Missing Pieces, Part One
Hi, friends. Breaking away from my traditional stream of consciousness type of blog posts, I’m celebrating the art of short stories this month. This one teeters on the spooky side, so if the horror genre isn’t your cup of tea, feel free to pass on this read. Thank you for giving me the space to explore and revel in the possibilities of creativity. This is a four-part series, set to release each week over the course of October (maybe). Enjoy...
I was broke. Broker than broke. Stop and investigate a glimmering something on the sidewalk because, best case scenario, it’s a quarter kind of broke. Ramen two times a day, walking five miles one way because gas isn’t an option, scouring through lost and found boxes to find a sweater that fits kind of broke.
The kind of broke that knows no shame because if it gets harder or lower than this, I don’t want to be around to see it anyway, so who cares if someone witnesses me literally digging through a dumpster?
Balancing classes I couldn’t afford with odd jobs that didn’t stick took a toll on my health - mental, physical, spiritual, cyclical, eternal. My skin was nauseated. My hair was breaking and receding back into my brain. Everything was exhausting and I found myself taking necessary power naps in between basic, essential life tasks.
I wasn’t sure what the universe was attempting to instill in me or inspire me to do, but I hated every second of it. There’s no joy in poverty. There’s no rest for the penniless. There’s no hope for the needy.
I’d like to think it’s because of the particular level of necessitous I reached I was somehow more susceptible to the alluring, but misguided teachings of the Rainwater family, but if I’m being completely honest with myself, I would have followed them to the ends of the earth, no matter my financial status. And I just about did.
I didn’t think a Craigslist ad would ever change my life, but here we are: “Small, young family seeking dependable, experienced childcare professional to nanny part-time on a long-term basis.”
I weighed my options. I hadn’t been around children since… I wasn’t sure I was the kind of qualified they were seeking, but responded to the ad anyway.
Sarah Rainwater was a vision. Tall and elegant, but she walked with humility. I’d never be tall or look my age. I’d never be the kind of woman who commands the room with my physical presence - all legs and posture and taking up space.
She was the kind of amazing I dreamed of being as a little girl. The kind of woman who didn’t seem real, of this earth. If only I could get close enough to better study how it was possible for her skin to produce that kind of shimmer with seemingly zero product on her face.
“So, as my sales career picks up and I have less and less free time during the day, we’re hoping to find someone to fill in the gaps,” Sarah said while flicking a piece of lint from her linen pants. How dare a ball of dust desecrate the perfection that is her outfit.
“Do you have any questions about the position?” Sarah asked, sipping a chai tea with the kind of grace I dreamed about. Effortless. Comfortable. Lovely.
“No, I don’t think so,” I responded, hands shaking as I sipped black coffee, “It’s pretty straightforward. Pick children up from school, take them home, make sure they’re happy, keep them safe.”
“Standard ‘don’t let the kids die while I’m away’ kind of stuff.”
Dark, but funny. And all too relatable.
“Exactly. I think I can handle it. Your girls sound amazing.”
“They’re pretty awesome, if I do say so myself. But don’t get me wrong, they’re a handful just like the rest of the 7-year-olds of the world.”
“I’m prepared for that. I have plenty of experience with my siblings.”
“Aw, cute. How many do you have?”
Have. As in, now. As in, alive.
“Two.”
“Well, I like your attitude and availability. When can you start?”
I hesitated. Could I plunge back into this life? Did I have a choice?
“Now, if you need. I’m an open book.”
“Great!” She stood up and finished the last of her tea. “Are you free to meet the kids tomorrow morning?”
I stood, my eyeline meeting her collar bone.
“Definitely.”
“I’ll send you the address. Anytime between 7 and 10 works. Just shoot me a text when you’re on your way.”
And just as she appeared, angelic and perplexing, she left.
I couldn’t sleep that night, which wasn’t unusual, in and of itself, but I had unsettling premonitions about caring for the Rainwater girls.
Would they like me? Would they be purposefully defiant?
Would they refuse to hold my hand as we crossed the street, running into oncoming traffic, their shimmering, auburn hair flying in the wind. Screaming blending with bloodshed with broken bones.
I put myself to sleep to the horror of the hypothetical moving images.
The Rainwater house is 15 or so miles from the city. An inconvenient commute, but the view makes it worthwhile. Rolling hills in the distance. Dense, magical trees line the highway. It was easy to feel calm and at peace with one’s life while making the drive.
Their house sits an acre back from the road, adorned by a classic wrap around porch. It was my first time seeing one in real life.
Sarah opened the door holding a large ceramic mug of coffee. I guess it was habitual for her to look as though she were posing for the Pottery Barn catalog.
“So happy you made it! Come on in,” Sarah said, “Just kick your shoes off on the mat please. We try to minimize the amount of germs tracked through the house.”
“Of course,” I said while untying my decade old sneakers, an embarrassing shade of beige that spoke to their level of cleanliness.
The house was impeccable. Clean, modern, and homey. Everything in it’s perfect place, down to the cat sleeping on his bed.
“Let me run up and get the girls,” Sarah said, already ascending to the second floor, “Feel free to make yourself a cup of coffee.”
I moved to the kitchen and searched for a mug. I heard tiny laughter from upstairs. Chills sped down my spine.
I poured myself a cup of coffee while breathing deeply, slowly.
“There’s milk and sugar out already if you’d like,” said a man’s voice from almost directly behind me.
I jumped. Coffee splashed onto the counters and down to my holey socks. I fumbled with the mug, hoping to God it didn’t shatter into a million pieces on the floor.
I turned to see an older man leaning against the kitchen sink, his arms folded across his chest, as if he was born and lived in that position, staring me down. Everything about him, from the style of shoe to the choice of tea, screamed old money.
