LIUSA

I pull over in front of a small neat cottage brightly tinted by the rosy rays of the dying sun. The edges of the pristine concrete driveway are tickled by the fuzzy shadows of the front lawn’s evenly trimmed grass blades. A light late summer breeze pushes a single cotton candy cloud across a darkening cherry soda sky. I roll down the window for a sip of suburban freshness before driving my silver Toyota Highlander into the garage. My garage, I remind myself. My driveway, my front lawn, my cottage. Upstairs, I can feel, rather than hear, the lively commotion of a family. My family. Surprised and slightly embarrassed at the joy flooding me at such prosaic banalities, I breathe in the familiar dusty stuffiness of the cramped garage with pure gratitude. I manage to squeeze my considerable bulk between my SUV and Sarah’s compact Peugeot- though by no means overweight, at six feet three by two hundred and fifty pounds, I can hardly be considered slight of build- to emerge on the other side, by the door to my favorite corner of the universe. I’ve barely made a single step from concrete to parquet, when I’m brutally hit with the full weight of a four-foot tall pigtailed wrecking ball. Before I know it my arms are full of laughing child in Batman pajamas. “Mommy made carousel,” the little wildling announces, still giggling. She smells of bubblegum soap and the tips of her pigtails are still wet. Looks like she’s going to bed early today. I have a strong feeling I might find Sarah’s plans for the rest of the evening rather enjoyable. I park my big awkward loafers in the neat little mudroom, and we climb the only stairway to heaven I’ve ever known. Or needed, for that matter. Sarah finishes telling off her secretary on the phone and snuggles into my Sheilagh-free arm. She doesn’t use perfume, but the faint blossomy scents of her shampoo and body mist give me some ideas of my own for tonight’s agenda. These smells can only compare with the intoxicating aroma of melting cheese and creamy bliss rising from the oven. To complete the picture, an open bottle of red wine patiently waits on the counter. When Sarah raises her smiling face to kiss me, I could swear the previous night’s dream was but a figment of my imagination, as were all the ones that preceded it. In such company, how could one ever wake up in cold sweat in the lonely hours just before dawn? “Is the carousel ready?” my little monkey pulls me out of the momentary gloom. “It will be by the time you and daddy are done setting the table.” Sarah kisses her on the tip of the nose and walks over to pour herself a glass of wine. We both know the casserole was half ready when she picked it at the store on her way home, but neither of us cares. I’ve had a freshly cooked dinner every single day of my childhood, and my mom was none the happier for it. Sarah would certainly look stunning in a cute puffy-skirted ‘50s dress, but she’s just as stunning in her tailored suits and the snuggly sweatpants she punctually jumps into the moment she gets home. As we lay out the plates and cutlery on the checkered black and white placemats Sarah bought to complement the monochrome kitchen tiles, Sheilagh tells me all about Lucy’s new puppy (“He’s a cracker spaniel and he’s got long black ears, but the rest of him is white, but he’s got a black spot on his butt, and he poops a lot and it’s yucky but I like him all the same…”) and how Jimmy is stupid because he said she’s got cooties, but mommy said she doesn’t. I still find it hard to believe my little monkey is actually capable of verbal communication. She’s never bothered with cooing and mumbling, either. Hasn’t said a word until she was two, and then just started speaking in whole sentences. There was no stopping her since. The oven bell rings while I fill the water pitcher. Sheilagh tosses the sacramental ice cube she always asks for when someone runs the icemaker into the sink (“This one was too cold. It hurt my tongue, daddy,”) and five minutes later, we’re all seated and ready to dig in. Although we both work full-time jobs, family dinners are a sacred daily ritual neither of us is willing to forfeit. Neither my nine to five at the automobile dealing agency, nor the accounting agency Sarah has been managing ever since her parents’ retirement, are worth missing this magical ceremony of pure coziness and warmth in a brightly lit living room, as dusk gathers outside. Whether it comes in commercial packages or delivery boxes, a family dinner is a family dinner. Besides, Sarah always makes sure to add some freshly blenched vegetables and crisp leafy greens to boost the health factor. The atmosphere