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By Jared Pfannenstiel

The lonely street of Smith Road, Maine was silent. The gloomy street barely shone any light. Yes, the populated neighborhood had plenty lamps, but all of them had burnt out. All but one. It shined like a lonely ghost that never leaves. Never burns out. Never stops haunting the road.

“Mama,” one boy with brown hair and brown eyes wearing a bright blue shirt said out of the blue, “can I go see the lady under the street light?”

“Who? What lady? Tell me who.” The mother, who looked like him in every way, demanded.

“That lady,” the child said pointing to the empty street.

The mother, thinking he had an imaginary friend responded, “Sure, why not.” The boy jumped with glee as the mother patted him on the back. The boy ran outside to the lamp.

The mother watched nervously as the small boy was talking to someone. He responded like a lady was actually there! There wasn’t. There couldn’t be. But he talked, waited, smiled, laughed...and held his hand in the air as if someone held his tiny hand. If that’s how people act with imaginary friends, then he must actually think someone is there and talking to him.

Then it all happened too fast! The small child started crying as deep cuts dragged through his skin. Blood started dripping down his arm, creating a puddle below him. Then he fell down, crying with his arm still up. The mother ran out as fast as she could stand it. The boy screamed as he got dragged into the woods. The mother quickly turned to the same entrance of matted down grass and blood that covered the dirt. Being the fastest runner in her old high school was helping. She found a field as she came closer and in the center was...she started crying as she walked to her son. He lay there limp, obviously dead. The mother dropped to her knees and cried until she couldn’t cry any more. She walked home but as soon as she walked out of the woods, she saw a massive rock bang into her forehead. A jogger found her on the sidewalk the next day. Dead.

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