The Midnight Fingers

“Zinnia, I’m home,” Mrs. Robinson called from the kitchen. The wind howled outside and fat raindrops ran down the windows. There was no response from the dark house.

    “Zinnia, sweetie, come get some dinner,” she said hopefully. Nothing.

    Finally, Mrs. Robinson put down the sacks of groceries and marched down the hall to her daughter’s room.

    “Come on, eat some dinner,” she said while opening the door.

    There was nobody in the bedroom. She checked under the bed, the closet, and under the rug. Nothing. Only a dripping, black painted handprint below the open window. Mrs. Robinson fell to the floor and burst into tears. 

    “Oh, my baby,” she whimpered. “Not her, too.”