Uriel's Music Box: The Forgotten Lullaby

A Short Story by Ligia Nunes

Uriel was three and a half and used to run the house screaming like a little devil. His brownish-green eyes glimmered in excitement and his fleshy cheeks pushed against his eyebags in a wide smile that made his ocean eyes even smaller. His hair was like mine, curly and tinted in the exact same shade of chestnut brown our skin has.

We used to tell him he was made of kindness and chocolate, while his eyes were filled with the sea. He loved to hear that.

That day, one hour had passed since he started playing at the living room, telling stories to himself in a screamed tone, saying that "Mommy will love this 'stowy' when I tell 'hew'! Thank you 'veeewy' much Mr... Mr..."

Uriel was in that phase children stark to create things. Imagine things, while screaming a lot — testing their voices, no doubt. That's probably why I noticed the very second everything happened.

The exact moment everything became silent.

I remember frowning, drying my hands in a tablecloth. "Uriel?" I called. Walking to my living room, I saw the wooden toys colored in red, green and blue spread everywhere. But my son wasn't there.

"Uriel?" I called again, my steps faster. My stomach was suddenly filled by some cold strange substance when I noticed the small little safety gate at the base of the stairs unhatched and ajar. A dense, threatening sensation took over me.

I heard it only once. His voice came brittle, childish - but when I think about it, I can't remember hearing fear. "MOMMY!" He screamed like he used to - the sound coming from the second floor.

"Shit", I muttered, a shiver covering me like pitch — sticky and cold. "Uriel?!" From two to two steps I climbed the stairs, running room after room. I could hear downstairs my steamer spreading vapor everywhere and Uriel's little toy radio singing some childish song. At that point, I was already desperate.

"URIEL?" I yelled. Yet, once again, I received no answer. I entered his room, pressing my hands through the covers in the cradle, pulling all sheets out. The happy white clouds painted in the walls and the Brandeis Blue seemed different somehow. Darker. I checked his closet, his toy box - tears rolled down my cheek, my lips trembling. I ran yet again to my room, getting the landline phone and called my husband.

"Marcos, Uriel's gone. I can't find him anywhere. You have... You have to come home. Now." My voice trembled, my voice failing. "Now! Y-You have to. Please come home, help... Help me find him. Call the police, anything!"

After a long pause, I heard a chuckle on the other side on the line. Something that, to me, sounded like a scratched noise, something evil - the devil's shriek. When my husband answered, it was his voice again:

"Whoa, calm down, Gisele."

"HOW CAN YOU ASK ME TO CALM DOWN?" I screamed. Sobbing, I couldn't hold my tears. I pressed a hand on my lips, forcing my mouth shut as my whole body trembled. I took a deep breath, my hoarse voice covered in anguish "He was right here, Marcos! With me, he was. He was playing in the living room, I was in the kitchen. He was... he was here Marcos, I swear!" And I knew he couldn't see it, but I desperately gestured downstairs. Then to my heart.

And there came that laugh again. Possessed, chilling.

Something in my brain seemed to spin and I had to support my weight on the window. I looked outside, where a little girl (the neighbor's daughter), walked along with their maid. That laugh thrust a needle in my heart, forcing me to groan in pain. I couldn't take it.

"Are you kidding with me, Gil?" Marcos said "You're talking about Uriel, our son? You're sure?"

"Go fuck yourself Marcos!" desperate, I walked back to my little baby's room, toys and baby clothes now covering the floor. "If you don't want to help me find our son, I'll find him MYSELF, your son of a stinky-"

The laugh cut in. This time I felt an indescribable pain in my nape. A sharp point, a fish hook, pressing itself against my brain. It cut skin, flesh, and bone, forcing its way deeper and deeper. The pain closed my eyes forcibly as I clenched my fists.

When Marcos spoke, I could swear I heard it duplicated. An undertone was hidden below his words. "Look, Giselle, I don't know what happened to you today, but I took Uriel with me, remember? I took Uriel."

My eyes shot open, the pain becoming more and more intense - my vision was blurry. "What the bloody fuck are you talking about, Marcos?"

"About your son, woman!" He sighed deeply. The pressure in my nape continued to grow as I saw Marcos's black car running down the street. It brought with him an invisible darkness I could only sense. "I'd put him on the line, but we're already home. Open the door for us, will you?"

My heart raced and as I turned in my heels to run downstairs, I tripped over some clothes on the floor (I'd rather say something held my heel, but they would never believe me). Under my knee, a small piano music box, now partially broken, started to play a Lullaby version of Fur Elise. The blood that escaped from the wound made its way to the carpet and I forced my eyes shut, a scream crawling up my throat.

It took me all my strength to get up and walk outside of Uriel's room. As I cried louder and louder, I heard my husband's voice approaching — though I can't quite remember his face. He pressed a hand on my shoulder.

"Gil, what happened? Are you ok?"

And the voice I heard next silenced my crying.

"Mom? Mom, what happened?" It was not my baby. A teenager appeared before me, his skin and hair made of chocolate, his eyes of sea - but the stink that came from him was like putrid, old, dead fish.

I couldn't speak. My husband still kneeled at my side when the person who stole my baby's eyes got up and walked to his room. The floor now cleaned, the walls painted in dark red. Red.

I forced my body to get up and slowly walked inside the room. The cradle was not there. Neither were the toys, the clothes. The only thing that was still in the room was the broken music box, the damned song and the blood stain on the carpet.

"Here dad, mom probably fell because of this shit. I knew I should've thrown this garbage-"

But I don't remember hearing the last bit of that person's speech. What I do remember was to silently, slowly walk downstairs (the sober living room had a television tuned in the news channel). Back to my kitchen, where the steamer was still making it's awfully dull sound, I forced my fingers around my cooking knife's handle.

I looked only once at its blade. I'd never let someone take my baby's sea eyes.

Never.

***

Author's Notes;

Hello you,

Thank you so much for reading this short story! 

I hope you truly enjoyed it. If you liked it, please don't forget to vote, you just need to press that little star up there! ♥

This short story is complete. It's a first 'introduction' for the world of a new book series I've been planning for quite some time. =) I'd love to hear what you think about it! If you have any comments or any critique, please feel free to leave a comment.

A kiss!

Ligia

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