takes care of the rest. Sheilagh uses her little fingers to stuff her cheeks with tiny pieces of pasta and ham I carefully separated from the casserole to properly chill. We keep trying to convince her that the fork is a friend, but neither Sarah nor myself mind her dining etiquette so long as she eats and keeps the territory around her relatively clean. “Carousel is yummy,” she declares. I couldn’t agree more. A tiny movement at the edge of my vision suddenly catches my attention, making me involuntarily shovel a fork-full of steaming pasta into my mouth. Breathless and teary eyed, I gulp down ice-cold water to relieve my agony. Once the scorching pain eases its grip on my tongue, I look up to see the white livingroom curtain gently fluttering in the light evening breeze. Nothing about it to justify my sudden unease. Yet, I can’t seem to shake off the remnants of the very same throat-tightening panic that startled me awake early this morning, when the world was still submerged deep in darkness. The same panic that has been punching me awake for weeks now. Every single night, it hit me like a cast iron fist blow to the stomach. I reach for my wine glass slightly faster than I ought to, earning myself a quizzical gaze from Sarah. Too busy cutting Sheilagh’s broccoli into tiny florets, she hasn’t noticed my unfortunate mouth-incineration incident. However, now I have her full attention. “Long day,” I shake my head dismissively. Somewhere in the distance, the wind carries the muffled creak of rusty metal, chilling the room by an entire degree. She’s willing to take my rictus for a smile, and this alone does wonders where the wine fails. Nonetheless, I pour another glass just in case. For dessert, we have apple pie from the nearby bakery. The smacking sounds Sheilagh makes devouring the sticky goodness restore the warmth stolen by ghoulish creaking and pre-dawn nightmare memories. She still smells of cinnamon when we tuck her in, in spite of all our efforts at the bathroom sink. Just as Sarah and I turn to leave the girl’s room, a sleepy voice calls to us from beneath the blanket. “I want to play with my music box.” This could well be expected. The box has become her favorite toy the very moment she lay eyes on it and ever since the girl demanded its presence at bedtime with religious regularity. In fact, I was surprised she hasn’t asked for it earlier. The poor thing was probably distracted by sugar rush. Personally, I find the subject of her obsession mildly unsettling, if not outright creepy. The tune it plays is a hauntingly slowed down version of “Ring Around the Rosie,” bloodchilling enough even if one ignores the gory plague references it entails. The little dancer inside doesn’t help much, either. With her long, jetty traces and her baggy white dress, she makes one think of Samara on a better hair day. Her reflection in the mirror-lined interior is even eerier. I share none of these thoughts with Sarah. She hates horror movies and, pragmatically rational as she may generally be, the very mention of Samara’s name would have made her toss the box away. This, no doubt, would break Sheilagh’s little heart. We bought the thing last month at a garage sale, from an old lady with a bad case of verbal incontinence. “My husband, God rest his soul, he got it in that stinky antiques shop upstate. He’d always haul this sort of rubbish from every darned corner of the country. Call me callous, but boy am I glad to finally get rid of all this clatter… It’s not that I don’t miss the old jerk, you know, but when you’ve lived with a man for half a century, you get…” But Sheilagh has already grabbed the music box and run off to rummage through a crate of stuffed animals across the lawn. I give the lady a five dollar bill to buy her silence and proceed to chase my wayward child. We got home that afternoon the happy owners of the peeling wooden box, as well as a couple of plush bunnies with six limbs and three eyes between them. The whole bunch cost me ten bucks and the will to ever see another garage sale in my life. Now, watching little Samara dance in the soft illumination of the star-shaped night light, I wish I’ve never had such inclination in the first place. My baby girl nods her head in rhythm with the ghastly funeral march. I try to focus on her smile rather than look at the dancing figure and its somewhat distorted reflection. However, the damned thing has the allure of a bloody car crash. I give in to the unbearable voyeuristic urge, and regret it immediately. Not only does the dancing figure’s face look skull-like and disfigured in the elongated shadows cast by the weak orange light, but