When I creaked open the door, the twins were hung against the wall, blood dripping off of their dead, mangled bodies onto the carpet.

I screamed at the top of my lungs. How could this have happened? I racked my brain for some clarity. Last night, I locked the doors and laid down on the couch. I remember seeing a flash outside the window, but I just thought it was an animal. Besides, the doors were locked. There was no sign of a break in, and the alarm system hadn’t gone off.

Somewhere in my state of panic, I dialed 911. I looked up and saw my horrified face in the mirror. WAIT. A mirror? Not a window? THAT’S WHAT I LOOKED THROUGH LAST NIGHT. Does that mean…Is someone inside the…

That’s when I saw him. His face, next to mine in the mirror. The phone line went dead.

Six words:

Buried body. Midnight, I heard scratching.

Twenty-five words:

“Orphan”

I overslept and missed the ship. My parents were aboard. It never returned. A ghost ship, a cruel harbinger, carried them to eternal abyss.

One hundred fifty words:

“The Bizarre Painting”

She checked in at the front desk and entered the room. A massive, bizarre painting caught
her eye. It depicted a pale, strangely distorted face, its unnaturally large, dark eyeballs fixed in an unsettling gaze that seemed to follow her every move. Behind the face, a towering tree stood against the dark backdrop, its thick branches and leaves seamlessly blending into the obscurity. Feeling exhausted from the late hour, she gave the peculiar painting little more than a glance and drifted asleep.

Hours later, she woke up to the morning sunlight seeping through the window and flooding the room. To her bewilderment, the painting had vanished. How did I not notice there was a window in the room yesterday? As she gazed outside the window at a towering tree against the blue sky and wondered, a chill ran down her spine. The window had always been there.

Six words:

White padded room. Mind abandoned me.

Twenty-five words:

“Children”

Hanging from the ceiling, intricately woven into mesmerizing art, like a mobile above a newborn’s crib. I watched their tiny, pale, limbs dangle delicately.

One hundred fifty words:

“White Water”

Drifting into the woods on a cold autumn night, they stumbled drunkenly across the creaky boards of the dilapidated bridge. The lights of the house disappeared behind the evergreens. Only the moonlight lit their way as they ventured further across the bridge, above the violent, white water. They sat atop the middle beam gazing out into the abyss, her head resting on his shoulder, river screaming by. Each breath combined into a cloud of steam rising in the cold air. 

Only nature spoke as insects buzzed in the distance and the water rushed quickly by below, the jagged rocks sticking out like swords. She searched his eyes, but his outward gaze persisted. Suddenly, he turned to her, eyes dead, body rigid. He stood, staring intently at the surging water. She grabbed at him frantically, but the coursing river drowned out her screams as the swords pierced his frame.

Four hundred ninety-nine words:

“Maggie”

After I finished up the dishes, I cut two pieces of leftover ice cream cake from Joey’s birthday. We sat in the living room, Joey on his beanbag, me on the couch. As I searched for a Paw Patrol episode that Joey hadn’t seen, my bowl slipped from my left hand and the ice cream spilled onto my lap. I queued an episode, then reluctantly got up to change. 

As I walked to the laundry room, I heard a knock on the front door. I tossed my now-sticky hoody onto the floor near the washing machine on my way to answer. Through the window, I saw a girl, no older than ten, wearing a backpack. Her face was red from tears. 

I opened the door. “Hi honey, are you okay?” I asked. Where are your parents?” 

She wiped away her tears. “I dunno. I got lost and I’m not supposed to talk to strangers but I can’t find my mom and it’s dark,” she said, sobbing. 

“That’s ok, honey, come inside. What’s your name? Do you know your mom’s phone number?” I tried to console her.

“Maggie,” she replied, still rubbing her face, “I think I know it.”

“That’s great Maggie, I’ll grab my phone and we’ll call Mom, okay?” I thought I knew everybody in town, but I hadn’t seen this girl before.

“Okay,” she replied, tears finally slowing down. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Of course, it’s right over there,” I pointed her to the bathroom across the hallway. As she closed the door, I quickly glanced at Joey. He was entranced by the TV. I looked at my ice cream-covered pants. Then I quickly ran upstairs and threw on some sweatpants. When I got back downstairs, the bathroom door was open, light turned off. I walked into the living room, assuming she had been drawn to the insufferable sound of talking puppies. My heart dropped as I entered.

Joey was laid back, unconscious. “JOEY” I screamed. “MAGGIE?” The girl was gone, like she had never been there in the first place. I ran over to check on him, but I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I fumbled with my phone as I dialed 9-1-1 and explained that my son wouldn’t wake up. I grasped his head and felt something leak from his ear. I scanned the room for the lost girl, but her sudden visit felt like a dream; I couldn’t remember the details.

Police burst through the door, followed by EMTs. They pulled me from Joey, quickly surrounding him. The two officers grabbed me and asked what happened.

“I’m not sure,” I said flustered and in shock, “We were watching TV, and then there was a little girl, she had a backpack, she couldn’t stop crying, I tried to help, and then I saw Joey and she…” The police officers glanced at each other. Their demeanor changed from sympathetic to serious. “The girl with the backpack,” they said, “was her name Maggie?”

