The Pink Pyjamas

The pyjamas sat, untouched, on the rooftop. Despite the relative suburbia that the roof resided in, very few people noticed them. Those that did thought about them for only the brief period of time that it took until keen eyes were distracted by something else. Anyone who would speculate about them would be highly unlikely to deduce the reason for their rather peculiar placement, for the reason, as would be expected, was as strange as the result.

Tom woke up with a start, covered in a sheen of sweat. He checked the clock. Five hours until he had to get up. Five hours that he knew would be spent lying wide awake.

The nightmares had only recently started. They ranged from horrific, graphic affairs, with maniacs wielding chainsaws and killing everyone he loved, to being trapped in a white room. Well, not trapped, exactly, but with no way out. Endless solitude, in whatever direction he ran screaming. It was one of the latter that had visited him on this particular evening, and he was just shaking himself out of it when he saw her eyes.

They shone in the dim light in such a manner that they appeared to be without a body, just shining white orbs with wide, black pupils in the centre surrounded by violet. They stared at him, unflinching.

Just a dream, just a dream, Tom thought to himself, turning to face the open door of his bedroom. He wriggled restlessly, attempting push the look of those eyes out of his head. Eventually comfortable after much rearranging of the bedding, he turned back to the window, just to check. Just for some peace of mind.

They were still there.

Still staring.

He stared back.

There was something tempting in the eyes, as if they were beckoning him over. Wincing as his feet touched the cold tiles, he shuffled over to the window and looked out.

A giggle flew from the figure before it leapt out of sight, upwards, towards the roof. It was clearly a figure now, for the manner in which it had jumped from the window showed its arms and legs trailing behind it.

Tom opened the window and bent his body to look out, up at the roof. His room sat in the top of the house, but slightly set back from the furthest point that it jutted out, giving him a clear view from his window of the furrow that formed where the two gradients of the roof met. The figure, now merely a shadow, danced around, giggling.

Curiosity sufficiently piqued, he turned away from the window and walked to the ladder that lead up to the loft. Up until the age of eleven, Tom’s favourite place to sit was in the roof furrow. It was only then stopped by his mother, who had stood by the window and screamed at him to come back inside, reaching her hands out to attempt to pull him back inside. As soon as his feet had hit the floor of the converted loft, the window had been locked, the key hidden in his parents’ room. It had taken years for that window to be opened again for fear that he might see it and attempt to climb out. His parents’ faith in his only desired exit method being the front or back door had returned when he had fallen off a climbing wall at the age of fourteen, and immediately lost the desire for climbing anything that was not stairs or a ladder.

Or so they thought. In truth, Tom had revisited the roof a handful of times since that incident, just to think. The key was still semi-hidden, but the under-the-plant-pot hiding place was hardly ground breaking. It took him all of three minutes to get into the loft and get the window open. He switched his torch on as he climbed out, shining it on to the figure.

A young girl appeared in the beam wearing pink cat pyjamas. Her hair seemed to float in the wind, the mousy tendrils flying about of their own accord. Her feet were bare, her lips were dry and cracked; she looked almost feral.

“Hi,” Tom said, confusion making his voice waver.

She simply smiled, extending her hand towards him. He took it and she pulled him across the top of the roof, no hesitation in her steps. He followed gingerly, wishing that he had grabbed a jacket. The t-shirt and boxers that he usually slept in did little to protect him from the chilling wind.

The girl abruptly sat down in the roof furrow, and he joined her, the space not quite big enough for the both of them. “So,” he said, “where do you live?”

The girl turned to him, confusion washing over her features. “Here.” She turned back to looking at the night sky, and Tom considered this meant the conversation was over – besides, he was too afraid of this tiny girl to ask anything more. They sat like that for perhaps five minutes before he felt that sitting there much longer would result in his butt being frozen to the tiles. He got up and turned to leave, navigating the frosty tiles with extreme caution.

“Wait, don’t go!” the girl cried out. As he turned back to her, she slipped.

Her tiny bare feet struggled to find purchase on the roof. Her arms wind-milled wildly. She flew into the air, and just as Tom reached out to her, she turned to dust.

Her pyjamas were all that were left, floating to settle on the roof where she had been sitting moments before.

There was no caution in Tom’s steps now as he rushed to get inside. Lying in bed, he considered the events as he drifted back to sleep.

The daylight brought logic – it must have been a dream. There was no way that something like that could be real. He tried to push all thoughts of it from his mind as he trudged downstairs, ready for the monotony of another day.

Tom peeked into the utility room as he walked past, where he saw his mother, bent over a pair of pink cat pyjamas, sobbing.


© Alyx Hurst 2017

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