Lucian Carver

The fire crackles as it gently warms the room, and my toes, as I sit and read in peace. I am pulled out of my cozy little world of damsels, evil Barons and delicious vampires by a rhythmic tapping outside. Gracie’s swaddled and the monitor has been quiet since 11:30.

I close the book, set it down on the coffee table next to the Sunday paper and leave the den. Up the stairs with a lengthy yawn and as I reach the top, I hear the tapping again. A little quicker. There’s no one here. I know that.

The nursery door opens silently and she’s still snoozing. Smiling as she dreams of whatever it is babies dream of at two months. I lean down to kiss her precious little forehead then reach over the basinet to draw the curtain.

SLAM! The unmistakable sound of a hand slamming against the glass. A bird, or a bat. No, I think, most likely an owl could have been that glint of white I saw as I closed the curtain. I open the curtain to find the window cracked from the impact. I do hope that poor bird is alright.

Carefully, I lift her bassinet and edge her away from the window, placing it against the wall by the open door. I close the door behind me as I leave to check on the owl.

867542 and the alarm blinks green. I put on my sandals and open the front door. Wet grass underfoot as I search for where the owl must have fallen. Struggling in the dark, I shine my phone screen around to help catch its feathers in the light.

Tap tap tap. Above me. I look up to the sound of glass breaking, dread swelling in my stomach. Knowing it is silently and rapidly descending toward me. Little, invisible knives wrapped in darkness are the shards of my daughter’s window. I slump onto the wet grass as each piece lands before me, illuminated by the phone’s flashlight. A streak of red colours a larger piece which stands in the lawn like a headstone and I hear her cry.

The blur between my dark front lawn and Grace’s bedside lasts only a few brief moments, and many thousands of aeons. But there she sleeps. Perfect stillness…

I pinch her foot. She stirs, scrunches her tiny little face and begins to cry. Scooping up my little girl and whispering tender soothing words is the most natural thing. Cooing in her ear and showering her in playful kisses soothing her and myself. I pat her nappy as I look around the room and, finding it empty, I inspect the broken window. We’ll definitely be co-sleeping tonight.

***

Morning light flows around my bedroom curtain like a stone resting in a quiet stream. Washing over the room and waking me with its warmth. I reach for my phone. 8:30am. Garreth sent his love from a truck stop in the small hours. He won’t be back from this run until Thursday.

Grace is already awake, staring at me. I lift my shirt and attach her to suckle. I reach for my phone again and doomscroll while she feeds. Burping, nappy change and we’re on our way downstairs for my breakfast and some tummy time.

The foil in the play matt crinkles under her little body. I set about rifling through the cupboard for the bran and a couple of lactation cookies amidst glances to check on her. The milk carton is almost empty and I pour the last of it over my cereal.

Interrupted by a muffled cough, I look over at Grace. She’s sitting on the mat, smiling at me. Her egg white-coloured onesie, dotted with Giraffes and Lions hugs her as she sits in a crinkly field of sunflowers and cartoonish farm animals. And she is sitting. Smiling knowingly at her mother with bright green eyes.

I call Garreth, and he sounds sceptical at first, but elated at the news that our daughter has sat up all by herself. I think it made his day. Honestly, I think anything would have brightened his day; I can’t imagine long Mondays on the highway would be any manner of exciting.

The repair of the window is organised, and by late afternoon all is right with the house again. The rest of the day goes by like any other before.

***

That night I am curled up on the couch again, reading a delectable scene between a very suave 600-year-old gentleman and a Lady of the court. I stretch my legs and feel the warmth of the fire between my toes. I take a deep, relaxing breath and reach my hand for the peppermint tea and scream.

I could swear I saw her little face peeking at me from the bottom of the stairs. But there’s nothing there. Just a shadow.

She squeaks and grizzles over the baby monitor, calling me to her bedside where she begins her adorable “I’m hungry” cry. I scoop her up in my arms and adjust myself to feed her. Humming her favourite nursery rhyme as I lazily drift around the room, I am suddenly stopped by a sharp pain in my nipple.

I gently unlatch her and see the blood. Seeping slowly from two little holes, mixing with my milk as it drips from me to leave little pink dots on the carpet. Oh god.

Frantically I search her mouth for anything sharp she may have gotten a hold of; there’s just red staining her gums as she stares at me. I pull back her blanket and pat around for anything that could snag her skin or hurt her in any way. Nothing. Probing my breast in case it’s still in the bite… The bite?

My little girl is staring at me. Smiling at me. Her bright green eyes begin flicking to my breast, my eyes and back again. My heart quickens and a sickly sour taste creeps from my stomach to sit in my throat. Nausea follows.

