I wanted to ask Mrs. Perfect whether her children always watched surgical procedures during meals, but before I could say anything, she placed a piece of paper in front of me—a set of typed, detailed instructions. She would be meeting her husband at a Halloween gathering where she couldn’t be reached by phone. Maddie and Jackson were allowed to watch television, followed by an early bedtime. She expected to be back home no later than 10:00 P.M.
“Help yourself to anything you’d like in the kitchen, Hannah,” said Mrs. Perfect, opening the refrigerator door to reveal a sparse collection of yogurts and a plate littered with the bones of a small animal that didn’t look like anything I had ever eaten before.
“And what about the baby?” I asked. “What’s her schedule?”
Mrs. Perfect frowned. “What baby?”
Again, you have to give Mrs. Perfect some credit for playing her role so well. She seemed so genuinely taken aback by my comment, I actually felt embarrassed and a little ashamed for asking it.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I thought I saw a baby with Maddie and Jackson in your backyard earlier today.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I perceived the faintest twitch of amusement on the meat-stained lips of the children.
“Maybe you saw one of Maddie’s dolls,” said Mrs. Perfect curtly.
“Wasn’t there a baby outside with you guys earlier today?” I turned to Maddie and Jackson. “She was holding a bottle.”
Maddie and Jackson stared at me with inscrutable expressions and shook their heads without speaking. Their reluctance to speak annoyed me; it seemed more like an aggressive reluctance than innocent shyness. Moreover, I was bewildered by the contradiction between what I had seen and what Mrs. Perfect was telling me. If Maddie and Jackson were the only children who lived in this house, who was the baby I had seen in their garden? Had I imagined her? Had I seen a ghost?
“Well, I’d better be going,” said Mrs. Perfect, throwing a vintage fox wrap around her shoulders that, bizarrely, still had the fox’s head attached. “I’ll be back by ten o’clock at the latest.” She gave Maddie and Jackson a quick peck on the cheek and left without another word.
“So,” I said, pulling up a stool to sit next to the children. “What kind of surgery are we watching here?” I did my best to sound friendly and nonchalant—to conceal my squeamishness.
“Appendectomy,” muttered Jackson.
“I prefer to watch brain surgery,” I joked.
The kids regarded me with surprise, but they didn’t laugh. I tried a different approach. “Are you guys interested in becoming surgeons someday?”
Both kids shook their heads. “Our dad used to own a medical devices company,” Jackson explained, “but he wasn’t a surgeon.”
“What kind of devices did his company make?”
“All kinds,” said Maddie. “But he sold the company. That’s how we got our money.”
“I see.” I got the impression that quite a lot of money came from that medical devices company. I doubted I’d be running into the Perfect children working at the Sweet Memories store or the local McDonald’s.
“How about some dessert?” I eyed the blobs of bloody juice and fat on the kids’ plates, and felt a little unnerved when I noticed that Jackson had apparently eaten part of a bone. I opened a cabinet and was relieved when I saw ordinary, unhealthy snacks: potato chips, Cheetos, Oreo cookies. Not one of the packages had been opened.
“No, thanks,” said Maddie. “We just keep those for babysitters.”
“Maybe some ice cream?” I pressed. I absentmindedly opened a cabinet door to look for more snacks and discovered the most extensive and elaborate collection of kitchen knives I had ever seen in anyone’s house. Was it my imagination, or were there some surgical tools amid the knives, too? I slammed the cabinet door shut.
“I’m saving my appetite for later,” said Jackson.
I saw Maddie kick her brother under the table, as if nudging him to be quiet.
After the kids dutifully washed their dishes and put them in the dishwasher, Maddie announced that she was going upstairs to her room to read. This was a little disappointing since kids usually want to spend time with me, but it was clear that she didn’t want any company. There was nothing to do but follow Jackson into the family room.
After watching a surgery in the Perfects’ kitchen, I should have been prepared for their living room, but I wasn’t. No fewer than three enormous television screens displayed silent, repeating black-and-white film segments of striking violence: a firing squad execution, a cruel animal-testing process in a laboratory, and war footage. The spacious room resembled a disturbing art museum installation. The volume was turned down completely: a silent series of violent actions repeated themselves again and again. Was this some kind of modern art, or was it a Halloween stunt?
