaves, as though he expected it to move, to rise.

Erica hurried him inside, locking the door behind them. She glanced out the window one last time before closing the curtains.

The backyard was still, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was out there. Watching.

That night, Jared slept, but Erica didn't.

She lay awake, listening for any sound, any creak of the floorboards. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Sometime after midnight, she swore she heard footsteps in the backyard. Soft, shuffling steps, like someone walking through leaves.

Her heart raced, and she pressed her ear to the window, breath held. The footsteps stopped.

Then, just before dawn, a faint knock echoed from the front door. Three sharp raps, like knuckles against wood.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe. The knock came again, louder this time, insistent.

And from the hallway, she heard Jared's voice, soft and distant.

"Mom," he called, not from his room. Downstairs.

"She's here."