Come Little Children

by Melhoff, D.

  Camilla looked both ways and hurried to the grand fountain in the middle of the yard, shimmying around it, and sprinted toward the porch. Her feet lunged up the unshoveled steps, then she slipped around the corner of the veranda and waited while her heart assaulted her rib cage. Barely three minutes later she heard an engine start in the distance, and before she knew it, the unmarked van came crawling around the other side of the house and down the driveway.

  Camilla peeked around the wall and watched the van roll by. Brutus was driving and Moira was strapped in the passenger seat, balancing something—presumably Laura’s dinner—in her lap. If everything had gone according to plan, Jasper and Maddock would be riding in the back, leaving Peter and Camilla alone on the grounds with their darling serial-killer daughter.

  The van disappeared through the gate, and Camilla waited until the sound of its tires faded down the road. She walked to the front door and grasped the knob, feeling a shiver chew into her vertebrae.

  This was it. The timer was ticking, the sand was falling. In one hour it would all be over.

  She pushed open the door and entered the place of her nightmares.

  “Thank God.” Camilla sighed, peeking into the north parlor and seeing Peter by the window.

  “That was the easy part,” he said with a look of dark determination. “We’ve got one hour. Let’s get to it.”

  “Is she out back?”

  “I think so. I watched the tree house through the attic all night and nothing moved.”

  “She just stays there?”

  “Sometimes. Some nights she comes down, but never before midnight. We should be good.”

  Camilla looked down and saw Peter’s gun against his leg. “Ready?” She sunk her hand into her pocket and felt the trigger of her own handgun. They leaned forward to kiss, and as soon as their lips touched, a door slammed shut somewhere in the house. Footsteps were shuffling quickly toward them.

  Peter peeked through the curtains. “Van’s back!” he whispered. “Get out!”

  Camilla ducked through the north doorway just as Jasper stormed into the west entrance.

  “Peter,” he lit up, huffing. “Have you seen the removals clipboard?”

  “Clipboard?”

  “Yes, yes. The one with the pickup slips and ankle bands.”

  “I don’t think so…”

  “Blast. I’ll have to check the office.” Jasper turned for the doorway, then turned back. “Why are you wearing a coat?”

  Camilla cringed around the corner. Busted. But Peter didn’t drop a beat. “I was going to shovel the steps.”

  “Shovel? Good Lord, you’re sick. Take that off and get some rest.”

  Jasper was already crossing the parlor for the same door Camilla had gone through.

  “Un-uncle,” Peter stammered. “C-can you…uh…” He reached out to stop Jasper, but his reflexes weren’t quick enough. The director glided through the doorway and sailed right past Camilla without noticing her; she was pressed into a dark alcove so hard that she thought she was going to break through the drywall.

  “Then again…” Jasper mumbled, stopping. “What am I thinking?”

  He turned around and Camilla was gone, having slipped out not a second too soon. He walked back in the north parlor where Peter was still standing, extremely tense, just as the heels of Camilla’s boots disappeared through the other doorway.

  “What?” Peter croaked, undoing his coat button by button.

  “We’ve got forms in the reception desk.”

  Jasper moved for the door that Camilla had just gone through, but Peter successfully blocked him.

  “Don’t you still need tags?”

  “We can tag them when we get back.”

  “But…” Peter fought for words. “We’re supposed to do it at the morgue. You stay here, I’ll get the board for you.”

  “Really, Peter, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is getting there before your mother goes into hysterics. Now please, get some sleep.” Jasper pushed past Peter into the rotunda.

  The oak reception desk was across the room, and Camilla was underneath it, clutching her knees and praying that her hiding spot would hold.

  Jasper’s feet clacked across the marble floor, closer and closer. She saw his polished boots approaching, and there wasn’t even time to take a deep breath before he came around the back of the desk and pulled out the office chair.

  Camilla was fully exposed, cowering like a trapped animal.

  Jasper’s eyes registered her and bulged behind his spectacles. “You!”