Suspended over the fireplace was an enormous portrait of the Perfect family. I examined the picture and realized that it was true: There were only two children—no baby. At least not in the picture.
“Do you want to watch something else?” I asked Jackson, who was now sprawled on a black leather couch. “A movie or something?”
“Nah.”
I sat down next to Jackson, doing my best to bond with him. But while the silent images on the screen seemed to relax Jackson, they made me feel overwhelmingly anxious. More than anything, I felt the urge to flee the house. And once again, my body was smarter than my brain.
Hannah . . .
I heard the faint sound of someone calling my name.
“Was that Maddie?” I asked.
“I didn’t hear anything.” Jackson stared at the black-and-white images flickering across the television screens.
“I’ll just go check on her.”
I made my way upstairs then down a hallway decorated with a bizarre combination of technology, weaponry, and sentimental whimsy. Artifacts including swords and antique rifles were displayed alongside sappy oil paintings depicting lush flower gardens, waterfalls, and sun-sets. I found one object particularly disturbing—a large, Victorian-style wreath that appeared at first glance to be an intricate arrangement of dried flowers. When I took a closer look, I realized that the brown and gold petals and leaves were actually made entirely of human hair—hair of various shades that had been braided and twisted into detailed shapes. Was this evidence of some bizarre family hobby? And whose hair was it?
Now opening a series of doors in search of Maddie’s bedroom, I had the disconcerting sense that it was entirely possible to lose track of a child in this house. Who knew how many hiding places there were—how many secret rooms?
“Maddie!” I called.
The only answer was a thin, wailing sound like the whistling of wind around a house or the plaintive meow of a cat. As I listened more closely, I became convinced that it was the sound of a baby crying.
I hurried up another flight of stairs. The crying seemed to come from behind a closed door at the end of another long hallway.
I caught my breath when I pulled open the door to reveal a baby’s nursery. My eyes fell on a small, empty bassinet adorned with a skirt of white lace. All around the bed were dolls dressed in clothing from various historical eras: hoop skirts made of colorful taffeta; wasp-waisted polka-dot dresses with crinoline petticoats; miniskirts and go-go boots. My interest in the elaborate and intricate costumes worn by these dolls turned to trepidation when I noticed a group of dolls that looked like ordinary, contemporary teenagers—dolls dressed in blue jeans, dolls carrying tiny backpacks and miniature cell phones. One even had braces painted on small, plastic teeth.
I wanted to examine the dolls more closely, but the cries of the phantom baby were becoming evermore insistent. Strangely, the infant’s screaming now seemed to come from behind a full-length mirror that hung on the wall.
Now I know where that old saying “curiosity killed the cat” comes from. It’s funny how you can feel simultaneously terrified and driven to discover the truth at all costs.
Well, that’s how I felt as I slowly approached my own reflection in the mirror, bracing myself for the glimpse of some supernatural vision in the darkened glass.
I reached out and touched my reflection and gasped with surprise when the mirror quietly swung open to reveal a tiny room.
The mirror was actually a secret doorway. There, behind the mirror, was the source of the crying: a baby monitor with a video screen. I had used plenty of baby monitors, so I knew they were basically walkie-talkies that allowed you to hear and even see a baby from any room in the house. Now I knew for sure that there really was a baby—the same baby girl I had seen in the garden earlier that day. Wearing only a diaper, she sat alone in what looked like an animal cage. I watched the grainy image on the screen as she pulled herself up to a standing position and stood with one arm outstretched through the bars of her little prison.
“Mama!” she cried.
My stomach churned when I perceived a tiny, gruesome detail—the shadowy image of a butcher knife lying on the floor near the baby.
Someone wants me to see this, I thought. But why? I remembered Maddie kicking Jackson under the table, the sly smile on Jackson’s lips when I had asked about a baby.
