Death.and.Terror
We're All In It For The Goosebumps
CREEPYPASTA
My name is Aaron Sparks. Back in February of 2008, I decided that I needed a change in my monotonous life. Whether that change would come in the form of a new job or a new toothbrush, I didn’t know. I was never the most adventurous person. I’ve always found it difficult to veer away from my comfort zone, and the limit of my existence usually depended upon which book I was reading at the time. It took me a while to realize that most of the happiness in my life was derived from works of fiction, from stories I often found myself lost in for days at a time; I was an avid bookworm – as miserable an expression as that is. Once I realized my true outlet, I immediately knew what I wanted. I purchased a small shop, quit my boring job, renovated the building and transformed it into a bookstore – I had never been happier. The next two years were the best of my life; the store had become a huge hit with the locals, my perspective on work had been completely altered, and I was feeling genuinely happy for the first time since my childhood. It was during the winter of 2010 that she walked into my store. She stepped inside out of the snow and approached me with a large bin-bag. Etchings of age covered her pale face and hands – she must have been at least 80 years old. Slamming the bag on the counter, she simply said, “These are for you.” I looked inside the bag to find a selection of some of the greatest novels ever written. “Why?” I asked, confused. “Do you want money for these – or some kind of book trade?” “No, they’re yours to have,” she said. “Take them.” A feeling of unease swept over me as I stood in the woman’s presence . Her dirty grey fringe slightly concealed her face as a cold gaze met my vision. “Are you sure you want me to have them?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you rather sell them?” “No. I have no use for them, or for money.” “Okay… thank you. What’s your name?” “Lucy.” She departed from my store shortly after muttering her final words.
I found it all too strange that somebody would give away such great books for nothing, but I suppose some people are just nice. I made my way home that night and took the books with me so that I could go through them. I piled them up on the table and was surprised to see that all of them were in fantastic condition. A couple of them seemed to be first editions and others were versions that I had never even seen before. It took me a moment to realize it, but the novels that I was looking at were not as I had remembered them to be.
The first book that I picked up was The Green Mile. On the front cover, there was an image of John Coffey smiling and holding two dead, naked girls; I opened it up and flipped through the pages. In this version of the novel, he was in fact guilty of the rape and murder of both children. I made my way to the end of the book and read through the execution scene. All of the officers who had originally grown to love John Coffey in the original novel were now laughing uncontrollably and screaming racial taunts as he was being executed. My eyes had seen enough and my stomach had felt enough, too. The next book I picked up was The Catcher in the Rye. The artwork upon the front page seemed to be of a dead body splattered on the street, as seen from an aerial perspective. I flipped through the book until I reached Chapter 14. After Holden Caulfield speaks of “messing with the idea of suicide,” he suddenly breaks down in tears and jumps from the window, cracking his skull on the pavement below. The book abruptly ended after that. I then picked up Lord of the Flies. The defining image on this novel was of a large child with the face of a pig; he was covered in blood and surrounded by decaying corpses. After thumbing through a few pages, I reached a point of the story in which Piggy is described as being “non-human, vicious, and a hungry animal.” A chapter or so later, Jack insulted Piggy, which led him to lose his temper and rip Jack apart. Piggy then proceeded to kill and eat the rest of children. The remainder of the book was the same line repeated over and over. “Piggy sat alone on the island waiting for death.” I read through the few books that were left in the pile and they had all been changed in some sick way:The Great Gatsby, Wuthering Heights, To Kill a Mockingbird, Ulysses, every one of them. Just as I reached the bottom of the pile, I noticed that the final book was one that I had never even heard of before. It was called Last of the Sparks. Considering the content of the other books thus far, I found the inclusion of my last name in the title unnerving. Still, it was just a book.
The front cover was of six gravestones with words too small to be read etched into the granite. I looked to the top corner of the book and noticed that there was a sell-by date on it – June 4, 2013. I nervously opened it up to the beginning of the story: Chapter 1 – Alice Sparks. My stomach dropped as I read my mother’s name upon the page. I felt dizzy and confused as I anxiously made my way through the chapter. It seemed to detail a regular day in the life of the character; that is, until I reached the last page. Alice was crossing the road when the heel of her shoe broke, causing her to fall. She didn’t get to her feet fast enough and a speeding car struck her, puncturing both of her lungs. I felt sick to my stomach. I put the book down and went straight to bed, hoping for some sleep. As it turned out, that was wishful thinking. I lay awake for most of the night, as innumerable questions ran through my mind. By daybreak I had managed to get a couple hours of sleep, but only after I spent an hour convincing myself there was nothing to worry about. It’s just a book, I told myself. It’s just a book. The next morning when I got to work, I was feeling worse for wear. It wasn’t until around lunch time that I began to perk up and regain a bit of energy. Then the phone rang. I answered the call, and I heard my father sobbing on the other end – I immediately knew what had happened. I closed the shop and ran to the hospital, but it was already too late; she was gone – the victim of a hit-and-run driver doing 60 in a 35, they said. I spent the next couple of weeks helping take care of my dad. Me, my brother and my sisters stayed with him in turns and looked after him; we all looked after each other. It wasn’t until a few months later that I picked up Last of the Sparks again. It had scared me so much the last time that I had considered tossing it in the trash, but I never did; rather, I felt strangely compelled to hang on to it. I opened the book up to page 37, and there it was: Chapter 2 – Patrick Sparks.
