“It’s in the closet.”
His granny said.
“Go fetch it. Go on! Don’t dally, my silly Ally”
Alistair gulped.
THE CLOSET!
Granny’s closet.
Ally scared.
Each step on brown faded floral carpet took him nearer.
Hand on rail,
where paint worn down by years of use,
he heaved himself up the stairs,
like a mountaineer tackling Everest.
He heard his nan bustle into the hall behind him,
tying her beige silk scarf around her neck.
“Ally! Don’t dally! We’ll be late!…
…MOVE!”
He scuttled to the top,
Nan’s bedroom door, wide open, in front of him
and through that door, he could see
THE CLOSET.
Big and wooden and hide and carved and ancient and evil.
Trainers step by trained trainered step,
the closet looming ever larger before him.
His nose now no more than nineteen centimetres away
from its deplorable doors.
Alistair reached out and
turned the blackened iron key.
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