[Original]: Ten Little Children.
Rating: R. Hard R. This is... disturbing. To say the least.
Words: 2139
Warnings: Mentions of murder, suicide and paedophilia, implied abortion.
A/N: Written for the Notebook In Hand competition for the prompt Ten. Was meant to be between 200 and 2000 words (not exceeding), but I didn't make the deadline (so didn't submit), and kind of luckily, because I went over the limit.
A/N2: Inspired by The Keeper by Sarah Langan and Franz Kafka's writing, in particular The Metamorphosis. This is without a doubt the most horrid and creepy thing I've ever written.
Summary: The whisper echoes inside her mind. Never let the secrets go. It's the most important thing she'll ever learn.
***
Ten Little Children.
Ten.
Ten little children standing in a line.
One fell down and broke his spine.
You shouldn’t sing those awful rhymes, the Mother says, and closes the door to the bedroom. But there are so many creepy crawly things in the dark that the Mother can’t see, can’t hear, can’t taste.
Like the ten little children…
The Mother doesn’t approve. And if only she could stop singing those awful rhymes, the Mother might come out of the bedroom and bake biscuits; or scones, or brownies and sit with her on the couch with hot chocolate and watch Cinderella, like all the other little girls do with their mothers.
Instead the Mother’s in the bedroom and so there’s only voices and thoughts and the drip drip drip of blood or water, or whatever it is that comes out of the taps these days that the Lady in her dreams shows her. She used to be afraid. Not anymore. She learnt how to hold the things in the dark so that they won’t hurt her. But she can’t stop singing those awful rhymes, she won’t. She needs to sing them. Tonight she’ll spin in a circle and hum under her breath one fell down, one fell down, one fell down… and Tommy Marquez will fall down the stairs. The sirens will scream and the voices will whisper to her, seven year old innocence lost in dreams and magic, and when they call Katie, she’ll whisper back.
And keep their secrets.
Nine.
The Father begins his drive home as the Neighbour prunes his roses.
Katie smells the dry scent of earth and tastes the metallic tang of blood. She counts.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi…
She dances in a circle and hums under her breath. The Mother tells her to stop singing.
Four Mississippi…
The Father packs his briefcase with legal notes and cheques and unfelt guilt and steps into the elevator.
Six Mississippi…
Out of the elevator and in to the Chrysler 300 and perhaps he’ll stop for a takeaway coffee, skim, no sugar, two napkins and a ginger biscuit.
Seven Mississippi…
The Neighbour picks up his gloves and his shears and a bucket. Katie smells the dry scent of earth and tastes the metallic tang of blood.
Eight Mississippi…
The Father begins his drive home as the Neighbour prunes his roses.
Nine…
Eight.
The Neighbour killed his wife on the morning of the eighth of August, nineteen-ninety-seven. He tells himself it’s because she didn’t love him, and was going to leave him. The secret is that she wanted to go out and do things, and the Neighbour couldn’t have that, not when she was supposed to stay at home.
Stupid bitch. She didn’t like roses either.
On the eighth of August, nineteen-ninety-seven, the Butcher who lives in the blue house three down the road jogs up on his mid afternoon exercise regime (a farce for the middle-age spread) and stops where the Neighbour is pruning his roses. The Neighbour thinks of the blank stare of his wife and the red on her neck.
Afternoon’, the Butcher says.
And a fine one it is, the Neighbour replies. The Butcher leans in. Say, how about you and the Mrs come round this evening for dinner?
Can’t. The Mrs has… gone out of town. Visiting her sister ‘bout four hours away.
That’s a long way to go, muses the Butcher.
Yeah, says the Neighbour, And uh, she won’t be coming back.
Damn. There’s a pause. Well, come on over anyway, and we’ll crack open a case. Help you forget.
Later that night, the Neighbour buries his wife in the rose garden.
She never liked roses.
On the eighth of August eight years later, the Neighbour stands in his yard and prunes his flowers. He only thinks of her blank stare and the red on her neck.
Seven.
The Father arrives home after ten-point-two-five hours at the office. He locks the Chrysler up nice and tight in the garage. He brushes biscuit crumbs off the lapel of his blazer as he opens the plain white with green trim front door. He should repaint that actually, it’s looking a bit scungy. He drops his briefcase under the table in the small foyer. He passes his daughter, stops, turns and pats her on the head one two three times and joins the Mother in the bedroom.
The crackle and hum of the television static rings loud in Katie’s ears. She starts singing. The Mother’s and the Father’s voices throb dully through the door, echoes of laughter and how was your day and fine and new client, convicted of paedophilia and serial rape.
