He doesn ’ t turn . Quite startled , I dash onto the porch . Freeze . Cold blood fills my stomach .
His shape is all wrong . It reminds me of a portobello mushroom ; heavy-topped , slim-stemmed . There ’ s a mushroomy color that surrounds him too , a dirty taupe , an earthiness . A mushroomy texture – no , is that right ? All white and fleshy , yet strangely indistinct . A kind of fog around his flesh , like someone ’ s scribbled his outline and the rest hasn ’ t been properly filled in . He starts to cough .
Then , the creep of a new smell , not pines , or cigars : something putrid , worse than earthy . I lurch back , clapping my hand to prevent it crawling into my mouth . He coughs again , and the swing begins to rock . Why is the swing rocking ? The boy isn ’ t moving at all , but the swing is rocking . It gathers momentum without a driver , without force . To and fro , and up and up . He ’ s much too tiny to make it move on his own . And yet it goes . The chains don ’ t squeak as before . They groan against something far more colossal , far heavier than this indeterminate infant weight .
My mouth turns dry as I note a different sound to the groaning and coughing – a kind of slithering – like something being slowly dragged along , no , up the wall , and I see now that the child has somehow , illogically , leapt from the chair and is now upon the siding of the house , Papis ’ house , no , my house , like smoke rising , his gray back to me all the while .
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