From the /c/creative_writing community on Chambers

It was a little after six in the morning when the paint-chipped door creaked forward, barely enough to make the old hinges squeal in protest. A pair of wide, curious eyes peeked through the crack, and then the door opened a little more and a boy of perhaps five years stepped out into the night. In his right hand was a rusty little spade; in his left a shiny metal doorkey. Timmy tucked the spade in the waistband of his jeans and locked the door behind him. He was a very methodical little boy. With the door locked, it was time to begin the trek through the woods out back. By day the trees were such a vibrant green they shimmered like emeralds - by night they were twisted and foreboding. The shadows cast by the flickering moonlight danced across the forest floor like imaginary friends, beckoning Timmy deeper. The forest was alive. It had a funny way of speaking, the sort you had to listen for - the rustle of leaves, snapping of twigs, chirping of crickets. You could only hear it if you listened closely, and Timmy’s ears were attuned to the forest’s language. He knew exactly where to go; he had been this way many times before. Now he needed to find the perfect spot. There! Where the trees were the thickest. Timmy stopped and his eyes scanned the area. The forest grew quiet. The little boy took a deep breath and opened his mouth. “Doodlebug?” he whispered. The forest was silent. “Doodlebug!” he called, louder this time. The forest remained silent. “DOODLEBUG!” The rustling began as a quiet twitching in a bush at the base of a pine tree, leaves wobbling back and forth before the entire bush started to jump and quiver. Suddenly, there was some kind of animal there, writhing and twisting in the underbrush. Timmy took a step back, and then another, his eyes fixed on the thrashing mass in the bush. And then, in an instant, the thrashing stopped. The animal fell still, and a moment later it was all gone. In its place was a chubby, wriggling bug with its four outer limbs grasping a white envelope. It wiggled towards Timmy, who crouched down to take the envelope in his fingers. Doodlebug was smart. Timmy knew it was Doodlebug because of the little red spot on the bug’s back, like a ladybug. But Doodlebug didn’t have any black on it like ladybugs did. Timmy tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter inside. There was no stamp, no postmark and no return address - just a single, white envelope with Timmy’s name written sloppily across the front in crayon. He unfolded the paper inside and read the short, sloppy message. Dear Timmy, I’m feeling awful. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I miss you. Your mother When he finished reading, Timmy crumpled the letter up and held it to his face, inhaling deeply in an attempt to find something - anything - familiar. He was disappointed. There was nothing familiar about the letter. Nothing smelled like mother at all. Timmy stood up and took his spade from his waistband. He dug a hole a few feet off the path, tossed the crumpled letter into the hole and covered it up with dirt. And then he walked back to the door, early morning sun peeking over the horizon, and stepped back inside. He locked the door behind him and set the key on a little wooden table next to a vase of flowers that had long since died. He left the rusty spade lying there next to the key. It was getting light. Time for breakfast. Before he went to the kitchen, though, Timmy walked down the hallway towards his mother’s bedroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn, and in the darkness he saw a shadowy figure lying in the bed. He approached it. The figure didn’t move. He reached out a hand and gently placed it on the figure's back, caressing it gently. The figure didn’t move. He climbed up onto the bed and lay down next to the figure. The figure didn’t move. “I miss you too,” he whispered. But how could she answer? She was dead.

Doodlebug

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