This story was more of the same, a day in the life of a man that bore my father’s name. It documented an ordinary day; ordinary, that is, until the part where he shot himself in the kitchen whilst on the phone with his son. Suddenly, I was possessed by an urge to run to the phone and call my father, to speak with him, comfort him – but then I realized what I may be doing. Before I had the chance to hang up, someone picked up on the other end. Then he was gone. I got my black suit and tie out once more and repeated the same process for another parent. It ruined us all. After the funeral, I refused to touch the book. What if I caused these deaths by reading it? I couldn’t go through it all again. But on Christmas Eve of 2011, I got a phone call from my brother’s wife, Heather. Will had been putting up Christmas lights on the roof, when he slipped on a patch of ice-coated shingles and broke his neck – he died almost instantly, the coroner said. I lost it. I threw the phone at the wall and began to sob into my sleeve. Anger took the pain away for a moment, long enough for me to pick up the book and read through Chapter 3. It was exactly as Heather had described. I fell asleep and woke the next day with the book still on my lap. I decided to read ahead and discover who would be the next to go, whether it would be me or one of my sisters. Whoever was next, I was determined to warn them, or give myself advance notice, as the case may be. I turned the page: Chapter 4 – Mary and Sarah Sparks. I rushed through the story as fast as I could until I reached the end. Both of my sisters and their partners would drown in a lake after colliding with another car on a one-way bridge. That same sickly feeling overtook me. I met with my sisters later that day to exchange gifts and I told them as calmly as I could that they ought to be careful while driving. I tried to sound as sincere as possible as I mentioned the lake, the bridge and the fact that all four of them would be in the car at the same time. Of course, they didn’t take me seriously, chalking my apprehension up to fears of losing more loved ones. At least I told them. Mary and Sarah drowned eight months later in August 2012. Following the funeral, I picked up the book and turned to the final pages: Chapter 5 – Aaron Sparks. But I didn’t read it. I decided I’d rather not live in fear for who-knows how long, so I decided to save it for a later time; after all, there was a sell-by date on it for a reason. Everything has been normal for the past five months or so. I’ve lost interest in reading, though, so I’m back to my old, miserable self. I questioned myself every day as to why the old woman was doing this to me. But it doesn’t matter; it’s all going to be over soon anyway. I’ve just finished reading the final chapter. It’s June 4, 2013, and I’m sitting in my basement waiting for her to arrive; that’s the way the ending goes…or so I’ve read.
Last of the Sparks
A warning for my fellow travelers: if you ever have a layover in Philly over night, don't spend the night at the "Economy Motel." And if you absolutely must, steer clear of room 103. I was heading south to visit some family members for a few weeks, and unfortunately the only flight available included a 7 hour layover in Philadelphia. Not wanting to spend those hours huddled outside the airport, I rented the cheapest motel I could find, and took the shuttle over at about 11 PM. The place was just about the shadiest looking motel I'd ever seen, but it was a bed, right? I checked in and headed to my room- 103. Exhausted, I immediately collapsed on the bed. A bit lumpy, but not terrible. Not bothering to take my contacts out, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts wander. I was yanked back to reality by a loud grumbling from my stomach. Right. The airline hadn't fed us. Annoyed, I dug around in my bag for one of those microwaveable soup cups, which I tossed in the room's microwave. As the microwave rattled away, I noticed a piece of paper wedged underneath it. I yanked it out and unfolded it. There were two words scribbled on it hastily- "Don't look." Huh. Whatever. I tossed it aside and retrieved my soup. Feeling lonely, I hopped online to see if anyone was on. I was in luck- my long distance boyfriend happened to be on Skype. I called him up and we chatted awhile, trying to keep our voices down. Eventually, though, he said something that made me laugh, and I heard a muffled curse come from upstairs. Feeling guilty, I said my goodnights and ended the call, with the intention of getting a bit of rest before my next flight. As I lay in the now dark room, I noticed a thin stream of light coming from where the curtain didn't close completely. Annoyed, I got up to close it. I was almost at the window when I heard it: "I can see into your bedroom." The voice sent a chill up my spine. It was very quiet, and high pitched, like a child's. It was so soft, I wasn't sure I hadn't just imagined it. I shook my head and reached for the curtain. "I know you can hear me. I'm at your bedroom window, and I know you can hear me." I jumped back as a shadow crossed the stream of light coming into my room. I definitely hadn't imagined it that time. There was a voice, directly outside my door. Someone was out there, looking in. I jumped back into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. "I'm at your bedroom window... I know you can hear me. I can see in your bedroom. Are you listening to me? I know you can hear me. Come, take a look. I'm at your bedroom window..." the taunting went on and on, rattling into my thoughts and leaving me paralyzed in fear. Suddenly I heard the tenant upstairs moving around again. Footsteps stomped over to the door above, and I heard muffled shouting. "Hey, shut up down there. This isn't funny, I have work in 4 hours!" The door upstairs slammed, and there was silence. I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the pillow, determined to get some sleep. "I'm still out here... Come look out your window." I sat straight up, heart pounding in my ears. The voice was back. It whispered on and on, repeating it's mantra over and over again. I put my hands over my ears and rocked back and forth, trying to block out the sound. It was no use, the longer I sat there, the louder it got, until I could hear it so clearly, it sounded like it was right next to me. Frantic, I picked up the phone and dialed the police. Stammering and stuttering in fright, I managed to give them the information- where I was, what was wrong, please help, I'm scared. I didn't care if it was a prank at this point, my mind was reeling in terror. The officers assured me they'd be over shortly to see what the issue was, I thanked them and hung up the phone. As soon as I did, silence descended over the room. It wasn't just that the voice stopped- no, utter silence filled the room. The air conditioner stopped, the street noises outside ceased, even the faint hum of electricity from the tv and lights went away. It pressed on my ears with a tangible heaviness that sent shivers through me. Next to me, my phone rang. The caller ID told me that it was the police station, calling me back. Cautiously, I picked it up and answered. "He-Hello?" I whispered. "They aren't coming." growled the voice. And every light went out, plunging the room into complete and total darkness.
I'm At Your Bedroom Window
I Saw it Coming
This isn't a confession. You can't prove a damn thing, so don't even try. I'll deny it to my grave. I'm on my third drink for the evening anyways. You can't trust the word of a drunken man.
That's when I start to feel anything these days, the third drink. Sometimes it takes four, but usually three will do. It's the same cycle every night for weeks now, I drink, then I start to feel, then the fear comes over me, then I drink some more until I pass out.
Wake up, slog through the day. Keep my head down, keep my chin up, don't draw anyone's attention. Go home, repeat.
One night a few weeks back there was a man at my door. I answered it, wondering what in the devil he was doing there at that time of night. I live at the end of my street, and there's no one around for quite a ways, and even the evangelicals that comb the neighborhood rarely make it all the way out to my house.
“Help me,” he gasped, his blood-flecked lips quivering in the rain. His forearm was badly broken, bits of bone sticking out through the skin. He was pale and drenched, the rain and blood dripping steadily from his haggard frame, pooling on my porch beneath him. “There's been an accident, I need help,” he winced. “Can you help me?”
I nodded, dumbly, shocked at his state, then ran inside looking for my cell phone. But by the time I got back to the door with it, he was gone, the only sign of him a trail of splattered red leading down my front steps and out into the front yard.
I stood there, shocked for a moment. And then I put the phone away, slammed the door, and locked it. I don't know why, I was just scared, frightened by the whole affair. And some part of me, some damned selfish part of me, kept saying it's ok, it's someone else's problem. He's gone, forget about it.
