Calvin peered through his telescope, and a pale child stared back. He swallowed a scream and recoiled, hand trembling as he drew in sharp, shallow breaths. He glanced out the window in case his grandson was lingering, but the yard was empty. Of course it was; Calvin had walked Albert home hours ago. 

The steady thwap of Patricia’s house shoes alerted him that she was coming. He reached for his brandy and jumped as his shadow stretched in the lamplight. The butterscotch-colored liquid burned as he downed it in one gulp. 

“Ah, you’re in here,” Patricia said, as she did every evening, despite always knowing where he was. 

She set off around the room in her methodical way, pretending to clean when she only shuffled things into piles until he wanted to demand she leave at once. The time she’d rearranged his desk still niggled him. He’d not been able to find anything for days.

She inched toward the window where his telescope stood. He should be inspecting the night sky and filling her in on the planets’ alignments. Her odd habit might annoy him, but he had no desire to terrify the woman. Besides, when she wasn’t fussing, she was good company. He’d rather look again than let her see whatever ghostly thing was out there. 

He bent over the telescope and screamed as one large brown eye blinked at him.

“Sorry, Calvin,” Patricia said, straightening with a crumpled photo in her hand. “Albert’s been at your telescope again.” 

Word: shadow | Action: stretch