  Camilla kicked out her legs and felt a stab of remorse as she buckled the old man to the floor. She scrambled from under the desk, but her uncle-in-law’s gnarled fingers seized her arms and pulled her back down, yanking her beside him on the marble surface. Their arms and legs grappled as they fought for the upper hand, but the ground was slippery with melted snow and neither of them could find their footing.

  Camilla was suddenly on her back. She leveraged her legs and propelled Jasper off to the side; he went spinning across the marble as she jumped to her feet.

  “Stop!” Jasper cried. “Don’t move!” His hand was fumbling for something inside his vest. As he drew out an old pistol with a weak, trembling hand, a loud thonk echoed in the room, and the old director crumpled to the floor.

  Peter was standing above Jasper’s body with the golden shovel from the parlor’s fireplace. “Sorry,” he panted. “Had to find something that wouldn’t kill him.”

  Both of them looked at their unconscious relative sprawled across the floor, when suddenly there was a honk! honk! from outside.

  “Shit,” Peter swore. “All right. OK. I have to go talk to them.”

  He dropped the golden shovel with a loud clang and did up his coat again, rushing for the front door.

  “Wait,” Camilla called. She flung open a reception drawer and pulled out a stack of blue forms. “Take these.” Peter grabbed the stack and darted outside.

  Camilla stepped over Jasper and entered the south parlor, peeking through the window shades to see what was happening on the driveway. She watched Peter approach the passenger’s side and tap on the window. Moira rolled it down, a look of confusion creased in her face, and they exchanged a few words. He tried pushing the blue forms inside, but she refused to take them and kept pointing insistently at the house, mouthing Jasper at least four or five times. Peter shook his head and persisted with pushing the forms in the vehicle, and after a good minute of arguing, Moira snatched the papers—not pleased—and smacked Brutus on the head with them. Drive!

  The van took off. Peter hopped back up the veranda and reentered the front hall as Camilla rushed to meet him.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Uncle got a phone call from the revenue agency and has to sort it out. Pretty weak.”

  “Whatever,” she sighed. “They’re gone.”

  “Yeah.” Peter stopped. Suddenly his eyes were zipping around the room.

  “What?”

  “They’re not the only ones who are gone.”

  Camilla backed away and looked around the rotunda. At first, she didn’t know what he was talking about, but then it was glaringly obvious. Jasper was missing.

  Peter picked up the golden ash shovel from the floor and motioned Camilla behind him. “If he comes at you again,” he whispered, “don’t be gentle.”

  Peter gripped the bar in both hands and put his back against the north parlor frame, like a cop about to burst into a dangerous scene. He stopped and listened.

  It was completely silent. Not a creak in the house.

  He paused for another few breaths—swallowing some nervous spit—and then threw himself around the corner and plunged into the parlor.

  Camilla stayed back, watching him vanish inside. Suddenly there was a loud clank of the shovel crashing to the floor.

  “Peter!” she screamed. She bolted into the room—

  And stopped dead in her tracks.

  Peter w
as standing in the center of the parlor, but he didn’t turn as she ran up behind him. And she wasn’t looking at him either.

  Both of them were staring straight ahead at Jasper’s body. It was splayed over the lid of the baby grand piano with a long carving knife protruding from his chest. His head was missing, and the blood from his neck was dripping down the black-and-white ivory keys, cascading to the plush piano bench, and pooling under the polished gold pedals of the 1892 Steinway. Behind the piano—above the mantelpiece—was a bloody message scrawled across the faces of the Vincents’ ancestors in their beloved family portrait.

  To Mom and Dad, love Abigail

  31

  Divided

  The gory tableau—Jasper’s headless body sprawled across the baby grand—curdled Camilla’s stomach fluid and sent tremors vibrating through her body. But the worst part wasn’t the pose. Or the blood. Or even the flaps of skin sagging around the stump where his head used to be.

  It was the serrated knife sticking out of his rib cage.