So I poured myself a drink to ease my nerves. And then another. A few drinks later, I had forgotten all about him. And a few drinks after that, I'd drunk myself to sleep.
I woke up with my head throbbing. I'm not a heavy drinker. Well, used to not be one anyways. I stepped outside and noticed that there was no blood on my porch and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the rain washed it all away, I thought. Or maybe it hadn't happened at all. I went to work nursing my hangover, but I made it through the day. Came home, tried to relax.
I'd slept poorly the night before and my day took what energy I had left, so I decided early in the evening to call it a night. I was just about to go bed, when there was another knock at the door.
I froze, looking over to it. My heart raced. I tried to laugh off my rising fear. It was just someone at the door, nothing to be afraid of. But as my hand reached for the knob, I heard his voice, the same quaking shudder of a voice from the night before. “Help! I need help!”
I stood stone still as he pounded on the door. “God, it hurts!” he shouted. “Please! Why won't you help me??”
I put my back to the door, bracing it, squeezing my eyes shut. This isn't real, I thought. It can't be. And after a few seconds, the knocking stopped and it was quiet.
I flung open the door, but there was no one there, no trace of blood or sign of his presence.
Unsettled, I shut the door, locked it, and reached for a bottle.
And so it went, for four more days, each night the same, the knocking, the horrible man at my door, the cries for help. And each night, I secured the door and waited until it stopped, then drank myself into oblivion.
By the seventh night I'd had enough. I made a stiff drink as soon as I got home, and then another after that one. I had thought of nothing but the events of the previous week that day. So naturally I was anticipating the knocking when it came again that night, confirming my paranoid fears. I was waiting for it.
I threw open the door upon the first knock, and there he was, battered arm hanging limp at his side, pale face twisted into a grimace. But before he could say anything, I leveled my shotgun at his face and pulled the trigger. His head popped like a blister, and I fired a second time, blowing his arm clean off and leaving a hole in his torso.
Covered in his wet viscera, I shut the door. I want to say I was in a trance, that I was on auto-pilot and out-of-my-head, but that's not true. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was trying to make a point to myself.
See, I'm a level-headed man. I don't believe in ghosts or the supernatural or anything like that. We live in a rational world. And I damn well wasn't going to sit back and let my head play tricks on me without fighting back.
They say blood is hard to wash off, but it's not true. His blood washed right off of me. One shower later, I was good as new. So when I finished cleaning up and calming down and went back to the front door, I likewise expected there to be nothing there, as there had been no trace of him left from the previous nights.
I couldn't believe it when I opened the door and his remains slumped inside like a sackful of meat. I reached down and poked the corpse. It was solid. The porch was covered in blood and gore. Once more I panicked, and this time I did go into a sort of trance. The hours passed in a blur as I drug the body around to the back of the house, dug out a shallow grave, cleaned off the porch as best I could, and took another shower.
And then I made another drink. Tomorrow, the knocking would come again, I was sure. I hadn't just killed a man and buried him in my backyard.
When I got home the next evening, I sat and waited anxiously. Any moment, the knock would come, the man would again be at my door, waiting for me, asking for help. Maybe tonight I'd laugh, invite him in, ask him if he wanted a drink, I thought, sipping my own drink nervously. The minutes stretched out, and it felt like I'd waited an eternity when it finally came. The knocking.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I rushed to the door, but it wasn't the man from the previous nights. It was the police. A car had gone off the road the night before. They wanted to know if I'd seen anyone. Maybe it was my drunken state that allowed me to lie so convincingly, but after telling them I knew nothing of it, they bid me a good evening and left.
My pulse pounded in my head. This couldn't be happening, I thought. It wasn't real. The thoughts piled on, one by one, and all I could do to quell them was keep drinking until I lost consciousness.
I called in sick the next day. I checked my backyard, and sure enough, the grave I'd dug was still there, still fresh. I dug him up, burned the body until it was ash. When I was done, I went back inside the house and numbly sat down.
And since then, I can't feel anything. Not until I drink. Usually three, sometimes four. And it's only then that I start to feel it – the fear.
See I'm not afraid of ghosts. I don't believe in them. I've never believed in them. Probably in part because I was raised by my heavily superstitious mother. She made her living as a psychic, telling fortunes. She claimed that she had “the sight,” that she could see a person's fate before it happened, and she had a steady stream of gullible clients that kept a roof over our heads and food on our table. So I didn't make a big deal out of it, but like any kid, I rebelled against her and her beliefs. And when I left home, I found plenty of support for that rebellion.
Psychics aren't real, right? No one can see the future. Right?
Cause now I'm afraid my mother wasn't faking it, that she really could see the fate of all those people who came to her. And I'm afraid, I'm so terribly damn afraid, that now I can see it too.
I'm a 911 Operator
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Yeah, hi, um...This is going to sound kind of strange but there's a man stumbling around in circles in my front yard.”
“...could you repeat that, sir?”
“He looks...sick, or lost, or drunk, or something. I just woke up to get a glass of water and heard snow crunching around underneath my front window so I peeked out...I'm looking at him now, he's about ten yards away from my window. Something's not right.”
“What is your address, sir?”
“1617 Quarry Lane, in Pinella Pass.”
“I'm going to send a squad car your way, but that's quite a ways out. Are you alone in your house sir?”
“Yes, I'm alone.”
“Can you confirm that all of your doors and windows are locked? Stay on the phone with me.”
“I know that my front is definitely locked, but I'll go check my back door again really quick.
…
I appreciate your help, by the way, I know this is kind of strange but I really hope that –“
...
“...Sir? Are you still there?”
“He's...he's still in the yard yard. But he's...what the fuck...he's upside down...”
“Sir? Stay on with me, what is happening?”
“He's staring right at me...but he's...he's standing on his hands now. He's perfectly still, staring straight at me. He's doing a handstand and he's smiling at me and not moving.”
“He's...he's doing a handstand, sir?”
“I...I don't know how he...yeah, he's facing me and standing on his hands and he's got this huge smile and he's perfectly still...what the FUCK...please get someone out here NOW.”
“Sir I need you to remain calm. I've put out the call and an officer is on his way.”
“His teeth are so huge...what the fuck, please help me...”
“Sir I want you to try and keep an eye on him but make sure your back door is locked again. We need to make sure all possible access points are secured. Can you talk me through and confirm that your back door is locked?”
“Okay...I'm walking backwards now and keeping him in my sight...
