Johnny’s Hidden Fear
by Miriam Cunha
“She’s coming! She’s coming!” little Johnny shouted, running into the house, nostrils flaring and eyes as wide as saucers.
His mother June came rushing into the kitchen, and ran over to him. She grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him. “What are you talking about, Johnny. Who is coming?”
Johnny swallowed hard as snot ran across his lips. “The sky, Mom! Up in the sky, I saw her!”
June rushed to the window, and looked up at the heavens. She turned to the little boy. “I see nothing, Johnny. There is nothing up in the sky but black clouds and the moon.”
He reached out, and took her hand. “Come outside,” he said calmly. “She’s coming. I saw her.”
June gazed down at him with a raised brow. “Who’s coming, Johnny?” Her shoulders were rigid.
He tugged at her hand. “Outside, Mom, you can see her from the backyard.”
June went limp, giving into Johnny’s steady tow on her hand, and letting him drag her out into the backyard.
Pointing his finger to the darkened heavens, he shouted, “There, Mom Up there.” He took a deep breath.
June sharply rolled her eyes skyward. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and her tongue rolled out between quivering lips.
“See, Mom, Grandmothers coming,” Johnny whispered.
“May God have mercy on my soul,” June whispered. She shook her head, and smiled. “The clouds remind you of Grandmother’s burnt biscuits, don’t they?”
Johnny nodded. “Yea, Mom, I don’t like them,” he mumbled.