Did he do it?
Course he did. Still, I’m not getting paid to send him to jail.
There’s talk of the poor little children but Katie’s name is never heard, and there’s a silence. Silence gives way to stilted mutterings.
They’re talking now about the dead Sister, the one who was never born.
She’d be eleven to Katie’s seven.
But the dead Sister is just another secret in a town gone wrong.
Six.
The Accountant’s Mother was thirty-four years old when she swallowed around the barrel of a gun. Had set the six year old Accountant to bed, called an ambulance and pulled the trigger. She never realised her daughter was in the doorway, looking for comfort from nightmares about empty houses and red walls.
The Accountant pours another cup of coffee- the sixth for the day- and returns to her computer. It’s her thirty-fourth birthday.
Her coffee tastes like old pennies.
Five.
The Lady is in a green summer dress with the top two buttons undone. Her collarbone protrudes sharply from a slightly too thin chest and is painted with bruises- black, blue and yellow. Katie approaches the woman slowly.
There are five things you need to know, she says, and her voice echoes through Katie’s brain. Katie shakes her head.
But I don’t want to know.
The Lady smiles, and her teeth gleam silver in the half light.
But you must. There are secrets that need a host. You are going to be that host.
Katie shakes her head again.
No, she whispers. Please, no.
I wouldn’t want you to, says the Lady, and her dress flutters as she steps toward Katie, But you must, because that’s what they made you to be. You’re just another secret in a town gone wrong my dear, and as much as I would never wish such things on you, there is no escaping this.
Katie steps back.
Who are you? What do you want? Why me? How do you know these things?
The Lady takes another step forward. She bends down and gently places her hands on Katie’s shoulders. She leans forward and whispers, soft breath fluttering Katie’s hair around her ears. Her skin is mottled, pale and black and blue and yellow. Katie shivers. The Lady leans back, looks Katie in the eyes.
Don’t you know who I am yet Katie?
She shakes her head, eyes wide. The Lady tilts her head.
Why, I’m you.
Katie wakes screaming.
Four.
The Mother had plans. The Mother had dreams. The Mother had a to-do list. Then the Mother got pregnant.
The Father was happy. Not quite overjoyed, after all they are young, and there’s so much more to do before children.
Like get married.
But the Father is happy. And he wants to be there. Hell, he’s wanted to marry the Mother since the first time he saw her, sixteen years old and standing in the high school corridor in a tartan skirt and cardigan. He knows the Mother always had ideas about how a life should go, and children at this age were definitely not included, but he never thought…
No. He never thought. And he won’t now.
The Mother got pregnant. And four months later, the Mother lost the baby. A coincidence, surely. An unsupportive womb, or some other medical condition. Yes, the Mother had plans, and dreams and a to-do list, but it’s not like she’d intentionally kill her unborn child.
Would she?
Three.
he Butcher stands at his window at three pm and watches the primary school let out. He watches the girls more than he watches the boys, and the older girls more than the younger. Watching the younger girls makes him queasy.
The fifth and sixth graders are that subtle blend of half grown up, the space in between childhood and proper puberty where it’s starting to show through, but they’re still all soft and young.
He won’t ever touch them, he doesn’t need to, and he doesn’t plan to. He’s content to watch the way they move, light and innocent and carefree. Sometimes he’ll stand on his front lawn, and water the garden as the parents collect their younglings. They all smile at him, ask him how his wife is -she’s fine thank you, taken up crocheting this month- how the business is going- excellent, blue ribbon prize on choice mutton cuts, always slow in the afternoons, gives me time off to potter around here at home- and if he’ll be donating any meat trays to the June raffle -of course!
When their children come running out with pink cheeks and bright eyes, the parents herd them into their minivans with fearful watchful eyes, hawking at the other parents, at dark coloured cars that drive by. Potential threats.
The Butcher watches from his window and the parents wave at him with bright smiles.
Two.
The Accountant’s Mother was thirty-four years old when she swallowed around the barrel of a gun. Had set the six year old Accountant to bed, called an ambulance and pulled the trigger.
It was that easy.
The Accountant has no children of her own. She wakes at 7am, has a single cup of coffee (instant), jogs around the block and is in the shower by 7.45. She’s dressed by eight, then makes breakfast, another cup of coffee (beans, grinder and froth machine involved in one neat little package this time) and watches thirty-two minutes of the morning talk show. At 8.45 in the morning, from Monday to Saturday (Sundays are sleepy days of 10am starts and pyjama parties with herself) she sits down at her computer with her client’s receipts and numbers and makes sure everyone isn’t breaking any tax laws by the end of the financial year.
