The Twins that Want to Cook

The Children That Want to Cook

The house was almost normal. Almost...
With a stuffed car on the front porch, the broken pavement, and rancid trash strewn about, it kind of fucked that up. I tried and tried to keep from cringing as we knocked on the door. The awful creaking made my teeth sing just as a woman's bony and haggard hand pulled the door back. A thin framed blonde revealed herself. A little too much. She looked about fifty, and had crushing blue eyeshadow smeared on her lids up to her brow. Red lipstick stained the half burned cigarette in her mouth. She spoke with it dangling in her mouth like a toothpick, and her horrid teeth clacked when she spoke.
"Bout time," she rasped, "the little rates were getting antsy."
I found my lip curling at either the foul reek of the house or the woman's cheap perfume, I wasn't quite sure. Trevor shot me a glance, obviously displeased.
As soon as we looked back at our circumstance, two small children, both around right it then years of age, say in the stairs, staring at us. Both wearing all black in an almost cult-like, proper fashion, and both having the same onyx hair and eyes. They looked nothing like their mother at all. A sense of dress churned in my core, and my throat burned with bile.
"So... what...what is it we need to report on, ma'am?"
Unsure of what was so news-worthy, I tried my best to sound interested.
As of in a trance, the small female cold claimed she and her brother would like to cook. Jesus Christ.
"They've been saying that all month. I don't believe that shit. They'd burn the house down."
The children remained stoic.