My hand is on the back doorknob now...it's locked. I need to check the deadbolt so I'm going to take my eyes off of him for a split second.”
“Alright sir. Help is on the way. Just stay on the phone with me, everything's going to be alright.
Sir?
…
...Sir? Are you still there?”
“He's...his face. It's up against the glass.”
“Sir, I need you to speak up. What is happening?”
“I looked away for a split second and now...his face. It's pressed up against my front window. His teeth are huge and he's still smiling...There's no color in his eyes...Jesus please help me, why won't it just fucking move...”
“Sir, I need you to go to the nearest room and lock yourself inside of it. Do you have a basement or a bedroom that you can lock yourself in?”
“He won't stop staring...he's going to hurt me...”
“Sir I need you to listen to me. Lock yourself somewhere safe until the officer arrives at your house. Can you hear me?”
“I...yes...yes, I'm going to lock myself in my room.”
“And you're positive that you're alone in your house, correct?”
“Yes, I'm alone in the house...
…wait a moment...
he's moving. He's shaking his head. He's telling me no. He can hear us.
He's telling me I'm not alone.”
…
…
…
“Sir? Sir are you still there? I heard a loud noise, is everything alright?
…
…
“Sir?”
Symmetry
I love symmetry. I’m not sure exactly why but I’ve loved it since I was a kid. Most children are messy and forgetful of their things. Not me. I knew everything has a place and in my room, everything was right where it belongs. My parents didn’t have It. My grandparents didn’t have It either. Not a single person in my family had “It”. I’ve started referring to it as “It” because I truly believe it’s a thing inside me. A stowaway that shouldn't be there but lives inside me. It’s a need. A desire. A longing to be perfect. Perfect on both sides. As an adult, I’m at the point where I can’t live my life normally. I can’t keep a job. Women don’t stay with me because they can’t handle It. Honestly, I don’t care when they leave. They’re messy and make things difficult. They roll over to my side of the bed instead of staying on their own. They leave dishes in one side of the sink but not the other. I can’t work anymore so when they leave for the day, I have to stay home and fix everything. It’s a relief when they leave for good. That feeling never lasts though, eventually It comes back and finds something else that needs fixing. You may be asking, why would I seek out relationships to begin with if I can’t stand them? Well, it’s hard for me to sleep in the middle of the bed all night without moving.
Other than the relationship problem, my life is pretty much in order. I say “pretty much” because there is one last issue that must be dealt with. You see I have what’s called “Heterochromia Iridum” or two different colored irises. My right eye was cornflower blue, my left pale green. Both my parents have cornflower blue eyes, my siblings and cousins as well. My green eye is the broken one. It makes me...unbalanced. Every time I look at myself in the mirror, It stares right back at me. It’s all I think about now. Everything is in its right place except my green little mistake. It didn’t hurt at first when I dug the spoon under my eye. It didn’t even hurt when it popped out and was hanging by my cheek. Was it shock that was keeping the pain away or was it It? I snipped the optic nerve and blotted the warm fluids that were streaming down my face. My vision being cut in half was a strange sensation. What was left of the dangling flesh, I placed back in the now empty hole. I bandaged the wound, rinsed the spoon, and went to sleep.
I woke up...happy. I slept better than I had in years. It was finally done. I was fixed. I got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. My body ached and my head was on fire. I flipped the switch in the bathroom and the light was blinding. I slowly removed the bandage that was soaked with blood and was sticking to my face like tape. When I looked up to the mirror, my stomach turned. Only then had I realized what I’d done to myself and I couldn't believe it. There was a hole in the left side of my face...but not the right. I was unbalanced. Again. It was much harder digging out the second eye. My hands were shaky and when I dug the spoon in, I missed several times, puncturing my pupil three times before I got the it in the right place. Once the eye popped out, I reached for my scissors to finish the job. The blood from the previous night had dried on the blades, so the scissors didn’t cut very well. You know when you were a kid in elementary school and your teacher made you cut construction paper for art projects? Did you ever try to cut too many pieces at once but the scissors couldn't take it? The blades would kind of fold over each other and the paper would get pinned between them? That’s what happened with my eye. The optic nerve was pinned between the two blades. It was stuck and as I tried desperately and frantically to make it unstuck, I slipped on the blood and started falling to the floor. Reflexes kicked in and I let go of my eye to try to break my fall with my hand. The weight of the stuck scissors on my hanging eye was unbearable. I knew I couldn’t stand it long enough to make it to the kitchen to get a knife. So I pulled. I pulled it straight out of my head. I felt the flesh tear from inside my skull. I felt it rip and spew liquids everywhere. I knew I was crying but there was no telling the tears from the blood from the ocular fluid. When I heard the wet slap of bloody flesh against the tile floor, I knew I was done. I knew It was done. I could live my life now without having to see peoples awful, messy, uneven lives. The relief washed over me and I knew it would last this time. I had never felt this way before, never had this much hope. As I laid in my bathroom on that cold, wet, sticky tile, I smiled for the first time in years.
-Dictated but not read
Ickbarr Bigelsteine
When I was a small child, I was terrified of the dark. I still am, but back when I was around six years old I couldn’t go a full night without crying out for one of my parents to search beneath my bed or in my closet for whatever monster I thought was waiting to eat me. Even with a night light, I would still see dark shapes moving around the corners of the room, or strange faces looking in on me from my bedroom window. My parents would do their best to console me, telling me that it was just a bad dream or a trick of the light, but in my young mind I was positive that the second I fell asleep, the bad things would get me. Most of the time I would just hide under the blankets until I became tired enough to stop worrying, but every now and then I would become so panicked that I would run screaming into my parents room, waking up my brother and sister in the process. After an ordeal like that, there would be no way anyone would be getting a full nights rest.
Eventually, after one particularly traumatizing night, my parents had had enough. Unfortunately for them, they understood the futility in arguing with a six year old and knew that they would be unable to convince me to rid myself of childish fears through reason and logic. They had to be clever.
It was my mother’s idea to stitch together my little bedtime friend.
She collected a large assortment of random pieces of fabric and her sewing machine and created what I would later refer to as Mr. Ickbarr Bigelsteine, or Ick for short. Ick was a sock monster, as my mother called him. He was made to keep me safe while I slept at night by scarring away all the other monsters. He was pretty damn creepy, I had to admit. Honestly, looking back on it all now, I’m still impressed that my mom could think of something so strange and disturbing looking. Ickbarr had the stitched together look of a Frankenstein gremlin, with big white button eyes and floppy cat ears. His little arms and legs were made from a pair of my sister’s black and white striped socks, and the half of his face that was green was made from one of my brother’s tall football socks. His head could have been described as bulbous, and for his mouth my mom attached a piece of white fabric and sewed in a zigzag pattern to shape a wide grin of sharp teeth. I loved him at once.
