This is a micro story and part of Loren Eaton’s Advent Ghosts blog event, where writers create a chilling story for the season.
The Road Trip
A blurring dash down the stairs to cradle my son. His rolling eyes were unfocused, a splutter splashed a little blood on his lips. I’d been such a good father since my wife passed the year before, always by his side. Attentive. A glance away and he’d tripped. No-one could have stopped it. No-one.
The front door swung against the winter cold, ignored, as I placed him into his car seat and fastened the straps. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with a new message. My son and wife in a picture together in pyjamas, waving goodbye. ‘Night night, Daddy.’
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