Page 48 of The Intruder

She shrugs.

I follow her into the bedroom. It is fairly cold, but it can’t be freezing, or else the rain would have turned to snow. A gust of wind rattles the window frame, and I wonder if the sound of the wind is what’s keeping her awake. Or maybe it’s just being in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar cabin in the middle of nowhere.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask. “Another blanket?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve got, like, five blankets on top of me. If I had another one, it would crush me!”

“Some milk?”

“Why would that help me sleep?”

I have no idea. I have plenty of experience with reassuring children during the daytime, but never in the middle of the night. I don’t have any children of my own and I never will, but isn’t warm milk what you are supposed to offer people who can’t sleep? Except I have no way to heat it.

“Can you just…?” She chews on her lip. “Can you sit with me?”

Her request tugs at my heartstrings. I remember being at that tender intermediate age where you’re almost an older kid yet still sometimes feel like a little kid. “Sure. Of course.”

Eleanor climbs back into bed and gets under her five covers. It’s definitely a little chilly in the room, and I shiver in my sweatshirt, but I’m afraid that if I get up to grab something warmer, she might change her mind about me staying. So I perch at the edge of her bed, even though goose bumps are popping up on my arms and legs.

She pulls the covers up all the way to her chin. In the dim glow of the few candles in the room, her face looks so tiny. I can still make out the freckles on her nose.

“Casey?” she says.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me a story?”

I have read many stories to my class over the course of my career. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty good at it. “Sure. I’ve got a bunch of books I can read to you.”

“No,” she says stubbornly. “I want you to make up the story.”

Seriously? I have to make up a story? That’s going to be more challenging. I don’t consider myself a creative type. Whatever I make up will likely be a conglomeration of stories I have read over the years.

“Sure,” I say.

And now she’s staring at me, waiting for me to tell her a bedtime story. Great.

“Okay then…” I clear my throat. “So, um…once upon a time, in the kingdom far away, there was a princess named—”

“No.” Eleanor crinkles her nose. “No princess stories.”

“No?”

“I’m not five years old, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “What sort of story would you like me to tell you?”

She thinks for a minute. “A scary story.”

“I don’t think that is going to help you fall asleep.”

“Yes, it will,” she insists. “I love scary stories.”

Okay then. I rack my brain, trying to think of all the scary stories I have heard in the past. I’ll have to do my best.

“Once upon a time,” I begin.

“Scary stories don’t begin with ‘once upon a time,’” she interrupts me.