Melissa's Demands

Melissa’s whispers, once sweet as spun sugar, now held a sharp, metallic edge. Emma, perched on the edge of her bed, traced the condensation on her windowpane. Outside, the moon was a sliver of bone, barely illuminating the familiar shapes of their backyard. Tonight, the shadows seemed deeper, more alive. Melissa, a silhouette against the dim light of Emma’s bedside lamp, stretched to an impossible height, her form shifting and wavering like smoke.

“Emma,” Melissa’s voice, a low hum that vibrated in Emma’s chest, was laced with an impatience Emma hadn’t heard before. “You promised me the blue crayon. The one with the sparkly flecks.”

Emma’s stomach twisted. The blue crayon. It was her favorite. The one she used for drawing the sky on sunny days, the one that made her pictures sing with light. She’d hidden it, tucked away in the bottom of her art box, beneath a tangle of half-used pencils and stubby markers. It felt wrong to give it away, wrong to let Melissa have it. Melissa’s gifts had started so wonderfully, so magically. A doll that could sing any song Emma wished, a set of paints that glowed in the dark. But lately, the gifts felt less like presents and more like demands. And the things Melissa wanted in return… they were becoming stranger.