When she finally drifted
off to sleep, she tripped and stumbled over the raised sidewalk, falling to her
knees, ripping the skin into a large, raw gash. The hot blood gushed and ran
down her bare legs.
She was standing outside
the door of eight-twenty-one Downer Street, her skin hot and feverish, nauseous
at the thought of having to step inside.
The door opened with a
sinister creak, and her father was there, beckoning her inside with his crooked
half-finger and demonic grin.
She recognized her
things—her broken tricycle with the bent handlebars, her doll with the missing
arm, and her toy pony with his mangled mane. They were all there, and they
smiled at her.
Her mother was turned
toward the sink, paying no attention to Daddy pulling her down the dark hallway.
“Mommy, help me, don’t
let him take me there,” her weak, child-voice pleaded.
When her mother turned
around to look at her, her face was a grim skeleton, a fierce, open mouth
baring black teeth; a spider crawling out.
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