On this, her thirty-fourth birthday, the second of the month and a Thursday at that, she wakes at 7am, has a single cup of coffee of the machine made kind and doesn’t go for a jog. It’s her thirty-fourth birthday and by the time she hits six cups (all within forty-five minutes), the coffee tastes like old pennies. She spends exactly two hours wandering around the house, then heads back up to the bedroom.
The Accountant was thirty-four years old when she swallowed around the barrel of a gun. It was that easy. Her mother did it, after all.
One.
The Lady takes another step forward. She bends down and gently places her hands on Katie’s shoulders. She leans forward and whispers, soft breath fluttering Katie’s hair around her ears. Her skin is mottled, pale and black and blue and yellow. Katie shivers. The Lady leans back, looks Katie in the eyes.
Katie wakes screaming.
The whisper echoes inside her mind. Never let the secrets go. It’s the most important thing she’ll ever learn. She wakes every night from dreams of green summer dresses and bruised collarbones and whispers in her ear. Never let the secrets go.
She doesn’t know why it falls to her. She doesn’t think she’ll ever know. She’s just another secret in a town gone wrong, black with thoughts and feelings and muted screams in busy heads.
She shouldn’t sing those awful rhymes.
The Accountant shoots herself on her thirty-fourth birthday; like mother like daughter, same sadness and everything. The Butcher goes for his mid afternoon exercise regime and chats with the Neighbour; returns to his front lawn and waters his wife’s petunias, watches the children as their parents watch everywhere else but him.
Never let the secrets go.
The Mother had her plans, the Father has his doubts, the dreams don’t end and Katie wakes screaming. The Father and the Mother converse in the bedroom and there’s talk of the poor little children. Katie is left in the living room.
Never let the secrets go.
The Neighbour prunes his roses. Tommy Marquez steals his father’s lighter and chases neighbourhood cats with motor oil; so Katie sings those awful rhymes one fell down one fell down one fell down one...
The Mother closes the door to the bedroom. The whispers echo in her ear.
Never let the secrets go.
And no one ever notices because she’s just another secret in a town gone wrong.
Words: 2139
Warnings: Mentions of murder, suicide and paedophilia, implied abortion.
A/N: Written for the Notebook In Hand competition for the prompt Ten. Was meant to be between 200 and 2000 words (not exceeding), but I didn't make the deadline (so didn't submit), and kind of luckily, because I went over the limit.
A/N2: Inspired by The Keeper by Sarah Langan and Franz Kafka's writing, in particular The Metamorphosis. This is without a doubt the most horrid and creepy thing I've ever written.
Summary: The whisper echoes inside her mind. Never let the secrets go. It's the most important thing she'll ever learn.
***
Ten Little Children.
Ten.
Ten little children standing in a line.
One fell down and broke his spine.
You shouldn’t sing those awful rhymes, the Mother says, and closes the door to the bedroom. But there are so many creepy crawly things in the dark that the Mother can’t see, can’t hear, can’t taste.
Like the ten little children…
The Mother doesn’t approve. And if only she could stop singing those awful rhymes, the Mother might come out of the bedroom and bake biscuits; or scones, or brownies and sit with her on the couch with hot chocolate and watch Cinderella, like all the other little girls do with their mothers.
Instead the Mother’s in the bedroom and so there’s only voices and thoughts and the drip drip drip of blood or water, or whatever it is that comes out of the taps these days that the Lady in her dreams shows her. She used to be afraid. Not anymore. She learnt how to hold the things in the dark so that they won’t hurt her. But she can’t stop singing those awful rhymes, she won’t. She needs to sing them. Tonight she’ll spin in a circle and hum under her breath one fell down, one fell down, one fell down… and Tommy Marquez will fall down the stairs. The sirens will scream and the voices will whisper to her, seven year old innocence lost in dreams and magic, and when they call Katie, she’ll whisper back.
And keep their secrets.
Nine.
The Father begins his drive home as the Neighbour prunes his roses.
Katie smells the dry scent of earth and tastes the metallic tang of blood. She counts.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi…
She dances in a circle and hums under her breath. The Mother tells her to stop singing.
Four Mississippi…
The Father packs his briefcase with legal notes and cheques and unfelt guilt and steps into the elevator.