He handed me a roll of paper towels. I slipped reaching for them. He made no moves to assist. I cleaned up the mess and he left the room, never taking his eyes off me.
As I finished cleaning the spill, Sarah stepped in.
“Daisy and Dahlia are in here playing, whenever you’re ready,” she said, smiling.
“Great. I’m so sorry,” I said, holding up the wads of brown paper towels, “I have major butter fingers first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, please, don’t mention it,” she said while pointing in the direction of the trash bin, “Plus, my husband delights in scaring the wits out of people. Charles has a knack for sneaking into a room.”
Her mouth curled, but it was less of a smile and more of an involuntary reaction to his name. Very Stepfordesque.
I followed Sarah into the living room and was greeted by darling faces.
The girls were beautiful, which was to be expected since their parents were otherworldly beings who were more likely of Elven lineage than human.
Daisy greeted me with a hug to the waist. Dahlia was more reserved, but managed a small wave without eye contact.
“Hi there,” I said, squatting to their level, “I’m hoping to get to know you both and spend some time with you for awhile, if that’s ok with you two.”
Daisy nodded with vigor, clutching her stuffed sloth. Dahlia stared out the window. Sarah smiled, this time more genuine.
The first few weeks with the Rainwater’s went swimmingly. Daisy was an immediate best friend, filled with love and affection for anyone who walked into her home, and Dahlia was growing more and more comfortable with my presence.
“I found this flower today and it reminded me of you,” Dahlia said one afternoon as I walked them to the car from school.
“That’s lovely,” I said as she handed me a tiny, smushed Dandelion, “I love it. I’ll keep it on my dashboard so I think of you each time I’m driving.”
Dahlia smiled in her usual unpresuming way and took my hand, ready to cross the street.
I didn’t mind crossing as much anymore. The girls listened well and were aware of their surroundings. They held my hands tightly and stayed close to me while navigating sidewalks and public spaces. They were cautiously curious. I didn’t have to fret over their safety. I didn’t have to mourn their little lives.
Sarah and Charles went out of town on a business trip. Something to do with their booming health and wellness company. I was excited to have a night with the little ones to relive my former girl power days of braiding hair, swapping secrets, and eating an abundance of sugar.
After a night of introducing them to the wonders of crispy tortillas doused in butter and cinnamon, I was able to put them to bed without a fight.
I resisted the urge to rifle through random drawers and search for the Rainwater’s dirty, perfect secrets. Something in my gut warned me I was being watched.
I mindlessly switched through trash reality television shows instead and scrolled aimlessly through Instagram, checking the video baby monitor occasionally to make sure the kids were sound asleep. Their little chests moved up and down, up and down, off in a distant dream land, in which no one cried or had auburn hair.
I was dozing off when I heard a muted banging coming from upstairs. A thudding against the wall, as if someone were bouncing a ball against it.
The video monitor was still. No movement from the kids’ rooms.
I crept up to the second floor and stood still. I could hear my heart beating - as if it had split in two and both pieces had leapt up and attached to my eardrums. The banging continued. Louder this time, but I couldn’t discern from where.
I peeked into Dahlia’s room. Nothing. Same with Daisy’s.
I stood in the hallway, barely breathing, for what felt like 15 years. The banging stopped.
After re-checking locks and cleaning up our slumber party stupor leftovers, I made my way up the stairs to the guest room. As I reached the landing, the banging started, much louder this time. I realize my fight or flight instincts look a lot more like freeze, but I had an instinctive, guttural urge to be still and wait, so I did.
As I stood in the landing, enveloped by darkness, I didn’t dare to move any part of me that would alert something else of my presence. Minutes went by and I felt relief wash over my body with every second of silence.
I settled into the guest room bed and tried to welcome sleep. The banging was in my head. The horror’s always in my head.
A text came through from Sarah:
“All going well?”
I debated being honest or being normal. If I told her about the banging, would she relieve my fears, letting me know the water heater has a tendency to mimic an angry carpenter? Or would I send her into a frenzy, questioning if her children are safe, over a house settling in?
I chose to play it safe.
“They’ve been great. Went to sleep a few hours ago.”
I needed Sarah to trust me with her kids. I needed to be trusted with kids.
“Fantastic. Sleep easy.”
I checked the video monitor one more time. Daisy’s room first - fine. Then Dahlia’s.
A shadow swept over her bed. Did it happen or did I blink?
Dahlia stirs slightly. I must have imagined it. I had to have imagined it. I refuse to accept anything other than imagining it.
A shadow appeared beside her bed. It lingered this time. I blinked. Still there. I blinked. Gone.
I continued to watch. My heart joined my eardrums once again. No shadows. No movement. Just a set of eyes that appeared across the room, covered by a dark, hooded mask. The eyes, they smiled into the camera.
I leapt up and ran with a fury I’ve known only once before.
I barged into Dahlia’s room and turned on the lights. She stirred gently.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s ok, just go back to sleep,” I said as I checked her closet. Nothing.
On my hands and knees, crouching, searching under her bed. Nothing.
The window was locked, the furniture was clear, the hooded figure was gone. Nothing.
I picked Dahlia up, leaving the light on, and went into Daisy’s room. She was sound asleep, clutching her sloth. I put Dahlia in bed with her and checked the room. Nothing.
Suffocating memories flooding to the surface suddenly. Barred windows. Chains on feet. Clumps of hair falling from my scalp. Visions of evil men creeping into places they aren’t supposed to be.
After checking the house again - every closet, every nook, every potential hiding place - I returned to the girls, shut the door, and lay down in front of it.
It wasn’t my first sleepless night and it wouldn’t be my last. I refused to lose them like I did my sisters. I would protect them with everything I had left.
Read part two of Missing Pieces here. Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.