An apple, four pens, and a sharpie waited for their imposing doom. A boy walked in to fulfill this dark purpose, a ritual not known to most, but a ritual nonetheless. The boy performing the ritual did not know either, he only thought he was doing an arts and crafts project.
A television buzzed in the background as he stuck the pens in the places where human limbs would be. The internet is out again he thought. Apple juice splattered across the poor table. When he was done, he attempted to draw a face on the impaled fruit. It turned out all scraggly and weird. He was never a good artist. He threw the apple across the room in disappointment. To him, it was another failed masterpiece.
He looked at the clock. It was getting late. He crossed the room, and headed for his bed. He smelled the apple laying behind his headrest, but he didn't care. He fell into a fitful sleep, knowing something was wrong but couldn't quite put his finger on it.
When he woke up, the Apple was sitting on him. He yelped and jumped out of bed. It rested on his pillow. He ran down the hall.
As he ran, he saw it in a few places. In one, he watched it eat the his head after he tore it out of one of the family photos. It can't hurt me, it's just a dream, he shrieked in his mind, trying to calm himself. He ran to the kitchen, hoping to see his mom. And, just like a theatrical horror story, she wasn't there. All there was, was a note on the fridge. He snatched the note and read it to himself.
Dear Shane,
Hi honey! Sorry I'm not home. I had to run some errands. The phone line is down, so I left dad there to take care of you. See you soon honey!
Love you,
Mom
"WHAT!?! I can't stay here, alone, with that!" He turned to look at the apple, but it wasn't there. He heard some one singing. It sang slow and steadily, like a siren song.
"All round the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey stopped to pull up his sock,
When, POP!"
The lights went out. He felt his way around the room and turned on the lights. He turned around. It was there, standing behind him, holding a knife. It continued singing.
"Goes the weasel."
It laughed maniacally and jumped at me. Pain. It---it hurts. He looked at his chest as he fell, the source of the pain. Lying on the ground, the last thing he saw was the apple, smiling at him, splashing around in the blood that quickly pooled around his dying body. Then, blackness.
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"Honey, I'm home!" exclaimed mom as she walked in to the house. "Honey?" she says, more concerned. She slowly walked to the kitchen, fearing the worst. She saw the apple and shrieked loud enough to wake up her husband. The apple stopped splashing playing in her sons blood and looked at her. It uttered a single word.
"Smile."
