Betsy Reading Bedtime Stories To Her Pet Skull

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By the time the lampsmoke settled and the velvet curtain of the study exhaled its evening breath, Betsy had already chosen the night’s story—something gentle, something with a moral her companion could quietly ignore. She arranged herself at the desk the way she always did, in that posture halfway between classical elegance and domestic mischief, and positioned the skull so that its hollow eyes faced the book. “You’re looking a bit tired tonight,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. The skull, loyal and attentive, offered its usual silence.

It wasn’t a grim partnership. Not at all. To Betsy, the skull was a perfect listener—patient, uninterrupting, endlessly fascinated by whatever she read aloud. He had no complaints about her voice, no objections to her choices in literature, and no tendency to fall asleep before the good parts. In return, she kept him polished, dusted, and occasionally adorned with festive ribbons during the high holidays.

Tonight’s selection was a wandering moral tale from a forgotten century, full of wayward monks, glowing orchards, and an improbable number of miraculous fountains. Betsy read slowly, savoring the rhythm of the sentences. The fruit beside her—plums, grapes, a bright stubborn orange—gave off a faint perfume, as if encouraging her to continue.

“Chapter Seven,” she announced, tapping the page with an almost theatrical flourish. “In which the pilgrim meets the hermit who refuses to speak until spoken to.” She paused. “Rather like you, my friend.”

The skull remained respectfully impassive, as skulls tend to. Betsy smiled. “I knew you’d appreciate that.”

There was a serenity to these evenings, a ritual older than the candles and older still than the book. It was the kind of companionship that didn’t need explaining: she read so the room wouldn’t feel empty, and the skull listened so she wouldn’t feel alone. Together they made a little island in the dim amber light—two unlikely conspirators against the creeping hush of midnight.

As she turned another page, the shadows leaned in, as if eager for the next part of the story. And Betsy, warm with the contentment of being perfectly understood by something without ears, continued reading until the night grew thick and soft around them—her voice a gentle thread stitching time, mortality, and a strangely comforting friendship into the same quiet moment.