the reflection is wrong altogether. Where there should have been one dancing skeleton in a dirty white shroud, now there are two. And all three little ghouls are looking directly at me, even as they turn around and around with the wailing lament of the box. I shake my head, pressing my sweaty palms to my eyes. When I look again, all I see is two dancing girls in long white dresses, one on each side of the mirror. “OK, sweetie, we played enough.” I hope to God my voice doesn’t shake. “It’s time to say goodnight now.” She’s not thrilled with the idea, but is too tired to argue. “Good night,” she concedes with a sigh grotesquely unfit for a toddler. “Good night, darling.” I kiss the cartoonish pink spots at the centers of her chubby cheeks. Sarah comes by for her share as I tuck the edges of the blanket under the mattress. Sarah’s lips gently touch each of the girl’s closed eyelids. We stay to look at her for just another minute, watching the regular movement of the bright blue blanket on the little rise formed by the child’s full belly. We’re both sure she’s fast asleep, when suddenly she opens her eyes as wide as if she’s never gone to bed in the first place. “Mommy,” she whispers as she hears us do so often when we think she’s asleep. She must think it’s some sort of a funny rule, to speak in whispers after bedtime. “What is it, kitten,” Sarah plays along, whispering back as she strokes the kid’s smooth forehead. “I want a baby brother. Tommy just had one, and he’s so… tiny. Could I, please? Have a baby brother?” Sarah turns back to me with a little bewildered smile. She’s been wanting a second child for quite awhile now. I kept telling her we mustn’t hurry. That we should wait until Sheilagh is a little older, until things get steadier at work, until… Until you’re ready, whispers a little voice in my head. Until you finally find the courage to have one more huge thing you could lose. Another person you couldn’t live without. And a whole new world of love and joy, like the two presently in the room with me. Dare I? “Yes!” I almost yell. “Yes please, why not have another baby!” “I’m not a baby.” Sheilagh wrinkles her little nose, but I can see just how happy she is. Sarah’s eyes are sparkling so bright I’m almost blinded by their glow. Even more so due to the moisture rising in them. That night we finish the leftover wine and, doing all we can to keep the noise down, we do our best to fulfill our promise to Sheilagh. By the time we’re done, I’m the happiest man on earth, as well as the most exhausted one. I want to tell Sarah how lucky I am to have her, but I’m asleep before I manage to open my mouth. My last thought before the world fades out is, tonight I couldn’t possibly dream. I’m cold. I’ve never been so cold in my life. I’m shaking all over and little jolts of pain start shooting through my numb limbs. The earth beneath my naked body is hard and clammy, studded with jagged rocks that cut through my skin and through the numbness. The air around me is thick with haze, and my lungs refuse to take it in. Breathe! I command. It hurts like hell, but I obey. It takes a tremendous effort to push myself up on my hands and knees. I start crawling forward, blindly, leaving a trail of scraped skin on the barren black ground. The icy fog prickles my bare skin like thousands of tiny needles. By the time I can fully feel my knees again, I achingly miss the numbness. Every inch of my body seems to be on fire, a ruthless gelid blaze of pure agony. I dare not stop for fear of freezing to death. Panting and coughing, I push on through mist and pain alike. The darkness presses tightly around me, like so much viscous ooze. I try to stand up, only to find every single muscle in my legs turn to jelly. The landing makes all the pain I’ve experienced so far dim in comparison. Yet, some unseen force keeps pushing me onward. In my mind’s eye, I can see the bare bones of my knees graze the rocky terrain. White bone grinding on black stony bone, reducing the remnants of flesh in between to bloody pulp. Without warning, my head hits something hard, sparking a white hot display of agonizing fireworks on the inside of my eyelids. When I come to, the darkness is slightly diluted by a momentary glimpse of pale moonlight from between gauzy white clouds. I lift my aching head to find myself staring at an elegant flight of marble front steps. They protrude from the inky earth like a mammoth headstone, to be lost in murky nothingness. Somewhere in the distance I can hear the squeak of rusty chains. The wind whispers in phantom tree branches. The smell of rotting earth is overpowering. I slide my raw palms