From then on, Ick never left my side. So long as it was after dusk, of course. Ick didn’t like the sun, and would get upset if I tried to bring him to school with me. But that was okay, I only needed him at night to keep away the boogeymen, which was what he was good at. So every night at bedtime, Ick would tell me where the monsters were hiding, and I would place him near the section of my room closest to the spookiness. If there was something in the closet, Ick would block the door. If there was a dark creature scratching at my window, Ick would be pressed up against the glass. If there was a big hairy beast under my bed, then under the bed he went. Sometimes the monsters weren’t even in my room. Sometimes, they would hide in my dreams, and Ickbarr would have to come with me into my nightmares. It was fun bringing Ick into my dream world, as he and I would spend hours fighting off ghouls and demons. The best part was, in my dreams, Ick could talk to me for real. “How much do you love me?” He would ask.
“More than anything.” I would always tell him. One night in a dream, after I had lost my first tooth, Ick asked me for a favor.
“Can I have your tooth?”
I asked him why.
“To help me kill the bad things.” He said.
The next morning at breakfast, my mom asked me where my tooth went. From what she told me, the “tooth fairy” didn’t find it under my pillow. When I told her that I gave it to Ickbarr, she just shrugged and went back to feeding my little sister. From then on, every time I lost a tooth, I would give it to Ick. He would always thank me, of course, and tell me that he loved me. Eventually though, I ran out of baby teeth, and I was beginning to get a little too old to still be playing with dolls. So Ick just sat there on my bookshelf collecting dust, slowly fading away from my attention.
Over time the nightmares, however, became worse than ever. So bad that they even began to follow me to the waking world, terrorizing every dark corner or rustle in the bushes. After one particularly bad night biking home from a friend’s house where I swore a pack of rabid dogs were chasing me, I got home to find something strange waiting for me in my room. There, on my bed, standing fully upright in the soft glow of the moon light from my window, was Ickbarr. At first I just thought my eyes were playing tricks on me again, they had been all evening, so I tried to flick on the lights. Another flick of the light switch. Then another, and another, with no change to the darkness. It was then that I started to get nervous.
I backed away slowly towards the door behind me, my eyes never leaving the shape of Ick’s silhouette, my hand awkwardly outstretched behind reaching for the doorknob. I was just about to get my ass out of there when I heard the door slam itself shut, locking me into blackness. In nothing but shadows and silence, I stood frozen in place, not even breathing. For how long I can’t say, but after what felt like a lifetime of cold fear, I heard the shrill, familiar voice.
“You stopped feeding me, so why should I protect you?”
“Protect me from what?”
“Let me show you.”
I blinked once, and everything changed. I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore, I was somewhere… else. It wasn’t Hell, but the comparison wasn’t far off. It was some sort of forest, a horrible, nightmarish place where partial embryonic abortions hung from the canopy, and the ground swarmed with carnivorous insects. A thick fog wafted through the air and with it the stench of rotting meat, while chartreuse lightening flashed across the night sky. In the distance, I could hear the agonizing screams of something not quite human. My head throbbed like it was about to explode, the pain forcing out a river of tears. In my mind, I heard his voice again.
“This is what your reality would become without me.”
I felt earth shaking footsteps approaching fast.
“I’m the only one who can stop it.”
It was behind me now, huge and angry, hot breath across my back.
“Bring me what I need, and I will.”
I woke up before I could turn around.
The following day I raided my parent’s closet for my brother’s baby teeth, giving them all to Ickbarr. Almost immediately the night terrors ceased, and I was more or less able to go on about my life as normal. From time to time, I would have to sneak into my little sister’s room and snatch what was meant for the tooth fairy, or strangle one of the neighborhood cats and pry out its sharp little incisors. Anything to ward off the visions, anything from a shark tooth necklace to a cavity ridden bicuspid. I also began to notice that Ick would move about my room whenever I left for any length of time, rearranging my stuff and hanging additional curtains. He was even beginning to look more lifelike, somehow. In the right light his teeth would glisten, and he was warm to the touch. As much as he creeped me out, I couldn’t work up the courage to just destroy him, knowing perfectly well where that would leave me. So I went on collecting teeth for Ick throughout all of high school and college. The older I got, the more things I would learn to fear, the more teeth Ick would need to keep me safe.
I’m 22 years old now, with a decent job, my own apartment, and a set of dentures. It’s been almost a month since Ick’s last meal, and the horrors are starting to crowd around me once more. I took a detour through a parking garage after work tonight. Found a man fumbling with his car keys. His teeth were stained yellow from a lifetime of cigarettes and coffee. Even still, I had to use a hammer to get out the molars. When I got back to my apartment, he was waiting for me. On the ceiling, in the corner. Two white eyes and mouth of razors.
“How much do you love me?” He asks.
“More than anything,” I reply, taking off my coat.
“More than anything in the world.”
World's Best School Psychologist
When I was twelve, I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family, was against me. I was never a problemed child, but my parents sure treated me like one.
For example, I used to need to be home by 5:00pm every day. This clearly restricted my amount of “play time” outdoors. I wasn't allowed to have friends over to play at the house, nor was I allowed to go over anyone else’s. I had to finish homework directly after I came home from school, no matter how long it took. My parents refused to buy me video games and forced me to read books and then write a book report on them to prove I actually read it!
Now, even though those rules listed above were quite frustrating to me as a child, they aren't what upset me most. What really hurt me was the lack of compassion on behalf of my parents. My mother was a bitter woman who always made me feel guilty of accidents or mistakes I've made. My father only knew one emotion: frustration. The only time he spoke to me was when he screamed at me for receiving poor test scores or beat me for misbehaving.
But enough about them, let’s talk about my school’s psychologist. For his own privacy, we will call him Dr. Tanner. Like most junior high schools, a psychologist is always available on campus during school hours to assist any students in need of counseling whether it is emotional, academic, social, behavioral, etc.
To be honest, I have never seen any students talking with Dr. Tanner. Every day, I would walk past his office on my way the cafeteria and peek through his door’s little window. He would always be alone in there, working on some paperwork.
