Grafton's Ghost-Child
 
 

Grafton turned the knob on his daughter Cloe's bedroom door so slowly, thankful for the patience that came so naturally to him. The doorknob would sometimes crick and he didn't want to wake her, just peek in to watch her sleep, make sure she was snug under the covers. Sometimes Amanda would open the window in their daughter's room to let the night air in and Cloe would curl up into a tight little ball, just her nose exposed and forming a little steam tent.

She was adorable.

His hand turned past the crick, he opened the door slowly. Sure enough, a few icy snowcrystals blew in as he entered and Cloe was beginning her curl into a ball. Like her father, she was patient. It would take about ten minutes before she was done, never waking once. Grafton had watched her do it.

As he entered, Cloe's merchant ghost looked up. It was sitting in a recliner beside the nightstand next to his daughter's bed. It was reading a book – Grafton could see it in his hands. It had to be as ancient as the merchant ghost itself – it's eyes emitting that odd red-yellow light to illuminate the pages. The merchant ghost nodded, its tree-like body and bark-like skin folding as it moved, then went back to its reading.

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