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Chilling Tales for Dark Nights.
Daycare, written by L. Chan.
Narrated by Kellie Fitzgerald.
I still can't get what happened last week out of my head. I mean, it doesn't fit together
at all. I haven't been able to get any rest for the past few days just thinking about
it, so I just figured I'd write it down here and see if you guys had any better luck explaining
it. I work in daycare. It's a pretty established
place in a big city on the coast. That's about all I can say. I still work there, and I don't
want someone linking this post back to my employer. I'm not supposed to talk about anything
that happens to the kids online. We mostly cater to the professional crowd:
busy people in finance and internet startups, who don't use the office daycare, or don't
have any office daycare. It's a common sight to see someone in a business suit drop off
a baby with a large cup of Starbucks in the other hand; people who can afford to blow
25 bucks a week on coffee. Go figure. One of the attractions was that we offered daycare
for infants as well -- a Godsend for the jet setting crowd in the city, I suppose.
Lucy C. was my favorite baby. Lucy's her real first name, which is all I'm prepared to share.
We all have favorites, working in daycare. We're not like parents, having to spread the
love out equally. Anyway, when you're faced with four screaming babies, you grow to like
the quiet ones more than the others. Lucy C. was as close to a perfect baby as we'd
ever cared for. Wasn't much of a crier, unless her *** was full. Went to sleep like clockwork.
She had a crown of wispy blonde hair, which set off her piercing cornflower blue eyes.
Mr. C., as far as I could gather, was a self-made businessman. One of those internet start-up
companies. I never caught what he did, and the five-minute handovers in the morning really
didn't make for startling revelations about his hopes and dreams. He was always dressed
sharply. I'm not one for chasing fashion, but some of the other girls here whispered
designer labels that I'd only heard of in celebrity mags when they referred to his latest
threads. He seemed genuinely pleasant, if a little distracted in the mornings.
I'd never seen a Mrs. C. There was an Abigail C. on the emergency contact form that all
the parents had to leave with the center, but she was listed as his sister. I know some
of the others joked about whether he was on the market, so to speak, when they saw his
sports car pull up to drop off little Lucy in the mornings, but that was just our equivalent
of locker room talk. He was awfully rich, though, successful in an ecosystem which chewed
up and spit out a hundred other young businessmen every year. Some kind of magic touch, the
others said, coming out of nowhere and building something up like that. Young entrepreneur
of the year award and all that jazz. I try and think back to that morning last
week. Did Mr. C. look strange that morning when he dropped Lucy off? To be honest, I've
been over those five minutes hundreds of times over the past few days. His suit was immaculate.
He greeted me like he did with the rest of the staff: warm smile, a kiss for Lucy, a
gentle request for us "to take good care of his girl." Just about the same thing any of
the other 20 or so parents that hour would have said. Maybe there really wasn't anything
wrong. I keep on thinking back because if things had gone differently, I might have
been able to save Lucy. ***, I don't know why I wrote that. Lucy's fine. Or she should
be. I don't know why I can't get it out of my head that I made a terrible mistake, why
there's this guilt I feel when I check in at work and look at her favorite toys on the
playroom floor. The children were taking their afternoon naps
after their midday meal. The chime told me that someone was at the desk. The other staff
were busy with cleanup, so I went to see who it was. We didn't have any early pickups scheduled,
so I thought it might be someone making enquiries. The guy was dressed in a suit, same as most
of the other parents. It was a rich part of town. My breath caught a little when I saw
him. He was really good-looking. Not your high school crush good-looking, I mean that
guy looked like he was plucked straight from a fashion magazine. He stepped up to the counter
and flashed this perfect white smile at me. There was something about this guy. I mean,
that smile made me go a little weak at the knees, and it's embarrassing to say, but it
also gave me a bit of a tingle down in my pants, if you know what I mean.
And then the strange part. As soon as I felt that little spark of arousal, it got drowned
in this terrible feeling. Dirty. I mean, dirty. Shameful. Like that time I'd walked in to
call my younger brother down for dinner and found him jacking it off to some random ***
site. The kind of dirty that makes you feel like you'll never be able to scrub it off.
When the man spoke, he had a sort of radio voice, you know, kind of deep and smooth.
It fit him perfectly. "Mr. C. and I had an agreement. I'm here to
collect Lucy," he said. Not that Mr. C. sent him. Not introducing
himself. It was such a strange thing to say that I just stood there and gaped for a minute.
He just stood there, his eyes twinkling with good humor from that devilishly handsome face,
like he already knew the punch-line to the joke.
It was an odd request. But we do get third party pick-ups from time to time. It's very,
very rare. And we either need to be told in advance or be informed personally by the parents.
Nobody had mentioned that baby Lucy was going to be picked up that day.