over the cold marble for some sort of reassurance. The steps are as solid as the surrounding mist is ethereal, but no reassurance ensues. All of a sudden I am no longer cold. The fog engulfs me like a suffocating blanket. The wind provides no relief to my sweaty face. The scent of decay is gone. The air grows hotter by the minute. In a matter of moments my lungs are filled with smoke. My face is burning. Spectral flames dance in the empty air above the steps. The blazing roar is so loud it could split my skull in half. The shadow of an old mansion is weavering behind the flames and the smoke. And deep inside my head, I can hear a child laughing. Someone is calling my name through the smoke. The baby, a hoarse, urgent whisper breathes in my ear. You must save the baby. Yessss... musssst, the fire crackles in reply. You must. Must... Might... “Mike! Mike…?! Come on, Mike! Wake up!” Wake up! The house… on fire… the baby… “What baby?! Mike! Please, wake...” Up...stairs. Must get to the nursery… baby is upstairs… baby is… Hurt… hurts… It burns… hurts… My face hurts. I’m breathing hard, head throbbing, blood pumping through my ears. I’m cold and hot at the same time and the world is drenched in darkness and sweat. “... just a dream. There, sweetie. I’m sorry…” A soft, cool hand caresses my burning forehead. Burning… the baby...?! I try to cough the smoke out of my lungs, but there is none. I let my head sink into the soaked pillow, Sarah’s hand a gentle paradise of silky lilac blossoms. “I’m sorry I slapped you,” she whispers. It’s the exact same voice my mom would use to sooth me out of nightmares aeons ago. Back when my feet would barely reach the middle of the bed, when shadows were demons, adults were demigods and giants walked the earth. Now it’s just us, clinging to each other like a couple of terrified kids. I hug Sarah so hard I’m afraid I might crush her, but she holds me just as tight, neither of us daring to let go. “You scared me,” she murmurs, her lips pressed to my ear. If only she knew how much I scared myself. Moments later, she falls back to sleep, snoring lightly. Having abandoned all hope to do the same, I carefully slide my shoulder from beneath her frail figure and tiptoe out of the bedroom, slowly closing the door behind me. Downstairs, I take a couple of aspirins for my head and pour myself three fingers from the bourbon bottle at the back of our rarely used liquor cabinet. I spend the rest of the night at the kitchen table, struggling to rid myself of the haunting image of a little dark haired girl swinging joyfully as flames devour an old manor in the background. The raging inferno provides a hissing backbeat to the swing chains’ grisly squeals. Not until I get dressed the next morning do I notice the scrapes and bruises on my knees. I struggle to reach my sales quota that day and take little joy in Sheilagh’s prattle when I finally get home. The following night is no better, and over the next month things only keep going farther downhill. Sarah keeps trying to get me to see a therapist, to no avail. I’m falling behind on work due to sleep deficiency, and with my schedule tightening like a noose around my neck I merely cannot afford to lose any time on sessions. I manage to keep myself awake for two nights in a row. On the third night, however, my exhaustion takes its toll and my dreams are ever more vivid. Drinking doesn’t help much, either. It somewhat dulls the anxiety after the fact, but the dreams keep coming. I’ve stashed the goddamned music box in the attic. The imp inside reminds me too much of the swinging girl in my dreams. God knows I’m edgy enough without the little bitch haunting my waking hours. Hiding the box can’t make her go away, but this way her presence is slightly less overpowering. Sheilagh threw a hell of a tantrum on the first night she had to go to bed without her toy, but a new talking doll managed to settle the issue. The woman at the store looked at me like I was the world’s most twisted creep when I loudly insisted the doll be blond. I nearly lost it when she offered me a brunette. To compensate for my ever growing anxiety, I’ve made it a habit not to leave my bedroom without gluing on a wide freak-show worthy grin on my sallow face. I self medicate to the point where it was almost genuine. Sometimes I manage to pop enough xanax to get a couple of hours’ worth of dreamless stupor. I’ve stopped telling Sarah about the dreams, and she stopped looking up psychologists, psychiatrists and sleep specialists, whom I refused to visit in the first place. I actually tried seeing a sleep specialist at the very beginning, after the third or