Judging from the whiteboard on the wall, this isn't the first time this boy has encountered this particular under-the-covers horror. Write your own story about what is going on in this nightmare image.
When I was eight years old, my grandpa died.
He'd come to live with us six months before.
I hadn't known him well, but still I cried
The day they wheeled his body out the door.
Fact was, though, it was no surprise to me
When, trembling, he drew one last final breath.
The night before I'd woken up to see
A banshee in my bed, predicting death.
I saw her pale mouth open, heard the scream—
Like slate scraped by a thousand iron nails.
Dismiss it, if you choose, as some bad dream,
But decades on, I still recall that wail.
So just last night, I recognized the call,
From my own grandson's room, just down the hall.