Prologue:
The loud clash of static shoots through the silence as easily as a knife slides through cake at a wedding. Strange, I don’t remember the TV being on before this. It’s dark outside. There are a few lamps on throughout the house, but no one is home. Mom and dad don’t drink and neither of them works nights, which means they aren’t at the bar and they aren’t at work. I check all the clocks to see if the power had gone out or something. That means that they’d be outside checking the fuse. Then it’ll all be fine.
I walk into the kitchen. The analog clock on the wall says 9:07, but the digital radio near the sink says 2:53. Well these obviously aren’t very reliable, so I enter the bathroom. The small analog says 5:26. Okay, the one on the nightstand in the master bedroom tells me 3:10. This doesn’t faze me much because you know when you’re tired, you don’t notice when weird things are weird? But then it hits me. Oh, I’ll just check my phone. I reach into my back pocket and press the home button at the bottom of my iPhone. Nothing happens. I hold the Screen button at the top of the device. Absolutely nothing; not even the symbol that it needs charging. Maybe the battery’s just that run down? I can’t find my charger so I’ll let it go. But there’s still no one home.
There’s a small knock on the door.
I know not to answer it. I really do know. But, since I think I’m dreaming because of the clocks, I turn the doorknob.
At first I don’t see anything. I just look out at the lake. Life Lake. That’s what it says in the pamphlets, but anyone who lives here knows the dark history that it was originally named Death Lake, or the Lake of Death earlier in history. During the time when the pilgrims were worried about witches, this was where they were drowned. Later, men started going insane and drowning the loved women around them and –
“Excuse me. Miss,” strangely enough, I didn’t jump when I see the small girl at my feet covered in dried mud. I hope to God it is mud.
“Oh hello, sweetheart. What are you doing outside this late? Where is your mommy, honey?”
“My mommy is across the street. See?” she pointed behind her, ignoring my other question but her gaze remained steadily on me. I was reluctant to take my eyes off of her, but eventually I looked up and there was, in fact, a woman standing on the other side of the small road. I couldn’t see any of her features; the streetlamp silhouetted her, but immediately after I saw her, I felt burdened. Like there was an ominous, oppressive force to her.
“Oh, well let’s go get her, shall we? We could bring you both inside for some tea and cake. Would you like that, sweetie?”
“Yes, I think I would, but I can’t. You see, my mommy isn’t good.
“Of course she is, sweetie! She’s your mommy! Why wouldn’t she be good?” Now I’m squatting to the child’s eye level. I am forcing myself not to look at her mother across the road.
“Well, Miss, because my daddy is in the road.”
It was almost too dark to see before. Now I see it. I wish I hadn’t. I really wish I hadn’t. There is a man lying face-up in the middle of the road. His body is bloody (so, now, I figure that the dried mud on the girl was actually blood) and his limbs are twisted in positions that no person should be able to accomplish, but that isn’t what’s so disturbing.
It’s that she did it. This little girl’s mother killed her daddy. I still don’t understand, though. It had to have been done by a car, but I would have heard a car going by my house no matter what time of day the clocks tell me.
“Oh, you poor baby. You come inside and I’ll keep you safe from that woman. I’ll keep her away from you. And in the morning we can go out for breakfast and then we’ll find you a place to go.”
“Okay, Miss.” She is so polite, I think, and she isn’t crying. Her own father is lying, dead, in the middle of the street and she isn’t crying. I take her by the hand and lead her inside.
As I shut the door on that terrible presence, I look at the girl and feel like another door opened, making me vulnerable.