I guessed that most kids were too afraid to speak about their problems to an adult who was practically a stranger. For this reason, it took me three weeks to muster enough courage to go into his office. March 2nd, 1993, was the day I decided to voice my troubles to Dr. Tanner. During lunch break, I stood in front of his office door and knocked.
Through the window, I could see him raise his head, smile, and motion for me to come in. I did.
He greeted me by introducing himself and asking for my name. Dr. Tanner was a very soft spoken man who seemed to radiate kindness. In less than thirty minutes, I rambled to Dr. Tanner about how mean my parents were to me and how they didn't care about me at all. After a while, my voice began to quaver and I stopped speaking. The psychologist listened patiently to my whole spiel, arms folded and head nodding. I half expected him to begin talking about how everything I had just said was untrue and that my parents loved me dearly and blah blah blah. But he didn't.
Dr. Tanner leaned towards me with a grin on his face and said “You know… I’m the best school psychologist in the world. I promise we will fix this.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, but how?” I asked.
“I have my ways!” he replied. “I’m a man of my word. I promise that within just one month, the relationship between you and your parents will change for the better. Forever.”
After a brief pause, he continued; “Although, I do need you to make me a promise.”
“You have to promise me that you’ll come back to my office after school tomorrow and that you won’t tell anyone that we had this conversation today. It’ll be our little secret.”
I promised.
The following day, I returned to Dr. Tanner after school. It was around 4:00pm when I entered his office. After a warm welcome, he asked me to have a seat in front of his desk once again.
Upon sitting down, I watched Dr. Tanner close the blinds of the door’s tiny window. “There,” he smiled, “now we have all the privacy we need!”
We began to talk about my likes and interests, my favorite subjects in school, my least favorite teachers, and things of the like. About an hour into the conversation, Dr. Tanner offered me a soft drink.
I gladly took the offer, considering my parents never allowed me to drink soda. Dr. Tanner reached over to his mini-fridge and fidgeted around before setting down two open cans of soda on the desk.
Afterwards, we continued to talk about what was going on in my life but it wasn't long before I passed out from whatever drugs Dr. Tanner placed in my drink.
It took me a minute or so to adjust my blurred vision upon waking…
… And when it did, I had no idea what to think.
I was handcuffed to a bed and my mouth was sealed with duct tape. I immediately began to panic- squirming and tugging at the cuffs- but gave up soon after.
My eyes widened in disbelief after looking around the room. There were posters of superheroes pinned up along the walls and photographs of famous athletes on shelves. In the middle of the room was an old television and Super Nintendo, various game cartridges stacked alongside it.
I didn't know what to think. Here I am in a room filled with items most kids would die to play with. I would have probably cried from joy hadn't I been handcuffed to a bed frame.
My stomach sank once again as the door opened and Dr. Tanner walked inside. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Now listen,” he said, “remember that I’m here to help you and I would never hurt you, okay?” Dr. Tanner gently removed the tape from my mouth and then the cuffs from my hands.
My first instinct was to begin crying but something about Dr. Tanner made me feel safe. He smiled at me. “You’re going to be staying here for a while,” he continued, “and during this time, you’re allowed to play with any toys in this room while I’m here at home.”
“But when I leave the house, I’ll need to cuff one of your hands back to the bed. You can still watch the television, but I want you to only watch the news channels when I’m away.”
I sat in silence, still trying to process the information he had given me.
“So!” Dr. Tanner yipped, slapping me on the knee. “You go ahead and knock yourself out; I’ll be back when it’s time for dinner.”
He got up from the bed, walked across the room and clicked the TV’s power button before locking the door behind him.
Several more minutes passed before I realized that Dr. Tanner wasn't joking. All that was left for me to do was boot up the Nintendo and play Mario until nightfall.
At about 7:00pm, Dr. Tanner returned to the room carrying two plates of mashed potatoes and chicken strips. I finally gathered up the courage to ask him how long I’d be staying in this room. “Well, about a month,” he replied, “give or take a few weeks. I just have some work I need to do.”
The following morning, I awoke to Dr. Tanner’s hand patting my head. “Hey bud, you don’t have to wake up right now if you don’t want, but I am going to need to put this back on,” he whispered, clamping the cold steel handcuff onto my wrist.
I gazed up at him. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks, a coat draped over his shoulder and a suitcase at his side. He looked just how he always did when I saw him around school. Before leaving he placed the TV’s remote next to me and told me to turn it on and watch the news.
The first thing I saw upon turning it on was a “breaking news” segment. An important looking police officer stood at a podium surrounded by people with microphones. I happened to begin viewing half way through his speech.
“A statewide Amber Alert has been issued as of this morning. We have several investigators working towards identifying potential abductors, but as of right now there is not much evidence. Faculty members state that the boy had been last seen around four or five in the evening on-“
I began to feel nauseous as a photograph of me appeared on the screen. It was my yearbook picture from last year. Captions for the photograph displayed my name and age, my school, and my town. Above my picture were alternating titles: FBI BEGINS SEARCH FOR CHILD and KIDNAPPING SUSPECT UNKNOWN and POTENTIAL RUNAWAY.
The live footage continued and two figures I soon recognized as my mom and dad stepped up to the podium. Both appeared to have reddened eyes. Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she took hold of a microphone.
I’d never seen so much emotion come from my mother before as she wept on live television, stuttering on sentences such as “please return my baby back to me” and “I’m so sorry” and “please come home to us”.
When my father took the microphone, I nearly expected his attitude to be stone cold, but he too had tears in his eyes. He pleaded to the world to bring his son home safely and lastly begged for my forgiveness! “I know I haven’t been the best father, but goddamn it do I wish I had been now. Please bring my boy back.”
I turned the power off shortly after. My emotions were mixed for I had never once seen my father cry.
I felt miserable that my parents were being put through so much, but at the same time I felt relief. I now know how much mom and dad love me.
Nearly four weeks have passed and Dr. Tanner has been treating me with the utmost respect. He leaves me in the morning cuffed to the bed frame, but returns in the afternoon to eat lunch and dinner with me, talk, and play games. I never would have guessed how good Dr. Tanner was at Monopoly and Scrabble.
But one morning when Dr. Tanner woke me before heading off to work, I noticed a stern look on his face. I also realized that it was three hours earlier than when he usually wakes me.
“You need to watch the news today. No exceptions. I want you to keep the television on all day and pay close attention to it,” he stated grimly.
I, of course, complied and watched him exit the room.
About two hours later, a breaking news segment interrupted the toothpaste commercial I was watching. The title:
HUMAN REMNANTS FOUND
Two staunch looking men in suits stood aside one another and began speaking:
“We are displeased to bring up such unfortunate news this morning regarding our missing child case from earlier this month.”