Six Mississippi…
Out of the elevator and in to the Chrysler 300 and perhaps he’ll stop for a takeaway coffee, skim, no sugar, two napkins and a ginger biscuit.
Seven Mississippi…
The Neighbour picks up his gloves and his shears and a bucket. Katie smells the dry scent of earth and tastes the metallic tang of blood.
Eight Mississippi…
The Father begins his drive home as the Neighbour prunes his roses.
Nine…
Eight.
The Neighbour killed his wife on the morning of the eighth of August, nineteen-ninety-seven. He tells himself it’s because she didn’t love him, and was going to leave him. The secret is that she wanted to go out and do things, and the Neighbour couldn’t have that, not when she was supposed to stay at home.
Stupid bitch. She didn’t like roses either.
On the eighth of August, nineteen-ninety-seven, the Butcher who lives in the blue house three down the road jogs up on his mid afternoon exercise regime (a farce for the middle-age spread) and stops where the Neighbour is pruning his roses. The Neighbour thinks of the blank stare of his wife and the red on her neck.
Afternoon’, the Butcher says.
And a fine one it is, the Neighbour replies. The Butcher leans in. Say, how about you and the Mrs come round this evening for dinner?
Can’t. The Mrs has… gone out of town. Visiting her sister ‘bout four hours away.
That’s a long way to go, muses the Butcher.
Yeah, says the Neighbour, And uh, she won’t be coming back.
Damn. There’s a pause. Well, come on over anyway, and we’ll crack open a case. Help you forget.
Later that night, the Neighbour buries his wife in the rose garden.
She never liked roses.
On the eighth of August eight years later, the Neighbour stands in his yard and prunes his flowers. He only thinks of her blank stare and the red on her neck.
Seven.
The Father arrives home after ten-point-two-five hours at the office. He locks the Chrysler up nice and tight in the garage. He brushes biscuit crumbs off the lapel of his blazer as he opens the plain white with green trim front door. He should repaint that actually, it’s looking a bit scungy. He drops his briefcase under the table in the small foyer. He passes his daughter, stops, turns and pats her on the head one two three times and joins the Mother in the bedroom.
The crackle and hum of the television static rings loud in Katie’s ears. She starts singing. The Mother’s and the Father’s voices throb dully through the door, echoes of laughter and how was your day and fine and new client, convicted of paedophilia and serial rape.
Did he do it?
Course he did. Still, I’m not getting paid to send him to jail.
There’s talk of the poor little children but Katie’s name is never heard, and there’s a silence. Silence gives way to stilted mutterings.
They’re talking now about the dead Sister, the one who was never born.
She’d be eleven to Katie’s seven.
But the dead Sister is just another secret in a town gone wrong.
Six.
The Accountant’s Mother was thirty-four years old when she swallowed around the barrel of a gun. Had set the six year old Accountant to bed, called an ambulance and pulled the trigger. She never realised her daughter was in the doorway, looking for comfort from nightmares about empty houses and red walls.
The Accountant pours another cup of coffee- the sixth for the day- and returns to her computer. It’s her thirty-fourth birthday.
Her coffee tastes like old pennies.
Five.
The Lady is in a green summer dress with the top two buttons undone. Her collarbone protrudes sharply from a slightly too thin chest and is painted with bruises- black, blue and yellow. Katie approaches the woman slowly.
There are five things you need to know, she says, and her voice echoes through Katie’s brain. Katie shakes her head.
But I don’t want to know.
The Lady smiles, and her teeth gleam silver in the half light.
But you must. There are secrets that need a host. You are going to be that host.
Katie shakes her head again.
No, she whispers. Please, no.
I wouldn’t want you to, says the Lady, and her dress flutters as she steps toward Katie, But you must, because that’s what they made you to be. You’re just another secret in a town gone wrong my dear, and as much as I would never wish such things on you, there is no escaping this.
Katie steps back.
Who are you? What do you want? Why me? How do you know these things?
The Lady takes another step forward. She bends down and gently places her hands on Katie’s shoulders. She leans forward and whispers, soft breath fluttering Katie’s hair around her ears. Her skin is mottled, pale and black and blue and yellow. Katie shivers. The Lady leans back, looks Katie in the eyes.
Don’t you know who I am yet Katie?
She shakes her head, eyes wide. The Lady tilts her head.
Why, I’m you.
Katie wakes screaming.
Four.
The Mother had plans. The Mother had dreams. The Mother had a to-do list. Then the Mother got pregnant.
The Father was happy. Not quite overjoyed, after all they are young, and there’s so much more to do before children.