  Mom, do we own a long knife? Uncle Jasper needs a long, long knife; a long serrated knife. I need to saw his head off with a LONG, LONG KNIFE. And a rope. For you, mom. A rope for you…

  Camilla’s hands went to cover her throat as her daughter’s voice gonged between her temples, louder and louder, overlapping in a deafening cycle until she felt a set of hands close around her waist and pull her out of the room.

  “Look at me. Look!” Peter forced their faces so close that their noses were touching. His hand dived into Camilla’s pocket and pulled out the gun, forcing it into her palm. “Take it. Keep it up.”

  But his voice sounded like it was fifty feet underwater. Camilla looked back at the north parlor and saw Jasper’s blood oozing into the vestibule. Her hands drooped, but Peter grabbed them again and jostled them back to her chest. “Up! Keep it up!”

  Camilla snapped out of her trance, tightening her grip on the gun. She was ghostly white and glistening with sweat, but she nodded, scared and alert.

  They slunk through the arch beside the reception desk on the balls of their feet. She noticed the door on the gun cabinet was hanging askew, and as Peter rushed forward and filled his pockets with extra ammo and another pair of Glocks, she scanned the area outside the chapel. It was still. Silent.

  BANG!

  They whipped their necks at the hallway toward the dining room. The slam had come from one of the doors at the back of the house.

  Peter rushed ahead, and Camilla jogged to keep up. The alcoves flashed by on either side. She tried her best to target her vision on Peter’s back, afraid of seeing the beady eyes and the swaying nooses from her nightmares in the spaces flashing by, but in every black corner Abigail was waiting for her. Waiting to pounce.

  Show yourself, Abigail. Don’t hide or try to scare me with those fake, phantasmal pinpricks anymore.

  They emerged in the grand dining room and followed the wall to the door that separated the public half of the manor from the stark, surgical half.

  This was the door that slammed.

  Peter reached out and tested the handle. The tip of his Memento mori tattoo stuck out of his sleeve, and Camilla silently wished that he had used the other arm instead.

  The door croaked open and revealed the back hallway, washed in its nauseas-green hue. The lights hummed like cages of hornets daring them to step inside and get stung.

  There was no cover as they passed the threshold and slunk down the narrow hall. Their guns were pointed firmly in front, but if Abigail sprang out of the embalming room or popped around the corner at the end, they’d be fish in a barrel.

  Their heels clacked quickly over the floor. It was only forty feet long, but it seemed like four hundred. Camilla’s blood pounded in her ears as they reached the embalming room and Peter braced himself against the double doors. He shouldered his way through—

  Boom, boom!

  And the lights flashed on, revealing…

  Nothing.

  Camilla stayed by the doors, peeking out the portholes for signs of danger, while Peter looked in the closets and cupboards around the embalming tables and the crematorium.

  “Not here,” he concluded. “Ready?”

  Camilla checked the portholes—both directions—and nodded.

  They slipped out again and rushed to the end of the hall. Their backs slammed against the corner that turned onto the last stretch of the house, and Peter lifted his fingers and mouthed a silent countdown: three…two…one…go.

  They hurled themselves around the corner, gun barrels first, and spun into the final hallway.

  It was empty too.

  There were three doors—one to the garage, one to the basement, and one to the walk-in freezer—all standing wide open. For a second Camilla saw nooses swaying in the frames, then she blinked and they were gone.

  But Peter wasn’t looking at the doors. He was staring at the row of gurneys lined up like shopping carts along the far wall. “Luke took the gurneys,” he whispered. Some blurry realization seemed to be coming into focus.

  “What?”

  Peter didn’t answer. He was still mumbling to himself. “She was already back here…back here. Why?”

  Camilla was first to step forward this time. She walked to the basement door frame and stared down.

  The light was on at the foot of the stairs.

  She put her first boot through the doorway, and Peter hissed, “Wait!”

  “She’s not down here,” Camilla said, taking one more step onto the staircase.

  “How do you know?”

  “The bulb’s not swaying. It’s been on awhile.”