One of the men bowed his head while the one speaking shuffled through some papers. He continued:
“Remains of a body have been found in a garbage bag beneath a highway overpass. The body appears to be that of a child, although not much of it is left. The body has been decapitated and much has been burnt to ash and bone.”
The screen shifted over to a helicopter view of the freeway, dozens of police cars gathered near the bottom of a tall overpass. The man’s voice could still be heard:
“Within the bag police found a junior high school identification card labeled as such.”
The screen showed the school ID card I always kept in my backpack. The plastic was sort of melted away, but my photograph and name were intact.
After the two men dismissed themselves, the camera panned over to my parents. They were sitting among reporters; my mother’s face held a painful grimace and my father sulked his head down at his knees.
I shut the television off.
Dr. Tanner returned home very late. He hurried into the room, unlocked my cuffs, and placed a bottle of fizzing water into my hand.
He placed his hands onto my shoulders and smiled.
“I made you a promise, didn't I?”
I nodded, tears squeezing their way out my eyes.
“You need to make me a promise again,” he whispered.
He told me that I needed to drink all the water in the bottle- it would help me sleep- and that from here on, I am never to tell anyone that I ever met him. I promised.
“I told you I’m the best school psychologist in the world, didn't I?”
And he was right.
I awoke later that night to find myself lying in the middle of a park, stars shining brilliantly across the night sky. I recognized the park; it wasn't too far from my school.
A mile or so down the road, I saw my house. The lights were off inside, but I could make out my father sitting on the step leading to the front door.
I hesitantly called out to him. He lifted his head slowly, but when he saw it was me, he sprang to his feet, ran towards me arms open, yelling my name. My mother erupted from the house behind him.
Dr. Tanner was right. Things have changed with my family and I. My parents smile more often and treat me lovingly. I could not ask for a more perfect ending.
Every now and then, I see Dr. Tanner on campus- talking to and from his office. Rarely do we ever make eye contact, let alone speak to one another, but sometimes he’ll shoot me a wink and a smile.
I’ll always keep my promise to him and pretend I never met him, but there will always be one question forever floating in my mind: who did Dr. Tanner decapitate and throw off the overpass?
Children's Playground
I'd moved to a new town, this was a much nicer, cleaner, quieter town than the one I'd lived at before. Not the sort of town you'd expect to have... things wrong with it.
There was a very big public park right in the centre, it housed rows upon rows of swings, slides infested with snake-like tunnels that weaved in and around the playground - providing a maze for children to lose themselves in their games. There was even a functioning merry-go round which seemed to always be slightly turning, inviting the children to hitch a ride on it's platform of twirls.
I have to emphasize on the fact that it was a quiet, peaceful town. The kind of town where kids could leave the house on their own and take the short journey to the park. I had been given strict instructions by my parents that I should come home the second it started turning dark. My life was wonderful, or so it seemed.
It was a Friday. I knew the day because I remember coming home with a big smile on my face as I knew I had the luxury of non-stop playing for the next two whole days. I did what I always did, I chucked my school bag on my bed and was ordered to change into other clothes. In a matter of minutes I was ready to descend onto the world of fun. Nothing could stop me.
The tunnels were my favourite, it was so easy to get lost in them which made great fun for playing hide and seek with my only 2 friends, Billy and Tom. They were both in my class and we - like many 8-year-olds - loved any game that filled us with pure adrenaline. We were going to play Murder. I don't expect anyone to know this game, we made it up. The rules were very similar to hide and seek, except when the one seeking found you, they had to 'murder' you. (Pretend obviously).
It was nearing winter as I remember being slightly cold as I wormed my way around in the tunnels, furiously trying to find a perfect hiding spot. Billy was the seeker. Tom had hidden behind the merry-go round. I was alone.
It must have been maybe 10minutes (Which for an 8-year-old felt like a year) when I decided to do what all kids do when they get bored - Give up. "I give up!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the tunnels. "I'm in the tunnels! I give up!" I heard sudden shuffling from one end of the tunnel. Now I don't know why. But I froze still. I didn't call out again, I just... waited. Something wasn't right. Billy would always say something before coming in after someone in the tunnel. He'd always congratulate them on being the last to be found, or for cheating by hiding in the endless maze of tunnels. As I stood frozen, the shuffling grew louder. I could tell it was starting to get dark outside as the tunnels slowly began to lose any light in them, slowly but surely dropping into darkness. I began to slowly shuffle backwards, the shuffling ahead of me grew louder, as if someone or something way too big for the tunnel was trying to navigate around. "Come out, it's time to go home now" A very creepy voice echoed through the tunnels. It sounded like when a grown man talks to small children, talking slightly higher pitched. This was definitely wrong. I probably would have come out if the voice was outside. But it wasn't. It was inside the tunnels. Why would an adult crawl inside?
As I was shuffling further and further back, the face of an old man appeared in the darkness ahead of me. Patches of hair on his head and a definite look of someone who hadn't showered in the last week. I couldn't see what he was wearing but I knew it was tattered old clothes. He had a sharp scraggly beard which was peppered with dirt. The second we made eye contact he just smiled at me. Revealing his filthy, unbrushed teeth which had blotches of brown and black covering them entirely. I panicked, turned around and began shuffling on all fours as fast as I could, The shuffling behind me growing louder and quicker.
He was chasing me.
I sped through the maze for what felt like an eternity, I only stopped when my legs refused to move anymore. I'd taken so many twists and turns that even I was completely lost. "I don't want to hurt you, I just want to talk" the voice echoed through the tunnels, I could tell he was nearby. I pressed my body against the bottom of the small, narrow tunnel and listened. He continued to make soft cooing noises, begging me to come out and present myself to him. I lay in that tunnel for hours. No exaggeration. Even after I heard him curse to himself and angrily force his way out of the tunnel I continued to wait. Thoughts raced my mind of me coming out the tunnel only to be met by that same smile that once greeted me.
In the darkness of the tunnel I could make out blue flashing lights on the outside, I heard frantic voices calling three names repeatedly. "Billy?! Tom?! Michael?!" When I heard my name my heart slowly began to calm. My parents had come. I easily shuffled out of the tunnels, guided by the wet dirt scrapings along the walls of the tunnel, the way the man must have gone. Outside I was greeted by several police cars, lights flashing. There were groups of adults with concerned looks on the faces. I recognised two of them. My parents. "Mom! Dad!" I wailed, crying as I ran towards them. They began crying and ran towards me, lifting me off the ground and hugging me so tightly it felt as though I was being slowly crushed.
