The storm was raging, the winds were tumbling the sky, the trees were lashing the house.

“No! No!” The cries came from the boy’s room.

The Father rushed in. “What is it, my son?”

“The trees are trying to get me!”

The branches lashed against the window.

“No, my boy, the trees have been there since before we were born, and they’ve lived through many storms.”

He stroked the boy’s head with a warm hand, and the boy quieted.

“Oh, Father, I wish you had never sung that song to me , the Erlking, never told me that story, it’s so much like now.”

“Oh, son, that story is so old people forget how long ago. Parents used to scare their children to make them behave.”

“I don’t think so,” said the boy, trying to be quiet.

“Do you need me to stay with you awhile, lie down beside you as you fall asleep?”

“No, Father, I’m a big boy.”

The Father patted the boy’s brow, kissed his forehead, tucked the blanket, and returned to his room.

The winds picked up, as if they had been waiting for him to leave, and the boy’s voice cried from his room, “NO!”

The Father rushed back, opened the door. The bed was empty, the window open, the rain hitting him in the face.

Wet branches of the tree hung over the windowsill into the room.

The storm raged outside.

The boy was

gone.