  “That doesn’t—”

  Too late. Camilla vanished, and Peter was forced to rush after her. As he pattered down the rotting steps, he called out quietly, “Camilla? Camilla?” And when he curled around the bottom landing, he saw her standing at the oak cabinet across the den, rifling desperately through the cupboards and drawers.

  “What are you doing?”

  She stood on her toes and felt along the top shelf. “Praying again.”

  “Sorry?”

  Her hands dove into the deepest and darkest crooks of the cabinet, but there was nothing there.

  “When Abigail watched me bring the Cory girls back—”

  “What!” Peter spit. “You brought the twins back?”

  “Yes.” She came off her tiptoes and slammed the cabinet shut. “It didn’t go very well. But worse, Abby saw the whole thing.”

  Peter ran his hands through his hair. “So you think…what?”

  “I think we’ve got a problem.” As she turned around, the naked light bulb that dangled above her head elongated the shadows on her face and accented her look of fear. “The seeds are gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Gone.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “what’s she gonna do? Dig up a few bodies and drag them all the way home with the whole goddamn town watching? She can’t even lift a shovel.”

  “You’re right,” Camilla said, a swell of new panic adding to her spectral face shadows. “Why dig up bodies when she’s got a whole freezer of fresh ones right here?”

  Their eyes popped open and they rocketed back up the staircase, erupting into the hallway and tearing toward the farthest door—the freezer room—that was standing wide open.

  The light burst on and bathed the room in a cold blue flicker.

  “Oh my God,” Peter moaned.

  The room was bare, save for the very center. There was a hacksaw and a scalpel lying in a pool of dried-up blood, and beside them was the family’s forbidden chest. The sacred box was smashed open, splinters shelled over the floor, and all of the seeds were missing, along with the racks that normally lined the walls of the refrigerated room.

  “The yard—” Peter said.

  But Camilla was already moving. He whipped after her for the garage, and as they tore past the hearse and the town car, she already had her hands up to push the back exit open. S
he erupted outside, gun in front, and stepped into the courtyard.

  Her legs stopped as Peter caught up behind her.

  “Aw, shit,” he groaned again.

  Between their footprints was a set of parallel lines running through the snow. The tracks stretched in front of them, trailing all the way down to the edge of the pond where they reached a part of the ice that was completely smashed in. And floating in the water among the broken ice chunks were three stainless-steel body carts.

  “That little fucker.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “That smart little fucker.”

  As the sun set beyond the courtyard fence, a cold wind blew through and sawed at their cheeks like a serrated knife. Beyond the pond, the ominous tree rippled as though it was laughing at their unavailing plight.

  Camilla pictured heads starting to pop out of the water: a whole score of Cory sisters rising up with deep, sunken eye sockets, about to run at her with their strangling fingers. She looked up and noticed a pale crescent moon starting to appear in the sky.

  “AHHHYEEAA!”

  The bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence and echoed inhumanly on the wind.

  “That’s—”

  “The front yard.”

  Peter flew up the patio, and Camilla was right after him. Inside, the wailing pierced the walls and crescendoed as they ran through the kitchen, the dining room, the rotunda, and the chapel corridor before erupting onto the front veranda.

  The screaming was coming from Moira.

  She was keeled over by the front gate, her mouth hanging open as she let out a wretched wail. Brutus and Maddock were beside her, both of them as pale as the white van parked in the background.

  Camilla blanched when she saw what Moira was screaming at.

  It was the grand fountain in the middle of the yard. The pump hadn’t been running for months, but now there was a dark red liquid dripping off the circular tiers from the top to the middle to the base. At the very peak, impaled on the pinnacle spike, was Jasper’s decapitated head.

  “Mom!” Peter shouted, flying across the driveway toward them. “Turn around!”

  “Who did this?” Brutus hollered. “WHO DID THIS!”

  Camilla stepped around the fountain, and the look in Moira’s eyes turned molten lava. Moira stumbled ahead, her face contorting with rage, but Peter seized her shoulders and held her back.