I was sure of one thing: I had to find that baby. In the background of the image on the video screen I saw the outline of what looked like a wine storage cabinet. My gut told me that the baby was somewhere in the basement of the house.
In retrospect, going down to the basement by myself wasn’t a good idea. But something takes over when you see and hear a child in distress: It’s almost a full-body alarm that compels you to act without thinking, to run as fast as you can toward the sobbing sounds. At least that’s how it was for me.
As I raced down a series of stairways and then through the family room, where the disturbing screen images were still looping, I heard the patter of rain outside the window—a fall storm beginning. As a flash of lightning illuminated the Halloween cemetery in the backyard, I remembered the story of the teenage girl named Jessica who had disappeared. How many kids are buried back there? I wondered. How many families?
I made my way through a library (where I glimpsed a book entitled Best Meat-Carving Methods) then through a game room and a reading alcove, then down the steep, dark steps leading to the Perfects’ basement.
I could hear the crying more clearly now, but it sounded softer, as if the child had grown weary.
“Hello? Is anybody here?”
Across the dim room I saw the dark outline of the cage. Something sat inside: the motionless shadow-silhouette of a child. Was she okay? Had she been hurt?
I cautiously approached the cage until I was close enough to see clearly in the dim light.
The cage door was open and there was no baby. Instead, there was a large doll—a doll that bore a striking resemblance to me. I stared for a moment too long, horrified and mesmerized by the doll’s hoop earrings—the long, shiny hair gathered in a ponytail. Several hands shoved me from behind.
I toppled into the cage and the door slammed behind me.
When I turned around and caught my breath, I saw the whole Perfect family—including a very familiar one-year-old baby and two of the middle-aged ladies from the Sweet Memories shop—hugging each other, pulling out their carving knives, and wishing each other a happy Halloween.
“My parents know where I am!” I shouted, my voice sounding strangely hollow. “My dad will make sure you all go to jail forever!”
“Things don’t work that way around here, dear,” said Mrs. Perfect calmly. “You see, we Perfects pretty much keep this town running. We have an arrangement with the townsfolk. We stay away from the kids who were born and raised here, and help keep their businesses afloat, and they keep their noses out of our culinary activities. Let’s just say the police won’t be terribly concerned when they hear you’re missing.”
“Still, you won’t get away with this.” I realized I was speaking to someone who had absolute certainty that she would indeed get away with it forever.
“You’d be shocked at how many parents can be bought,” said Mrs. Perfect. “Just say the words ‘financial security’ and ‘never have to work again’ and some of them are willing to keep quiet. Others—well, we have ways of keeping them quiet.”
So there you have it. In the town of Entrails, the Perfect family keeps the town running financially and, in exchange, the townsfolk and the police keep quiet about their crimes. In a sense, my family really did move next door to a castle; the whole thing is kind of feudal. If I were going to school again, I’d write a paper about it.
But don’t worry. I haven’t given up all hope yet. Remember how I said kids always like me? Well, toddlers love me. And just a moment ago, after all the other Perfects disappeared to go sharpen their knives and fingernails in preparation for their Halloween feast of freshly killed babysitter, the littlest Perfect appeared outside my cage with an impish, toothy grin and a shiny key in her hand. Maybe—just maybe—she’ll trade the key to the cage for the doll that looks like me.
Kids. You never know what they’re going to do.
SHADOW CHILDREN
▼ HEATHER BREWER ▼
Good night, Jon.” Dax pulled the covers over his little brother’s chest. Jon was wearing his favorite pajamas again, despite the hour-long argument that flannel wasn’t exactly a summer-weight fabric and the buttons were on the verge of falling off. Surrendering with a sigh, Dax walked out of the room, flipping the light switch as he went. Not a second later, Jon’s Batman night-light went out, which instantly sparked whining from the six-year-old.
“Dax, my night-light! I can’t sleep without my night-light. The shadows will get me!”
Dax sighed again, silently counting the seconds until Mom and Dad would be home. It was like this every night. John would whine to Mom or Dad and they’d make sure his night-light was working or that the hall light was on, anything to placate Jon’s irrational fear of things that weren’t really lurking in the shadows, waiting to snatch him away. Only tonight, it was Dax who was left to placate him. Bad enough he had to miss out on Janie’s party to babysit his little brother, but now he was also expected to cater to Jon’s ridiculous fear of the dark. “I’ll grab you a flashlight, Jon. Just give me a second.”
