He Sees You When You're Sleeping

22nd December- Naught Boys And Their Toys

"Get out of my room!" yelled Oliver, punching his younger sister Penelope in the face. Penelope burst into tears and screamed for their father. A few seconds later, their father stormed up the stairs. He entered the room, hands on hips, glaring down at the two siblings.
     "What is it now? You've interrupted my work for the seventh time in two hours." He snapped sternly. He separated the two siblings, although they still glared daggers at each other from each side of the room. He then turned his attention to the floor, and grimaced. It could have well been a dump. The carpet was covered in spilled paint, toys, legos, and much more. Their father sighed. This was not going to be fun.
     "Penelope, tell me your version of the story." He said. Oliver groaned.
     "I wanted to make a Christmas card with Oliver but he pushed me and the paint over."
     "Alright...." replied her father, analysing the situation, but also wanting to get it over with. "What about you, Oliver?"
     "She came in asking if I wanted to paint a Christmas card. I told her to go away but she kept bugging me."
     "But did you push her?" In response, Oliver looked at the floor. His father sighed. "Your sister only wanted to help you, Oliver. That doesn't mean you can push her."
     "But-"
     "I don't want to hear any of it. Stay in your room and go straight to bed. I don't want to see you until morning, and you are definitely in Santa's naughty list. In fact, I'm not sure if Santa will give you presents tomorrow, especially since you fought so close to Christmas." Oliver groaned.
    "Santa Claus doesn't exist. I'm to old for that, Dad."
     "Say what you want, but you are going to bed. Penelope, come with me. You can go and watch a film downstairs."
     "Wha- how is she not going to bed like me? Why are you rewarding her?" Oliver said exasperatedly.
     "Oliver, Penelope is four. You're three times her age. I think there's a difference between a four year old and a twelve year old. You should be setting an example for her. She just wanted to paint with you."
     "That is so unfair!"
     "There's no point in arguing, Oliver. I've made up my mind. Now goodnight." said his father sternly. He switched off the lights and took Penelope with him downstairs. Oliver threw himself on bed and stared up at the ceiling.
     "The naughty list doesn't even exist." He muttered angrily. Then he shut his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

Oliver woke up to the sound of a young female voice, chanting something. At first he thought he was still asleep, but after a good pinch or two he was certain he was awake.
     "Naughty list, naughty list." The voice sang. "You're on the naughty list, Oliver."
Oliver pulled the duvet over his head and stayed under the blanket, shaking. After a moment of silence, he peeked over the duvet. He could make out the outline of a figure in the darkness, but it was difficult to separate the weapon from the shadows. What he was sure he could see was the glint of a kitchen knife held in the silhouette's hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was just a dream.
     "Don't try and hide from me, Oliver." She said. He opened his eyes to see the knife inches away from his face. He tried to scream but a hand on his mouth quickly shut him up.
     "Mmmph!" He cried. The dagger was dangerously close to his neck now. The figure was still shrouded in shadow. Desperately, he kicked and felt his leg come into contact with a body. The figure stumbled off the bed before regaining her balance.
     "Naughty, naughty, naughty." She sang. Oliver attempted another scream, but this time it wasn't a hand that stopped him. It was the cold edge of a knife being pressed against his neck. "We don't want to wake up your family, now do we?"
     "Please," Oliver begged, voice shaking. "Go away. I'll do whatever you want. Just leave me alone." The figure hesitated for a second, the knife drawing a few drops of blood. Oliver heard her quiet voice in his ear.
     "No." The knife cut into his throat in a one swift movement. She then slid off the bed, leaving the body for his family to find.

     "Oliver? Oliver!" Called Oliver's father, knocking on his bedroom door. "It's Christmas Day. You can come out now." When Oliver doesn't respond, he sighed and pushed open the door. "Oliver, are you in here?" He said as he stepped into the room. He walked over to the bed. His father raised his hand to his mouth. The duvet was stained with blood, and his son's glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling. His throat was slit, and there was messy writing on the wall. NAUGHTY LIST, it read.
     He sobbed, stroking his son's hair. "No, no, no. Oliver." He mumbled. He hurried downstairs, where Penelope was digging into a bowl of Cheerios. He rushed over to his phone, which lay on the table, and dialled the police.

     "What's wrong, Daddy?" She asked. 

     "Penelope, I need you to stay calm. Something," he gulped, wondering how to break the news to her. "Something bad happened to Oliver. Don't panic, ok?" Penelope nodded.

The police had been called and were on their way. Penelope's father slumped down in the seat opposite his daughter. He looked over at her noticed something on her hands. His eyebrows furrowed.
     "Penelope, can you show me your hands?" He asked. Penelope held out her hands for her father to see. There was a brown-red stain on her palms. "What's that?"
     "It's the paint from yesterday."
     "I told you to wash it off." Sighed her father. "Go to the bathroom and wash your hands." Penelope sighed, but stood up from the table and headed upstairs to the bathroom.

After giving her hands a thorough wash, she walked upstairs into her brothers room. She sat beside him on the bed, playing with his hair.
     "Oh, my dear brother. If only you had been good to me." The kitchen knife was still on the bed. She placed it in his hand and wrapped his fingers around it. Better if she was off the police's suspect list. She smiled at her brother, before skipping back downstairs to finish her breakfast.