the fourth time I’ve visited the manor house apparition in my dreams. He only gave me a bunch of pills that did no good and assured me that, judging by my MRIs, there’s nothing wrong with me. The shrinks are a different thing altogether. My irrational fear of them is a mental condition in and of itself. Around the time I was twelve, my father had literally worked himself to the brink of insanity. Between the early ‘90s recession and my grandfather’s medical bills, he had to work fourteen hours a day just to keep us all fed and clothed. Eventually, things got slightly better. My grandfather’s hospice bill was fully paid four months after his death. Around the same time, my dad finally got his promotion. But the damage was done. The man I once used to look up to was an emotional wreck. He couldn’t sleep, severed all ties with most of his friends, and only opened his mouth to take in another drink. One of the few friends that still tried to keep in touch with us was a psychiatrist. He somehow managed to convince my old man to see a colleague of his, a decent fellow who was willing to meet my dad for half the price he’d normally take for a consultation. A week later, my dad hanged himself in his workshed. Though perfectly capable by then to tell the difference between correlation and causation, the very thought of going to see a psychotherapist terrifies me to this very day. Sheilagh must have overheard some of our whispered conversations on the topic. She started having curious mood swings uncharacteristic of her usual high spirits and mild nature. Her crayon drawings seemed a bit off, too, as much as one can tell from a three year old’s random doodles. It seemed to me that the amount of orange and red in these increased over time. Sarah kept telling me I’m reading too much into a little girl’s color preferences. She was probably right, but I couldn’t ignore the recurrent dark smudge shaped like a small humanoid creature on a swing. Sometimes she’d add some letters underneath. They seemed like random choices from a pre-schooler’s limited repertoire. But they were always the same five letters. When asked about the letters, she would insist that’s how she spells her name. She developed a tendency to talk to herself in jumbled whispers. Occasionally her tone would get rather urgent, at times even angry. Once, when she thought no one was listening, I’ve managed to discern the words “don’t hurt your baby brother.” Over and over again, she repeated the cryptic mantra, an alarming note of cold cynicism gradually creeping into her voice. The final repetition was soaked with so much disdain, I could barely recognize my daughter’s voice. I’ve started working over-time, making up for my inability to concentrate with longer hours. But no matter how long I stayed at the agency, I haven’t sold a single car in over two weeks. Turns out no one wants to buy a car from a creepy smiling dude with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. One evening, my boss has had enough. He tries to put it mildly, but there is no nice way to give someone the boot. I’m too tired to let him finish talking. I simply take my jacket and walk out of his office, leaving him with a good story to tell at the next company outing. I have some vicodins left in my pocket, a courtesy of a morally flexible friend in the medical field, and half a bottle vodka in the glove compartment. The bottle has become a frequent companion in the last couple of days. I wash down the pills with vodka and start driving with no particular destination in mind. The streets are growing darker and the houses farther apart. I, on my part, am growing drowsier. The constant sound of grinding swing chains I’m accustomed to by now gradually gains the quality of a familiar lullaby. There are no more street lights around, no other cars to blind me with their harsh headlights. Everything is quiet and peaceful. The whole world is one big soft cloud and I’m gliding through it in euphoric tranquility. By the time I hear the little girl laugh, everything else is gone. Suddenly, the cloud is torn asunder with a thundering roar. There’s a flash of orange light and crimson pain. And then consciousness goes on a commercial break. It returns with a trickle of greyish light. My first realization is that the car is a total loss. The second is I’m probably not. Everything hurts like a bitch, but I manage to carefully move my neck. Then my hands. I open what’s left of the door and push myself out, only to land on stone-hard ground like a boneless skin sack. Needless to say it does little to alleviate the pain. When I finally see what hit my car, I give up on