Convalescence by Maynard Sims

are you being so nice to me?”
    He stood up and stared down at me. “Because you’re family, James. My brother’s only boy.”
    â€œBut you and Dad didn’t get on,” I blurted out.
    Again I saw the wince of pain creasing the corners of his eyes. “A matter of deep regret,” he said, “that I’ll carry with me until the day I die. You being here, living under my roof, will ease that regret somewhat.”
    â€œWhy did you and he fall out?”
    Uncle Thomas gave a small, rueful smile. “Because we’re adults, James. And adults can sometimes be incredibly stupid.” The smile widened. “Anyway, enough of this. Clean yourself up and come down to dinner when you’re ready. I’ll be joining you this evening.”
    And with that he walked to the door and let himself out of my room.
    I sat there for a long moment, trying to make some sense of what had just happened, but the answer eluded me. I would just have to see what happened next.
    What happened next was that the damned droning started again.
    My uncle had not been gone five minutes when it started. This time I didn’t hesitate. I leapt from the bed, rushed out of the room and sprinted along the landing to the corridor. For some reason I was feeling incredibly angry, furious that I had no answer to what this was all about.
    I yanked open the door at the end of the corridor and ran into the room. As before, the record was making lazy revolutions on the gramophone.
    I snatched the record from the turntable and snapped the shellac across my knee, tossing the broken pieces to the floor.
    â€œWhat do you want from me?” I yelled and waited for some kind of response.
    When none came, I scoured the room with my gaze.
    â€œShow yourself!”
    I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the gramophone starting again wasn’t it.
    As I stared, the handle started to turn, winding the machine. The turntable began to rotate and the sound wafted out of the grille, this time without the need of a record.
    â€œHelp me, James.”
    I heard the voice again, whispering inches away from my ear.
    As before, I spun around to the sound of the voice. “Who are you? How do you want me to help you?”
    And then I noticed the mist.
    At first it was a small eddy hovering inches from the floor, but then it seemed to grow, drifting upwards and forming a small column. Gradually, as if being shaped by invisible hands, the column began to resemble a form—a body of sorts, with limbs and a round ball of mist fashioning a head.
    As the invisible sculptor continued to work, features of a face were beginning to emerge, and I watched, mesmerized, as an eye, a nose and a mouth took shape.
    Time seemed to be suspended, just hanging there, not moving on, until I was staring at the mist-created figure of a boy dressed in some kind of school uniform with short trousers and a blazer. He looked to be about my age and had fair hair with a fringe that swooped down to cover one side of his face. His mouth was opening and closing, as if he was talking to me, but I heard nothing but the drone of the gramophone.
    There seemed to be no malice in the one eye I could see, just a desperate sadness, a kind of inconsolable grief.
    â€œWho are you?” I said again. “How can I help you?”
    His mouth opened and closed again.
    â€œLost…so cold…”
    The words floated through the air between us, as distant and crackly as the music from the old 78 rpm record.
    â€œSo cold.”
    I took a step towards him.
    His arm came up and a pale hand swept the gull’s wing of hair away from his face.
    It was then I cried out—it was almost a scream—because underneath the hair was a swollen mass of puffy, black-and-purple flesh, the other eye hidden by the swelling.
    His lips formed the words again—“Help me.”
    â€œJames!” I spun round to see Mrs. Rogers, standing in the doorway, arms