It was all he could do to block out Jon’s blubbering as he walked into the kitchen. He pulled the drawer open and rummaged around. A flashlight had to be in there somewhere.
“Dax, hurry! The shadows!”
Dax found a couple of flashlights and picked one up, tapping it gently against his chin. Maybe it would be better if he did them all a favor and showed Jon that there were no such things as monsters under your bed, nothing at all lurking in the pitch-black night. If he let Jon cry it out just for one night, maybe the kid would grow up and stop being such a baby. Maybe then babysitting him without pay and missing out on the party of the year wouldn’t be so bad. Dax mulled this over for a moment, blocking out the whimpers from down the hall. “It’s just the dark, Jon. There’s nothing in it that isn’t there in the daytime.”
Jon screamed. And it wasn’t one of those little-brat screams for attention. He sounded terrified. Like his life depended on someone hearing and responding to his terrified shriek.
Dax bolted back to the bedroom and stared in shocked disbelief.
A long, dark shadow was looming over the bed. But it wasn’t an ordinary shadow. It was darker than the rest of the room, and moved of its own free will. It was a creature made of shadows. It was alive. Part of it whipped forward and wrapped around Jon’s ankle. Jon cried, “Help me, Dax!”
The shadow monster was pulling Jon off the bed, but Dax was frozen in place, staring at this thing that couldn’t possibly exist. Jon was flailing, tears streaming down his cheeks. Breaking free from his trance, Dax clutched his brother’s wrist, but he was hit in the chest and thrown against the wall. Pain bolted through Dax’s back as he hit the wall and crumpled to the floor. He struggled to sit up again, but a tentacle of the
shadow monster stood in front of him, defying him to move. There were no eyes or mouth, but somehow Dax knew that the thing was looking at him. He swore he heard a growl, but it had no mouth, no substance. The shadow monster lurched back and ripped Dax’s brother free of his covers.
Dax ran forward and grabbed Jon by the ankle. They both flew through the air and into the closet. The door slammed shut, sealing them in pitch-black.
A sound caught his attention, like a large amount of sand falling through a grainy hourglass. It was coming from the floor. Dax looked down. The floor was moving. It swirled around his feet; the sandlike substance of what had once been a wood floor crashed over the toe of his sock in small, black waves. He pulled his foot back, but the sand clung to it. Beside him, Jon whimpered as the sand closed over his arm. Dax brushed it away, but it seemed to have a life of its own. The sand covered him, and all he could do was lie there, feeling the weight of it curl around his feet, his ankles, his legs, knowing he was sinking into it—whatever it was. It moved up his torso, and he felt suffocated. There was no air, only sand.
Beside him, Jon screamed, but his screams were cut off as the sand closed over his small head. Dax grabbed desperately for Jon’s hand, but there was nothing to grab. His brother was gone.
Strangely, he could feel his legs dangling on the other side, like he was slipping through some hole. It covered his chest and Dax took a deep breath and held it, not knowing if he would ever breathe again, not knowing what was happening or what to do to stop it. The sand swirled around, tickling his eyelashes, covering his face. He felt the weight of it on top of his head, and wondered if he would ever see Jon again.
Suddenly, the sand impacted tightly around him and, just as quickly, released. Dax fell several feet, landing on the hard ground below. He coughed and drew air into his lungs. His chest burned, but after a few deep breaths, it came easy again. Remembering the flashlight, he turned it on and looked around, gasping at what he saw.
He was in a cavern. An enormous cavern of what must have been obsidian—the walls were shiny and black, the floor smooth and reflective. He shined the flashlight up at where he’d fallen through, but there was no sign of any hole or trapdoor, or even sand. Only hard, black rock. The floor trembled slightly beneath his feet. He noticed the movement less when he stepped forward, but despite the floor’s solid appearance, it struck him as fragile.