the idea of remaining conscious. A solid set of marble steps, bone-white in the gloomy early light. A black, empty field stretches around it to all eternity. The nurse is done taking my vitals for the third time since I woke up. They keep telling me how lucky I am to walk out with one broken rib and a couple of bruises. But I don’t feel particularly lucky up to the moment when Sarah and Sheilagh walk in. They’re both pale, and Sarah’s eyes are puffy and red. I hug them both with all the might I have left in me. I’m vaguely aware of the wooden box Sheilagh is clutching in both hands the whole time. I’m too tired to ask how she found it. Or to care. “It’s all right. I know how to fix it,” I whisper, kissing Sarah’s wet cheeks, holding on to her hand as one holds on to life itself. I will make it right. I’ll find out all about the cursed little ghost. I’ll make her go away. I’m not crazy. It’s all I needed to know. Now I know. The stairs are real, and all the rest can be fixed. Sheilagh’s hug seems a little reluctant. The girl is obviously scared, and I can hardly blame her. But all this will be over soon. Because I finally found the source, and now I can fix everything. She escapes my shaking arms and goes to sit down on the floor in the far corner, still holding the box tight. I think I can hear her murmuring softly to herself. “I promise I’ll make it all right,” I mouth towards her. “Michael,” Sarah looks into my eyes, unblinkingly. As if we’re both afraid the other would disappear the moment we lose eye contact. “I’m pregnant.” The first spark of joy in weeks lights up my whole world. I kiss her again, laughing and crying, unable to utter a single word. Not that I need to. She knows all there is to know already. I fall asleep smiling, and have the best rest I’ve had in my life. I get out of bed in spite of the doctors’ warnings, and get dressed relatively fast, considering the pain. The corridor is miraculously empty and I manage to slip out without much ado. Sarah took Sheilagh home to rest and I have the next couple of hours entirely to myself. I’ve already found the nearest library with the help of Google Maps. I learned from the chatty nurses that the house once attached to the marble steps belonged to the Richmonds. It burned down in 1847, which narrows down the historic period I need to focus on. The old librarian assures me there are no remaining records regarding the Richmonds’ old mansion, or an explanation to be found as to why the front steps remained intact all these years after the house burned down to the ground. “Oh, but wait!” She almost forgets her rheumatism, suddenly bouncing out of her deteriorating leather chair with infantile glee. “I may just have something for you… let me see…” She rummages through a stack of ancient brown folders on a faraway shelf. “Ha! Now this may not be proper historical documentation, but the Richmond kids’ governess, Ms. Schiller, she survived the fire. And her diary was kept here ever since the poor thing died. They said she wasn’t quite there near the end, so they took no particular pains preserving a mad woman’s diary. The mold got to it, and some insects had a little nibble while it lay in the basement. I restored it the best I could. Some pages missing… some not quite legible. But it’s better than nothing, right?” She hands me a thick folder, and I’m surprised to discover dozens of laminated pages inside. Though yellowed with time and partly obscured by dark stains, some of the pages are still quite legible. I thank the old lady for her help and retire to the dusty reading room. The first page is mostly a big black stain, so I start near the bottom, where the words are quite visible, if not always clear. […] can hardly believe my good fortune, having acquired so early in my life a position as comfortable as it is lucrative. The master of the house treats me well, as does the lady, and I, in turn, repay them with the best service I can provide […] The little lady is a perfect angel, in her pink muslin dresses and lace-trimmed pantalones. Her manners are impeccable, and her smile as sweet as fresh strawberries. I have never seen a child so mellow and compliant. And a quick learner, to boot. The baby, of course, is the paragon of delight. Such rosy cheeks, and eyes shining like little stars. Emilia refused to sleep alone tonight, reads a later entry. I had to succumb to her unwonted caprice and spend the night on the little couch in the nursery. The girl has not been herself lately. She’s growing increasingly restive and inattentive during her lessons. Sometimes she grows so quiet and pale I worry the poor thing may be unwell. Even