The Mayhaven Asylum

The Crooked Child

You were a nurse at Mayhaven Asylum. You have been for three years. For three long years you dedicated your life to trying to help those less fortunate than you. That was before you had passed away.

The last face you remember seeing before you died was that of a child. He was admitted there, a year into your service, under your care. He seemed like any other child would during the day. Happy, full of life, kind. Anything you would have expected. Until night.

At night, he didn't sleep, afraid a monster was going to get him. He screamed all night. About a Crooked Man. Screaming on and on about a man whose head was tilted so far that his head hit his waist. Whose neck was so long it looked like he had no bones. How it was the monsters fault he was here.

For a year or so you had eased his mind, with teaching him a nursery rhyme.

"There was a crooked man, Who walked a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence, Upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, Which caught a crooked mouse. And they all lived together, In a little crooked house."

For a good year or so he sung that in the hallways. You can still hear his voice. Even in death. It was the last thing you ever heard.

You remember the night clearly. He was screaming again, but this time it wasn't out of fear. He was laughing. You could recall pushing yourself from your quarters to make sure he was alright, out of pure parental instinct. 

You had the mindset to push the door open, to see him, to tell him to sleep. When something wet had soaked the bottom of your feet. You stopped, looking down only to see a thick red substance coating the sides and bottoms of your bare feet.

Without even thinking, you swung the door open, worried for his safety and well being. But what you saw was not what you expected. When you saw the boy, he was also covered in the red substance, but so was the doctor he was standing over.

The boys head was tilted. It was tilted so far that his head hit his shoulder. In his hand he held a knife. He turned to look at you, with a crooked grin, and as he walked closer and closer to your frozen body, the rhyme he repeated. He laughed as he stabbed you. Though he didn't once apologize.

Not one tear fell from his eye, and not one word that wasn't in that stupid peom left his lips. You thought you had raised him better.

Who knew. Maybe there really was a crooked man after him. Or maybe he was the crooked man.