I put her down in her basinet and close the door between us, hurrying to the bathroom. I retch, but nothing comes of it. Tears blur my vision as thoughts swim freely through my mind. Is this post-natal depression? Maybe I’m just overtired. Overwhelmed? Did I cook dinner properly? Yes. No, I definitely cooked the chicken thoroughly. I gather myself and wash my face to refresh. I look into the mirror to pep myself up and my mother’s light blue eyes stare back at me… Garreth’s eyes are like wet terracotta. Gracie has his eyes.

That baby had green eyes…

I dry my hands and march into her room. I’m just mistaken; Gracie has brown eyes. You’re just tired. I open the door and see her sit down, then roll away and face the window. I slam the door between us and run to my room. I am in no state to wander around the house to lock up. I am not going back out there tonight.

Garreth answers my second call. I’m frantic. Sobbing for him to come home and help. I can’t stand it. But he cannot hurry home. My husband is hundreds of kilometres away from me. I am alone with it until Thursday.

I am feeling no better for hearing my husband’s deep, soothing voice. After the call I kick the small wooden wedge under the door and run back to the safety of my bed. Like a child.

I don’t sleep. I won’t. I lie under the blankets and listen to the sounds of night. Every sound. The bones of the house creak and settle with the cool night air. I hear the wind against the house, the leaves on the tree outside as its branches rock back and forth, waving like feathered hands. I hear the sound of wings; flying foxes and nocturnal birds.

A thud on the roof makes tears run freely down my face, but the second and third, followed by the scratching reassure me that it’s just the family of possums from next door. I hear tapping again. Steady tapping, like fingernails on glass. Grace giggles and the tapping ceases.

The silence is broken by a hard but quiet thud, like a toy being dropped. The dropped toy is followed by a second, softer thud, and then the rapid padding. I hear a doorknob turn slowly then more padding. Little feet on stairs. One stair at a time, and both feet on each step.

The house is deafeningly quiet for minutes, and then I hear her play station jingle its song about Old McDonald. I lean forward to listen closer. She’s playing. It’s playing.

The nursery rhymes continue, punctuated by blocks tapping and the occasional rattle and chuckle. The sounds begin to meld together and fade until, eventually, darkness curls its shadowy tendrils around me and covers my eyes, and I am lulled into uneasy sleep.

Dreams of sitting on my grandmother’s knee as a child, back home in Ireland. Listening to stories her mother told her, and her mother before her. Tales I only half remember of people getting lost in the bogs and ancient forests. Flower-covered mounds where folks would place sweets and treats to keep the little folk away. Cautionary words of faeries stealing children from their cribs, and the horror faced by parents as their babies grow and change into twisted, mischievous, wizened things.

***

Morning comes slowly, and I begin to stir as sunlight bathes my doona cover and tiny particles hang in the air. I sit and lean against the headboard to cry. Softly weeping for my little girl. Time passes and I stand to dress. My aching breasts are covered by a soft pink fluffy gown. I change into house pants and step into my light grey slippers, tightening the robe’s drawstring as I leave the safety of my room. It could almost feel like any other Tuesday.

I peer down the stairs briefly before quietly opening the nursery door and making my way over to Grace’s bassinet.

‘Good morning, little one,’ I whisper softly.

My little girl turns her head and yawns, and the eyes open. Those viridian green eyes looking at me as she smiles. As it smiles and looks up at me.

I pick the baby up and hold it close to me but do not feed, making our way downstairs toward the kitchen. I set the little green-eyed child into the rocker so it can see me prepare breakfast. A quiet cry begins as I fill the stew pot with water and set it on the stove. It’s hungry.

As the water heats, I begin to dice potatoes, shallots and cloves of garlic, replacing the glass lid after adding each ingredient. The crying lessens when I drop the salt shaker into the pot, and silence when I reach down and add my slipper. I step to place myself between the child and the nearly-boiling pot.

I hear a small gurgle from the rocker when I reach for the aniseed, and plop the closed tin of curry into the mixture. A quiet grunt comes from closer behind me as I start singing the alphabet and asking the contents of the boiling pot to sprout into a beautiful tree.

It breathes behind my ear as it looks over my shoulder to see into the pot. Grandmother told me of the curiosity of little changelings.

I continue singing to the pot as I lift the lid. Steam clouds the air as I reach behind me and grab the evil little creature by its stomach and throw it into the pot. Violent screams erupt from its little mouth as I close the lid to seal its fate.

The horrid little thing writhes and howls against the glass lid and my eyes fill with tears and I cry for my little girl while the thing in the pot weakens, slows and goes quiet. My hands are burned but I hold tight until I am sure the thing is dead.

Only when I am sure, do I remove my hands to look at the thing that replaced my little girl. It stares back at me, swollen, twisted and bloated. With wet terracotta eyes…

My little girl.

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Lucian Carver is a writer and aspiring novelist living in Central Victoria with his partners and child, with another due by Halloween. He is currently querying agents for representation with his debut novel ‘A Boy, A Man and Death’ in the commercial thriller genre. Check him out on Instagram or at his website.

More bone-chilling stories await you… Return to Issue 4!