The Ink Boy by Rose Ingracia

“Please, just one more dad?” The boy carelessly tossed away the book with the spaceman on the cover and nuzzled his head onto the shoulder of his father.

“After the game today, I would’ve thought you’d be worn out, bud,” said the man, nipping at the brim of his baseball cap, “But okay, one more can’t hurt.”

The boy raced out of the room, returning a moment later with a book curled beneath his arm, giddy with anticipation. He handed the book to his father. It was abnormally large with frayed corners that were once hard like that of an old textbook. The cover was water-stained red with a black band through the center and modest grey lettering that read: “Bedtime Story.”

The man laughed inwardly about how his son had come across such a candid title. He couldn’t remember buying it. Thinking this not worthy of a comment, the man turned to the first page and read aloud,

“He knew he could grow up to be anything–

A doctor, a lawyer, even a traveler of space.

Yet under the trees where the birds did sing,

The dream of the game was all he did embrace.”

On the next page was a messy illustration of a boy pitching baseball. “Hey! He’s just like me!” the boy said, practically beaming. The black ink had been splotched over the top of the child’s head, giving the illusion of dirt-riddled hair. There was no doubt that this boy and the boy beside him had a striking similarity. Cleats were easy shoes to fill, and so he decided this was not worthy of a comment. He continued on to the next page.

“Every day he practiced with all of his might,

Retiring not until worked to the bone.

Yet awake amid the misty blanket of night,

He was grossly unaware he was not alone”.

The little ink boy was no longer a baseball player but was in a room. He was leaning against the headboard of his bed, gazing longingly towards an inch of light trickling from a crack underneath the door. Details were not easily distinguishable, yet there were race cars on the bed sheets. The man’s eyes drifted off the page to the bed sheets. He quickly diverted his attention back to the book.

“In books, toys, and closets they ruled,

Hiding behind what things he loved most.

They scratched and molted and clawed and drooled,

And were never far from the bedpost.”

This time, like the previous image, the ink boy was in his dark room. Yet this time, they were there.

The man felt ice drip down the skin of his neck. He made to close the book, hoping the silence was an indication his son had grown tired. The pages were just about to meet one another when–

“Hey! We’re not finished.” The boy grabbed the book from his hands and flipped back the page where the ink boy still watched the door. Reluctantly, the father continued.

“He pulled the covers over his head,

To play under the beam of his flashlight,

And so, they crept closer to the foot of his bed

To whisk him home without flight.”

The ink boy’s flashlight brought illumination to the tiny building blocks strewn in his lap. He was building the wall of a medieval castle all purple and orange and green like a carnival. The ink was black, but the man could recognize the color within it. He suppressed the thought.

“One was closer than all of the rest.

With darkness as its faithful shroud,

Inch by inch its claw progressed.

Ever present, ever creeping, a bit too close, a bit too loud.”

A subtle noise echoed through the room as a toy at the edge of the bed fell to the carpet. The boy hardly seemed to notice, but there was a twitch in the man’s eye. The hairs on his arm danced upright.

“Keep reading.” The boy urged solemnly, impatiently with a tone that brooked no argument.

I’m frightened of a book? The man asked himself. Even his son can tell fiction from reality. The man bitterly reflected on how the mockery would stain his reputation should he tell his friends at the office tomorrow morning.

On the next page, three lines were scrawled through the center, their ink pulsing like veins. When his eyes traced over each word, the veins burst open, spilling ooze that seeped to the corners. It had gotten under his fingers– warm and wet. There was faint metallic taste on his tongue. Soon enough, the ink had enveloped the page all except for the words, dry and legible.

“He chose to ignore, and for this, he will regret.

One by one they reached out, each finger a noose,

Down to Tartaus, they stole him and yet”

The man’s fingers trembled as he flipped the page. He felt a warm tug on his shoulder, like how his boy had rested his head there earlier that evening. Perhaps the son was also feeling as anxious as he was. The last page,

“Not a scream, not a whimper, not a flag of truce.”

In hysteria, the man heaved the book across the room. It cascaded through the air, pages flying left and right to land with a wet thud against the wall. His son was breathing heavily, clutching tighter. Slowly, the ink drained from the room. Color returned to his face. All was still.

“Where did you get that book?” he asked his son to no reply. He glanced to the left. “Huh, bu—”

For a heartbeat, the man thought he was alone in the room. Tendrils of black smoke. The memory of a game well played. Race cars zooming away. His son, amidst the others. Foot first, the man descended into the abyss that had no end.

This, he would have surely deemed comment worthy.

—

Rose Ingracia is a writer that loves creating new stories in between being a student and keeping up with a loaded schedule. New to the realm of horror, she is most versed in science fiction– which she reads, watches, and enjoys more than pretty much anything else.