Billy and Tom were taken that evening. They were later found hidden in a nearby skip. Mutilated. They had been brutally massacred, their skulls had been caved in with a large iron bar and their bodies had deep cuts everywhere, large pieces of glass found buried in their backs.
What chills me to the fucking bone is that the wet dirt I saw in the tunnels wasn't entirely dirt. It was Billy and Tom's blood. After slaughtering my two best friends and making eye contact with me in that tunnel, he just... Smiled. He had won the game...
Autopilot
Have you ever forgotten your phone?
When did you realise you’d forgotten it? I’m guessing you didn’t just smack your forehead and exclaim ‘damn’ apropos of nothing. The realisation probably didn’t dawn on you spontaneously. More likely, you reached for your phone, pawing open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily confused by it not being there. Then you did a mental restep of the morning’s events.
Shit.
In my case, my phone’s alarm woke me up as normal but I realised the battery was lower than I expected. It was a new phone and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications running that drain the battery overnight. So, I put it on to charge while I showered instead of into my bag like normal. It was a momentary slip from the routine but that was all it took. Once in the shower, my brain got back into ‘the routine’ it follows every morning and that was it.
Forgotten.
This wasn’t just me being clumsy, as I later researched, this is a recognised brain function. Your brain doesn’t just work on one level, it works on many. Like, when you’re walking somewhere, you think about your destination and avoiding hazards, but you don’t need to think about keeping your legs moving properly. If you did, the entire world would turn into one massive hilarious QWOP cosplay. I wasn’t thinking about regulating my breathing, I was thinking whether I should grab a coffee on the drive to work (I did). I wasn’t thinking about moving my breakfast through my intestines, I was wondering whether I’d finish on time to pick up my daughter Emily from nursery after work or get stuck with another late fee. This is the thing; there’s a level of your brain that just deals with routine, so that the rest of the brain can think about other things.
Think about it. Think about your last commute. What do you actually remember? Little, if anything, probably. Most common journeys blur into one, and recalling any one in particular is scientifically proven to be difficult. Do something often enough and it becomes routine. Keep doing it and it stops being processed by the thinking bit of the brain and gets relegated to a part of the brain dedicated to dealing with routine. Your brain keeps doing it, without you thinking about it. Soon, you think about your route to work as much as you do keeping your legs moving when you walk. As in, not at all.
Most people call it autopilot. But there’s danger there. If you have a break in your routine, your ability to remember and account for the break is only as good as your ability to stop your brain going into routine mode. My ability to remember my phone being on the counter is only as reliable as my ability to stop my brain entering ‘morning routine mode’ which would dictate that my phone is actually in my bag. But I didn’t stop my brain entering routine mode. I got in the shower as normal. Routine started. Exception forgotten.
Autopilot engaged.
My brain was back in the routine. I showered, I shaved, the radio forecast amazing weather, I gave Emily her breakfast and loaded her into the car (she was so adorable that morning, she complained about the ‘bad sun’ in the morning blinding her, saying it stopped her having a little sleep on the way to nursery) and left. That was the routine. It didn’t matter that my phone was on the counter, charging silently. My brain was in the routine and in the routine my phone was in my bag. This is why I forgot my phone. Not clumsiness. Not negligence. Nothing more my brain entering routine mode and over-writing the exception.
Autopilot engaged.
I left for work. It’s a swelteringly hot day already. The bad sun had been burning since before my traitorously absent phone woke me. The steering wheel was burning hot to the touch when I sat down. I think I heard Emily shift over behind my driver’s seat to get out of the glare. But I got to work. Submitted the report. Attended the morning meeting. It’s not until I took a quick coffee break and reached for my phone that the illusion shattered. I did a mental restep. I remembered the dying battery. I remembered putting it on to charge. I remembered leaving it there.
My phone was on the counter.
Autopilot disengaged.
Again, therein lies the danger. Until you have that moment, the moment you reach for your phone and shatter the illusion, that part of the brain is still in routine mode. It has no reason to question the facts of the routine; that’s why it’s a routine. Attrition of repetition. It’s not as if anyone could say ‘why didn’t you remember your phone? Didn’t it occur to you? How could you forget? You must be negligent’; this is to miss the point. My brain was telling me the routine was completed as normal, despite the fact that it wasn’t. It wasn’t that I forgot my phone. According to my brain, according to the routine, my phone was in my bag. Why would I think to question it? Why would I check? Why would I suddenly remember, out of nowhere, that my phone was on the counter? My brain was wired into the routine and the routine was that my phone was in my bag.
The day continued to bake. The morning haze gave way to the relentless fever heat of the afternoon. Tarmac bubbled. The direct beams of heat threatened to crack the pavement. People swapped coffees for iced smoothies. Jackets discarded, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, brows mopped. The parks slowly filled with sunbathers and BBQ’s. Window frames threatened to warp. The thermometer continued to swell. Thank fuck the offices were air conditioned.
But, as ever, the furnace of the day gave way to a cooler evening. Another day, another dollar. Still cursing myself for forgetting my phone, I drove home. The days heat had baked the inside of the car, releasing a horrible smell from somewhere. When I arrived on the driveway, the stones crunching comfortingly under my tyres, my wife greeted me at the door.
“Where’s Emily?”
Fuck.
As if the phone wasn’t bad enough. After everything I’d left Emily at the fucking nursery after all. I immediately sped back to the nursery. I got to the door and started practising my excuses, wondering vainly if I could charm my way out of a late fee. I saw a piece of paper stuck to the door.
“Due to vandalism overnight, please use side door. Today only.”
Overnight? What? The door was fine this morni-.
I froze. My knees shook.
Vandals. A change in the routine.
My phone was on the counter.
I hadn’t been here this morning.
My phone was on the counter.
I’d driven past because I was drinking my coffee. I’d not dropped off Emily.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d moved her seat. I hadn’t seen her in the mirror.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d fallen asleep out of the bad sun. She didn’t speak when I drove past her nursery.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d changed the routine.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d changed the routine and I’d forgotten to drop her off.
My phone was on the counter.
9 hours. That car. That baking sun. No air. No water. No power. No help. That heat. A steering wheel too hot to touch.
That smell.
I walked to the car door. Numb. Shock.
I opened the door.
My phone was on the counter and my daughter was dead.
Autopilot disengaged.