Poke

You've been poked by, you've been struck by, a smooth criminal. Ow!

I glanced at my phone screen and, to my surprise, saw a rare Facebook notification: "You've been poked by Pa Corcoran."

I hadn’t spoken to Pa since college. Back then, Pa was the sort of lad who’d poke everyone relentlessly. He poked friends and family. He poked enemies. He poked political figures. He poked girlfriends, even those who weren't his. His pokes reached as far as Tibet. When Pa saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more people to poke.

I ignored the first few pokes, chalking it up to nostalgia.

Poke.

Another one. That made six pokes in two days. Pa hadn’t changed at all, the muppet. I sighed, clicked into his profile, and hovered over the “Unfriend” button. Was it worth keeping up appearances for a lad who hadn’t matured past 2008 Facebook culture?

Poke.

That was the final straw. I unfriended Pa with a satisfied tap of my finger and tossed my phone on the nightstand. Enough of that shite. Later that night, I lay in bed, half asleep. The room was silent—until I felt a sharp jab on my shoulder.

Poke.

Startled, I shot up in bed. My heart pounded in my chest. I rubbed my shoulder, but there was no one there. I shook my head, dismissing it as muscle spasm. Settling back into bed, I closed my eyes, but the eerie feeling lingered.

Poke.

My eyes snapped open, and this time, it wasn’t just a feeling. There was pressure. Real. Physical. It came again. A sudden, hard jab struck me in the ribs. I gasped, clutching my side. 

I bolted upright, flicking on the bedside lamp. My eyes widened when I spotted a disembodied hand sitting casually at the end of the bed, its fingers drumming against the blanket. 

"Is that you, Pa, you bollocks?"

The hand stuck its middle finger up. It was Pa all right. But where was the rest of him? The shoulders, the arms, the fat hole, the Superdry hoody, the other hand?

He swung at me and missed my nose by millimetres. I've never been one to look for a fight but if somebody starts it, I will never shy away. I went to grab the hand but he leapt to the floor and scampered down the hall like a coward. More fool him. Little did Pa know, he was walking right into the lion's den. The lion being my cat, Kevin. I threw off the covers, scrambling to follow, but it was too late. In one swift, predatory leap, Kevin pounced from the shadows, swallowing the hand whole. There was a brief, muffled crunch, and Kevin licked his lips before trotting back to his bed, not bothered by the fact he had just devoured a sentient hand.

I crawled back into bed myself, hoping to salvage what was left of the night. Just as I was settling in, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Groaning, I reached for it, expecting some late-night spam or a message from a friend in Australia. 

"You've been poked by Pa Corcoran." 

My blood ran cold. How could it be? I had unfriended that psychopath hours ago, and my cat had just eaten him.

The phone buzzed again.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

One after another, the notifications filled the screen, each poke more insistent. I deleted the Facebook app in a panic, but the screen remained alive, buzzing and flashing with pokes.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

The light on my bedside lamp flickered ominously, and for a moment, the entire room plunged into darkness. My phone buzzed one last time in the eerie quiet, its screen flashing a message:

"Pa Corcoran could really use some help fertilizing their crops on FarmVille!"

I clicked on the "Fertilize their crops!" button, and with that the flickering stopped. The poking stopped too. My nightmare was over. I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep.

Wait 'till I get my hands on that prick...