The paint fumes were thick, a cloying smell that usually soothed Amelia, not today. She slammed the door to the playroom, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet house. Her niece, Lily, was off at ballet, thankfully. Amelia couldn't face another lecture. The drawings, scattered across the table, depicted the same impossibly tall, skeletal figure with mismatched button eyes. Her childhood imaginary friend, Barnaby. The drawings were unsettling, and the fact that Lily *knew* about Barnaby? Impossible. Amelia ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the roots. She felt a knot forming in her stomach.
The crayon lines were sharp, almost violent. Barnaby was always smiling in the pictures, a ghastly, stretched grin that showed too many teeth. Amelia remembered the feeling of Barnaby's cold, bony hand in hers, the rustling whispers only she could hear. She shoved the drawings into a drawer, the paper crinkling under her impatient grip. She needed air. Sunlight. Anything to dispel the oppressive feeling clinging to her.
She stalked to the window, watching the leaves of the oak tree dance in the wind. Barnaby used to tell her stories about the leaves, about their secret lives. Amelia shuddered, the memory unwelcome. She crossed her arms tightly, the feeling of unease now a dull ache in her chest. This was ridiculous.