Like get married.
But the Father is happy. And he wants to be there. Hell, he’s wanted to marry the Mother since the first time he saw her, sixteen years old and standing in the high school corridor in a tartan skirt and cardigan. He knows the Mother always had ideas about how a life should go, and children at this age were definitely not included, but he never thought…
No. He never thought. And he won’t now.
The Mother got pregnant. And four months later, the Mother lost the baby. A coincidence, surely. An unsupportive womb, or some other medical condition. Yes, the Mother had plans, and dreams and a to-do list, but it’s not like she’d intentionally kill her unborn child.
Would she?
Three.
he Butcher stands at his window at three pm and watches the primary school let out. He watches the girls more than he watches the boys, and the older girls more than the younger. Watching the younger girls makes him queasy.
The fifth and sixth graders are that subtle blend of half grown up, the space in between childhood and proper puberty where it’s starting to show through, but they’re still all soft and young.
He won’t ever touch them, he doesn’t need to, and he doesn’t plan to. He’s content to watch the way they move, light and innocent and carefree. Sometimes he’ll stand on his front lawn, and water the garden as the parents collect their younglings. They all smile at him, ask him how his wife is -she’s fine thank you, taken up crocheting this month- how the business is going- excellent, blue ribbon prize on choice mutton cuts, always slow in the afternoons, gives me time off to potter around here at home- and if he’ll be donating any meat trays to the June raffle -of course!
When their children come running out with pink cheeks and bright eyes, the parents herd them into their minivans with fearful watchful eyes, hawking at the other parents, at dark coloured cars that drive by. Potential threats.
The Butcher watches from his window and the parents wave at him with bright smiles.
Two.
The Accountant’s Mother was thirty-four years old when she swallowed around the barrel of a gun. Had set the six year old Accountant to bed, called an ambulance and pulled the trigger.
It was that easy.
The Accountant has no children of her own. She wakes at 7am, has a single cup of coffee (instant), jogs around the block and is in the shower by 7.45. She’s dressed by eight, then makes breakfast, another cup of coffee (beans, grinder and froth machine involved in one neat little package this time) and watches thirty-two minutes of the morning talk show. At 8.45 in the morning, from Monday to Saturday (Sundays are sleepy days of 10am starts and pyjama parties with herself) she sits down at her computer with her client’s receipts and numbers and makes sure everyone isn’t breaking any tax laws by the end of the financial year.
On this, her thirty-fourth birthday, the second of the month and a Thursday at that, she wakes at 7am, has a single cup of coffee of the machine made kind and doesn’t go for a jog. It’s her thirty-fourth birthday and by the time she hits six cups (all within forty-five minutes), the coffee tastes like old pennies. She spends exactly two hours wandering around the house, then heads back up to the bedroom.
The Accountant was thirty-four years old when she swallowed around the barrel of a gun. It was that easy. Her mother did it, after all.
One.
The Lady takes another step forward. She bends down and gently places her hands on Katie’s shoulders. She leans forward and whispers, soft breath fluttering Katie’s hair around her ears. Her skin is mottled, pale and black and blue and yellow. Katie shivers. The Lady leans back, looks Katie in the eyes.
Katie wakes screaming.
The whisper echoes inside her mind. Never let the secrets go. It’s the most important thing she’ll ever learn. She wakes every night from dreams of green summer dresses and bruised collarbones and whispers in her ear. Never let the secrets go.
She doesn’t know why it falls to her. She doesn’t think she’ll ever know. She’s just another secret in a town gone wrong, black with thoughts and feelings and muted screams in busy heads.
She shouldn’t sing those awful rhymes.
The Accountant shoots herself on her thirty-fourth birthday; like mother like daughter, same sadness and everything. The Butcher goes for his mid afternoon exercise regime and chats with the Neighbour; returns to his front lawn and waters his wife’s petunias, watches the children as their parents watch everywhere else but him.
Never let the secrets go.
The Mother had her plans, the Father has his doubts, the dreams don’t end and Katie wakes screaming. The Father and the Mother converse in the bedroom and there’s talk of the poor little children. Katie is left in the living room.
Never let the secrets go.
The Neighbour prunes his roses. Tommy Marquez steals his father’s lighter and chases neighbourhood cats with motor oil; so Katie sings those awful rhymes one fell down one fell down one fell down one...
The Mother closes the door to the bedroom. The whispers echo in her ear.
Never let the secrets go.
And no one ever notices because she’s just another secret in a town gone wrong.