It began with the eyes. Not the anxiety from the ever present gazes of bystanders, but eyes that appeared where they weren’t meant to be. Eyes that appeared on the walls of my apartment, eyes that bloomed on the plants for which I used to care, eyes that made their way onto my own limbs. I could never see out of them, so they must not have been mine. Somehow, that prospect worries me more than anything.

Next came the voices. They started out harmless, merely whispering to me where I had left my keys or what the temperature was as soon as the thoughts passed through my brain. But the initial synchronization was painfully short-lived. They grew to be more violent, hissing to me evil threats and desires, things I cannot bring myself to repeat. The voices are so loud. I sob and beg them to stop, desperately clawing at my head, but to no avail. I am never given relief.

I was distracted at work. When my boss found me holed up in a storage room, banging my head against the walls in hopes of silencing the voices, I was fired. She told me I needed to see someone, because that behavior was unnatural. I didn’t disagree. As I walked through the halls of the workplace, ashamed, I felt all eyes on me. Not the nosy gazes of the other employees, those I couldn’t care less about. The eyes lining the walls and ceiling, however, made something vile churn in my stomach.

The voices told me I did good.

One day I woke up to screaming. I sat up, alarmed, wondering if a wild animal had found its way inside my house. The screams were incessant, and I covered my ears in panic, diving deeper beneath my blankets.

It was ten minutes later that I realized the screams were mine.I stayed in bed all day, shaking with the effort of keeping my body still despite the voices’ demands to look at the eyes. It will save you, they whispered. But I knew they were lying.

The Johnsons lived on 111 Bridgeway Lane. Mr. Johnson worked at the bank. Mrs. Johnson stayed at home to cook delicious dinners. Annie loved to sing and dance, and little Timmy could not stay out of trouble at school! When walking by their house, one could often see Mr. Johnson mowing the lawn, smiling and waving at the townsfolk passing by. Or Annie and little Timmy, chasing each other on the porch, laughing as they always did. The Johnsons exemplified kindness, generosity, and all the values of Harmstead town. Everyone loved the Johnsons!

Then, the Griffins moved in next door at 112 Bridgeway Lane, four days before Halloween. On Monday, Mrs. Johnson invited Mrs. Griffin over to bake pies together. Mrs. Johnson tried Mrs. Griffin’s pie and decided that it tasted better than hers. In fear their husbands would prefer Mrs. Griffin’s apple pie over her pumpkin pie, she used the kitchen mixer to ensure Mrs. Griffin would never bake again. She stored Mrs. Griffin’s body in the basement. 

On Tuesday, Mr. Johnson was mowing the lawn with the lawn mower he had bought just two years before. It ran smoothly and was an important part of his look as a caring suburban father whenever people walked by. Mr. Griffin came out to mow his lawn with the lawn mower he had bought one year prior. He wondered if his wife had stayed over at the Johnsons after baking so he went over to talk to Mr. Johnson. As Mr. Griffin bragged about its speed and engine, Mr. Johnson decided he did not want to hear about his better lawn mower and ran him over with his. He stored Mr. Griffin’s body in the basement, next to Mrs. Griffin. 

On Wednesday, Annie arrived at her favorite class first period: chemistry. When the teacher asked the class a question, Annie raised her hand first but Lilly Griffin got called on instead. After class, Annie invited Lilly over to her house. Lilly immediately said yes because her parents had not returned from that trip they had decided to take spontaneously without telling anyone. That afternoon, Annie gave Lilly a drink with some chemicals she had taken from class. Annie tried storing Lilly’s body in the basement, but it was too heavy so she asked her dad for help. Lilly was placed next to Mr. Griffin. 

On Thursday, little Henry was without any supervision on the playground. Little Henry pushed little Timmy on the playground, so little Timmy pushed little Henry down the stairs to his basement, storing his body next to Lilly’s. 

On Friday, it was Halloween. The Johnsons always had the best decorations in town. As families approached their house to trick or treat, they saw that the Johnsons had decorated their front yard with fake body parts. The Johnsons had placed fake hands, arms, and eyes around their porch and lawn. Everyone marveled at their hard work and dedication to make such realistic decorations. Everyone loved the Johnsons!

It was a cold evening. My calendar read November 8th. I picked up the book on my nightstand next to the picture of my daughter and began to read when my phone rang. 

“Hello?”

“Sam, I’m in the driveway.”

It sounded like my wife, Lillian. 

“Who is this?”

“Come to the window, honey.”

Still on the phone, I got out of bed and inched my way over to our bedroom window overlooking the driveway. Sure enough, she was there.

“I’m coming in now.”

I ran to lock our bedroom door. 

“Lily, I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for sorry now.”

I heard the front door open and then slam shut. As she walked up the stairs, my mind wandered back to a similar cold November evening five years ago, when I killed her after a fight and dissolved her body in the basement.

I watch the children arrive in their parents’ SUVs. My eyes scope out the next child, picking the very best one. I see a little boy with brown hair. He wanders beside his parents with his khaki pants and orange collared shirt. I study him as he walks to the food stand with his parents. His mother hands him a caramel apple. He gazes down at his treat and takes a large bite. When his parents turn in unison to check their phones, I grab his sticky hand and the apple drops to the dirt. I cover his mouth as he watches his parents blur from view. I drag him all the way to my car. Another perfect pick.