Spooky children

SOUL WITCH…

©Tanya Grout

The ramming boulder took the door right off its hinges. Old rotting wood flew back across the room, almost hitting Kari – a startled eight-year-old who darted behind the leather sofa.

 

The police were astounded at what they saw: Old Woman Ireland was secured in her rocker by the window, anchored in. The green tendrils of a plant had shot up from their heavy urn, beside her and plunged deep into the woman’s ears. They had torn painfully through her skull, through parts of her brain and then had ripped out her eyes, pushing the ocular tissue to the side – strange, bloody bulges.

 

The sturdy stalks had crawled down her face, crisscrossing into her nasal cavities, plummeting down her trachea and into the trunk of her body, exploding out of organs, creating a maze of convoluted control over this powerless body.

 

Shocked EMS personnel cut off the old woman’s shirt, as the photographer documented parts of the plant that could be seen under Mrs. Ireland’s wrinkly skin. Some of the vines had travelled down her arms bedside fragile veins, riveting each limb immovable in a right-angled position. These slender stems had then spilt off and out of her fingers forming an extended hand of woody digits, with little green shoots that trapped many a fly with their undulating stickiness.

 

Other vines had carved a stronger journey through her trunk and pushed through the fragile tissue of her lateral thighs, sliding off the chair and down to the floor. They had then grown through the soft wooden planks; deep into the basement and into the soil underneath, where they had became rooted.

 

There was just one question from the lead inspector, “How on earth could this have happened?”

 

Only Kari knew, as she had envisioned it, had planted the little bulb in the urn and had fed it thoughts to help it grow. Although #158 hung from her mother’s toe at the morgue, the magic had been passed on at birth and Kari had used it well to avenge her mothers murder, keeping Granny Ireland alive through the whole torturous ordeal. Alive… breathing…

 

© kym darkly

FANTOM…

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It had come again in the middle of the night, undulating under the sheets like a flat fish might swim at the bottom of the ocean.

Petrified, Bobby jumped out of bed. He watched the creature, with its wave-like motion, slink under the covers heading down to where his feet would always be, the place where it would wriggle before slipping off and away.

In his mind he thought he would catch it and maybe even cook it, if it was a fish, although his mother had said that ghosts couldn’t be eaten or cooked.

You’re not escaping this time, Bobby thought, ripping the sheet right off in an attempt to expose the mystery. But he didn’t see anything. It was invisible as ghosts tended to be.

Bobby got closer, bravely holding out his hand in the terrified hopes that he might touch it. He padded around until finally his delicate fingers landed on top of the slippery creature. Bobby yelped, but kept his hand there on the invisible eeewy fish, desperate to make sense of this thing that haunted him night after night.

The wires from his head sent out crazed signals to computers and machines that measured his brain for activity. Suddenly the sleep lab was full of personnel, but Bobby was oblivious. He was trying to hold onto the cold ghoul that kept escaping his grasp.

Suddenly angered, Bobby grew violent. He threw the sheet back on the thing to see where it was and grabbed his heavy Bible to kill it with. Slam, Slam!

“Ughh, it’s already dead,” said Dr. Rupert from behind the lab’s glass. Doesn’t he get it?

“No, he doesn’t get it. He’s just a kid,” said Rebecca – his striking sidekick.

“I know darling, but we need a kid who can catch one, so we can study it,” replied Rupert.

Bobby’s vital signs were in trouble. The beeps jolted them back to the computer screens.

“Its attacking him. This always happens,” Rebecca said, “Just stop it right now! We dont want to lose him.”

Ignoring her, Dr. Rupert gave a go-ahead signal with his hand through the glass.

The crew did what they were instructed to: sprayed the phantom with a new liquid that had been developed by the brilliant grad student: Rebecca McCauley.

This new variation worked and the crew grew excited as they could finally see a true ghost, albeit a vicious orange jelly that had planted its entire sticky being over Bobby’s face and torso.

Their own faces turned to horror quickly as they witnessed it sucking his brains, blood, tongue and other tissue out of his eyes, ears and mouth with a vicious pumping cycle, ultimately sending out a huge splat of blood back up at the glass of the lab.

 A flat line, and the ghost released its obliterated victim. There was no more live tissue to refuel its dependency needs and so it slipped back into invisibility and disappeared before it could be captured.

Dr. Rupert sighed – annoyance. “Call the parents, our condolences, he went mad, congenital defect and we couldn’t save him.”

“You fucking do it. I’m done,” Rebecca snapped. On her way out she slammed the door, torn over why she still loved this cold-hearted man…

In the blood splattered lab, Dr. Rupert reconsidered. “I’m not sure that’s a ghost…”

© kym darkly

THE VOICES…

It was a sharp fall of snow, biting, cutting. She wanted to steal inside the house across the street, to warm by the fire, to eat from the soup on the stove – but the voices said no. She was a Russian spy and that house was no longer her home, but the house of the enemy. Her mission, they said, was to take the pistol and fire at anyone who might enter or leave it.

It was hard to see in the driving snow but she fired and fired until the ground around her was full of shell casings.

In the morning her parents found her, surrounded not by casings but by pellets of medication not taken. There was no Cossack hat or thick fur coat that the spy agency voices had insisted she wear last night. No, Anna was in her pajamas, her body and naked feet sealed by ice into the bush from a mad rainfall overnight.

Her parents pulled and struggled to get her frozen body free. She was a good little girl, they cried, and had probably done as the voices had told her to do. It was just so sad that they hadn’t found her wandering aimlessly outside, too bad that they didn’t get to talk to her first…

BODY PARTS…

At only seven years of age she had used kitchen tongs expertly to dip the openings of the heads, from a row of disturbed dolls, into boiling water – pulling them out when melted to her satisfaction. Her mother watched Pippa sneak her loot back into her safety zone and stretch the small heads onto big doll bodies with a surgeon-like precision, creating freaky little plastic beings. She’s more disturbed than the doctor said, her mother thought, closing the door on the psychopathic wunderkind alchemist, locking her back into the closet. This will surely ruin my dinner party tonight. It was a spooky sight, but not to Pippa. To her it made sense. She wanted to disfigure, to destroy. She hated dolls. They reminded her of adults…

© kym darkly