Scary Short Stories

Vicky

It happened ten years ago. I was only eight years old. I woke up that morning to the smell of frying eggs and bacon.  

Stumbling down the hallway, I was greeted by the sight of a dark haired woman at the stove, humming some friendly tune as she filled a cup to the near brim with orange juice. She turned to me and I nearly jumped out of my skin. In a sense she was pretty, but she had a vicious scar running down the left side of her face.

“Andy! You’re up!” She beamed as she picked up the plate stacked with a delicious smelling breakfast. “I had to run to the store, but I hope you like breakfast!”

Too shocked to say anything else, I replied, “I don’t have breakfast. Where’s my mom?”  

The woman laughed and set the plate on the table, now cleared off of shredded bill envelopes and clutter. “She’s gone, so I’m here to make sure you’re all right. You can call me Aunt Victoria, or Vicky, whatever you prefer, I don’t mind! And while I’m here, you have breakfast!” She said in a chipper tone.

Feeling like this all might be a dream, I sat down at the table and took a bite of bacon. It was perfectly crisp, not burnt as it would’ve been if my mom had cooked it. She was always so tired, I normally had to fetch my dinner off the stove myself.

“Is she going to be back soon? My mom?” I asked after I swallowed, it was impolite to talk with your mouth full.  

Vicky shrugged. “She didn’t say. Clean your plate, then you can show me your favorite cartoons, okay? Only until ten though- that’s when we’re going to the zoo!” She laughed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  

The zoo? I remembered my mom telling me that our zoo trip wouldn’t happen this year, she was just too busy with work, but if Vicky was going to take me… I suppose it wouldn’t be too bad to let her stay, I figured, as I chowed down on breakfast.  

Maybe you think I was a dumb kid, and I’ll understand that. Maybe I was. But you have to understand, my mom was a single parent working as many shifts as she could pick up. It wasn’t uncommon for her to send a babysitter my way when she couldn’t get home in time, although typically they were younger teens that spent all their time on the phone and maybe threw a frozen pizza in the oven for dinner.  

Vicky was different in every way for the week she took care of me.

The house was cleaned top to bottom, I helped in the bathroom while Vicky handled mom’s bedroom. Every night meals were freshly cooked and done to perfection. I remember on Tuesday we had a pizza that she made from scratch. I watched her toss the dough in the air like a real chef and asked how she did that.

“I learned from a real chef,” Vicky winked and tossed the dough again, “in Italy.”

“Have you traveled a lot?” Vicky did have a slight accent, I believe it was British.  

She nodded as she set the dough down onto the pan and started adding the toppings. “All over the world. Would you believe that I’ve met the queen?” She winked and I realized she was joking.

“No.”

“Good. You’re a smart kid, Andy. Don’t just believe things people tell you.” Vicky bit her bottom lip as she cracked open the oven to test the heat. “I never believe what the oven tells me. But this time it’s about right for the perfect pizza.”