the music box her papa had ordered especially for the girl fails to make her happy. Mr. Richmond is rather concerned, for the child is the apple of his eye and he couldn’t possibly bear the thought of […] […] took a walk in the garden before dinner, Emilia skipping her rope in front of the baby’s carriage. The girl suddenly stopped, and looked back at her brother with such hatred, I nearly swooned on the spot with fright. The following pages are too smeared to read, but I can still make out a few paragraphs. The most uncanny thing happened this morning. Lady Emilia stood by the small creek running through the North side of the garden. In the murky grey water beneath, where her reflection should have been, there stood two little girls. Two glowering goblins in matching white dresses. [...] once more. both sparrows’ little heads were missing. When confronted on the matter, she insisted Louisa did it. She still refuses to explain the meaning of all this. We keep finding dead birds around the house. This afternoon I found an eviscerated lizard under the girl’s bed. “Louisa did it,” the imp repeats. [...] scissors raised high over the sleeping baby’s head. I caught her at the very last moment. I still shiver at the thought of what might have happened haven’t I entered the nursery at that moment. [...] The Master happened to tell me the most curious thing as we were taking a stroll with the baby this afternoon. “You know, Emma,” he suddenly said. “Mrs. Richmond gave birth to two little girls. Poor little Emilia must never know, of course, but she… she had a sister. The weaker of the two, sweet Louisa hasn’t made it through her first month.” The final page contains a single sentence. She will kill us all. It reads. I suddenly can’t bear being away from my family for another moment. An unexplained urgency grasps me, sending me running to the street. I catch a cab, stuttering when I give the driver my home address. I nearly rip the front door off its hinges as I tear it open. Sheilagh’s muttering voice upstairs is music to my ears. “Sheilagh, honey!” I call, answered immediately by the sound of little feet stampeding down the stairs. “Daddy!” She screams happily. Her little face is smeared with something dark, and when I hug her I sense a strong coppery smell. I hold her back at arm’s length to get a better look. The front of her shirt is soaked with something the color of spoiled apples. “Sheilagh...? Where’s mommy?” “Upstairs.” Her smile widens. “I got to her awhile ago.” The blood freezes in my veins. I ignore the pain at my side as I run upstairs, my feet barely touching the ground. Sheilagh stays behind, giggling happily to herself. The door to our bedroom is wide open. “Sarah…?!” I yell, running inside. She lies at the centre of a huge scarlet puddle. I try to feel a pulse with shaking hands, but as her head tilts back I realize the throat has been slit so deeply it is only held together by a thin film of skin. My throat is too tight for me to cry. I turn to the sound of tiny footsteps behind me. “What… what have you done... ?” I manage to utter, choking on the words. She’s smiling silently, but the grin doesn’t reach her eyes. They remain stone-cold. Dead. “Louisa…?” “You’re not as dumb as you look, after all,” the monster replies from between by baby girl’s pink little lips. “Good to meet you too, daddy.” She steps forward with inhuman speed. Before I know it, the kitchen knife goes through my belly in an expert’s sideways swipe. I fall to my knees, grasping at my spilling guts. The second knife blow hits me square in my Adam’s apple. No! Yells a voice in my head as my life is slipping away. I can’t let her win! Can’t let it end like this! All of a sudden my perspective of the room changes. I see it from above. The bloodied little girl standing triumphant over two dead bodies. Instinctively, before I fully realize what’s going on, I dive at the child. There is no impact. Instead, I find myself in a dark narrow room. I look around to see two little girls. One of them, taller and dark haired, holding fast to the smaller one. My little Sheilagh, scared, crying, all alone in the world. At the far end of the room, I glimpse a pool of white light. I don’t think. If I stopped to think, I’d give Louisa time to do the same. No such luck, cunt. I charge with all my might, catching both girls on my way toward the light. Louisa’s smile disappears, as downing realization replaces it with a mask of pure horror. I look at Sheilagh one last time as I jump. Daddy loves you, I whisper. I think she heard me, as there is no fear on her little face as the three of us tumble into white nothingness.