Michael

The dark man approached across the lawn, cloak flapping from his shoulders, face shadowed black beneath his top hat. His feet didn’t touch the grass. Mom and Dad scrambled, voices fluttery, palms moist, pushing me into the china cupboard, closing the door. Then the knock, the excuses, the deathly silence in response. At last his voice, from the stone bottom of a well: “Why is all your good china out on the table?”