Tiny feet

Despite the horror of my childhood –– I spent it trapped in a haunted house –– I was eventually set free. So in a way, there's a happy ending to this story, even if I'm still scared shitless some nights. But you should know the truth about what happened. The spirit that haunted my childhood home is still out there.

While I was set free, my brother wasn't so lucky. Losing him was hard, still is. We were practically inseparable. I guess it makes sense given that we spent our time as young children locked in the same room in the same haunted house.

My mom kept us locked in the room for safety's sake. She spoke through the door, trying to comfort us. She gave us food, and even though my brother and I fought over it, there was just enough to keep us alive. As best she could, mom held us close, but there was no stopping the vengeful spirit that wanted us dead.

*SUFFER THE CHILDREN...SUFFER THE CHILDREN…*

I remember those booming words better than any others. Better than my mom's words –– "I love you" and "I'd do anything for you" and "We'll get out of this together." Better than the constant, ghostly wailing I heard late every night after the lights went off throughout the house.

My brother never said much. We did our best to get through the horrors together. But the vengeful spirit bearing down on our home wouldn't be satisfied until we were all dead.

I remember the house shaking sometimes, as though it was built on top of a fault line. During the strange paranormal earthquakes, blood would cascade down the walls of our room like crimson tears. I also remember lights shining through the walls of the room like angry eyes, always followed by the spirit's booming, hateful voice.

My mom fought back against the spirit as best she could. I heard her courageous protests against the spirit, saying she'd never let it hurt us, which would be met with cruel indifference:

TRY AND FUCKING STOP ME.

One night, everything changed. The house transformed, as though the vengeful spirit was quelled. But the room started pressing inward. It wanted to swallow us whole. My brother and I fought back, clawing and scratching and ripping at the wallpaper. I led my brother forward toward the door, pushing past the closing walls of the room. Smashed almost to death, we fought our way toward the half-open doorway.

Suddenly, a massive knife –– a sword from the heavens –– plunged through the ceiling. That's where my brother's story ends. There wasn't a scream, only sudden death.

The ceiling was ripped open, and I saw my savior: the masked psychopath. Though he was wearing a cloth mask over his mouth, I could see that he was smiling from the look in his eyes. I screamed in protest, even though he was saving my life.

*"I'LL NEVER LET YOU TAKE THEM!"* my mom howled.

But the vengeful spirit was gone for the moment. The masked psychopath, in opening the ceiling, had momentarily exorcised it.

"The pitter-patter of tiny feet," said the psychopath, overcome with joy. "It's a girl."

The psychopath was a man. He had a deep voice that sounded suspiciously like the spirit's.

I remember being blinded by the light of the world, but I was saved. Tentacles reached up, attempting to pull me back into the room, but the masked psychopath cut them away with the heavenly sword.

"She's just a baby," said my mom, "she's just a baby…"

"I'm saving her," said the man.

"What about ––"

"A boy. He didn't make it."

The man turned me toward my mom. I could see that she was dying. Her skin was pale, her hair soaked with sweat. Her stomach was cleaved open by the knife the psychopathic doctor had used to perform the haphazard cesarian, and blood was pouring out of the wound. I saw my brother too –– his lifeless, infantile body almost decapitated due to the single plunge of the scalpel.

I cried. I screamed. Fluid blasted out of my lungs like a busted firehose.

*"She's beautiful…"* said my mom.

"Hold her for a moment," said the man.

My mom held me as she died, stroking my wet, blood-streaked head with a loving caress. I looked into her eyes.

*"Her name is…"*

But my mom died before she could finish the sentence.

The psychopathic doctor wrapped me in a blanket and carried me into the night. It was cold. I remember seeing Christmas lights, a kaleidoscopic rainbow of blues and yellows and oranges and greens.

"Welcome to the world, my sweet," said the psychopathic doctor. I remember him removing his mask. His teeth were crooked and yellow, like a rat's fangs. "It can be a cruel place, but I'll teach you ––"

"HEY!"

I looked toward the source of the voice. It was a young man walking his German shepherd, which began barking furiously at the doctor.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?!" screamed the stranger. "That baby shouldn't be out –– it's freezing fucking cold!"

The doctor dropped me and ran. I fell into a snowbank, hit with a paralyzing blast of cold. The stranger ran over and picked me up, his dog continuing to bark at the fleeing doctor. The man took off his parka and wrapped me with it as I wailed.

"Hush, little one," he said. "You're safe now. I'm going to get you some help."

*\*\*\**

All I remember after that was getting into a car with the stranger and driving to the hospital. And then my childhood, up until about age five, is a gray, fugue state. That can happen when you experience trauma, according to my therapist.

She also tells me that having memories from inside the womb can happen, even if it's a rare phenomenon. Given the horror of those nine months, I'm not sure how I could forget it.

I suspect at this point you'll have two questions.

First, *"Why the hell did you frame this as a haunted house story?"* My answer is this: my therapist said telling it how I remember is the only way I'll get over the trauma. So here we are.

The second question you're probably asking is, *"What happened to the doctor?"* Here comes the terrifying part: he's still at large almost twenty years later. The newspaper named him "The Good Doctor," which I always thought was a bit sensational, a bit insensitive to my dead mom and dead brother's memories. But the Good Doctor –– he's still out there.

DNA collected from the room the doctor imprisoned my mom in showed that he was my biological father. I can't bring myself to say his name, so please don't ask. The only way I survive my daily life is by trying to maintain some sense of anonymity, even if I can't forget the horrors I experienced while in my mom's womb.

I was adopted, coincidentally, by the same stranger who found me the night I was born. My childhood after the horrors of that night was a happy one overall. My new parents and my four siblings are all amazing people. They've done their best to give me a normal life. I think they've done pretty damn well.

But on late winter nights –– always winter –– I can hear the voice of the doctor's vengeful spirit on the wind, and I shudder:

*SUFFER THE CHILDREN...SUFFER THE CHILDREN…*