I told the man that we couldn't do it unless he had authorization from the parent. He appeared
to wait a while, deep in thought. Then he smiled and told me that everything had been
arranged. He gestured towards the phone on the table. Just then, the damn thing rang.
I jumped, a little edgier than I should have been. This strange man was really making me
nervous. He had this weird air around him. It was intimidating, like I was totally undeserving
of his attention. His stare made my breath catch in my throat.
On the phone. Mr. C. That was odd. He didn't have my number. Hell, I didn't have his number
stored on my personal phone either. And it was on FaceTime as well. I accepted the call
and Mr. C's face filled the screen. Something was off about that call. At first I figured
it had to be the network connected. A little lag. His lips were out of sync with his voice.
It was a disconcerting image, like a badly-dubbed film.
"Hey, there's a guy over there with you, right?" Mr. C. had a look of intense concentration
on his face. There was something else there, a mark on his cheek. It was too small, too
blurry on the screen of my phone to make out. I knew for sure that it had not been there
when he left Lucy in the morning. It seemed like some angular shape, the size of a quarter.
"Yes, there is, sir." I was mesmerized by the video feed.
"You need to give Lucy to him, you hear? Just give him Lucy." His tone was clipped, urgent.
There was something else about those flapping lips. They seemed to be repeating the same
thing over and over. "If you say so, Mr. C. Is there something
wrong?" Same two words. I could almost make them out.
"Nothing's wrong. Just give him the girl. I'll be fine after that." I could see the
slight parting of his lips for the sibilant, a small roll of his tongue for the second
word. And repeated, over and over. I looked back up at the man, standing there
with the quiet smirk on his face. "I'll go get the baby." I left him there, and slowly
made my way to the crèches.
S. L.
I turned the words around in my head. What could Mr. C. have been trying to say. S. L.
Save. Save? Lucy? I stood over the crib where she lay sleeping.
She gave a gurgle of complaint as I scooped her up into my arms. Save Lucy, Mr. C. had
said. Did he know about the man at the counter? What agreement did they have? My mind was
clouded with questions. I'd been given a direct instruction from the parent. Maybe there was
a home emergency or something else. The man beamed widely. He drew closer to the
counter. There was a smoky smell about him. I hadn't figured him for a smoker, with his
perfect white teeth and his toned physique. He reached out for Lucy. I stopped short.
"How do I even know you're the man that Mr. C. told me about? You could be anyone," I
said defiantly, not intending to let her go without a fight.
"Oh, Mr. C. and I go back a long way. You could call me a Godparent, almost." His mouth
twisted at the penultimate word, like it left a sour taste in his mouth. "I've been watching
over her since she was a baby. Here, I'll prove it. She has a small birthmark on her
left hip. Check and see." Triumph. There was no such birthmark on her.
I'd gone over the files of each of my charges and I knew them almost as well as their parents
did, maybe even better. After all, I spent more time with them. I placed Lucy on the
table and tugged at her ***. Expecting to see pale skin, my mouth dropped open when
I saw that angry red mark on her hip. That was not all. It was familiar. It was the same
mark that had been on Mr. C's cheek. I try and try to remember what the mark looked like,
but every time I do my mind slides of the shape. It's slippery in my mind, like trying
to grasp a fish. It was small and angular, almost like one of those runes they have in
fantasy novels. That's the worst thing. I stared at it for a good five minutes and I
can't form the shape in my head when I try to remember it.
"You seem reluctant, young lady. I assure you that no further inconvenience will befall
you regarding this matter. The business is between me and baby Lucy here." He leaned
forward over the counter. "It's a slow day. I suppose you and I could come to some small
agreement for the handover? The child needs to be given willingly, and I'd hate for this
to be delayed any further than it already has." The smell of smoke grew stronger.
I picked up the baby and hugged her to my chest. She began to squall at the uncomfortable
pressure. "I'll need to speak to my supervisor about this," I said. The man sighed and straightened
up. "I was really hoping to be done with this business this afternoon. No matter. What's
due to me will come in the end, if not from you, then maybe from someone else more amenable."
I turned around to call for the manager, but when she called back and I turned to the counter,
the man was already gone, without so much as a chime from the door. I shook my head.
He had been there a moment before and there hadn't been a single noise when he disappeared.
He left nothing but the faint smell of smoke and a freezing cold spot on the counter where
he'd rested his elbows. I censored the worst part of the events of
the afternoon, saying that someone had come by to pick Lucy up and left without her. The
manager, Jane, didn't believe me. She looked Mr. C. up on the register and gave him a call
from the counter phone. I watched, biting my lip, as her jaw dropped and her face turned
white. "You must have been mistaken." She swallowed. She took a shuddering breath. "That
was the cops. Mr. C. is dead. After dropping Lucy off this morning, he drove straight to
his office and blew his brains out." I shivered. Jane mistook my reaction for shock. That it
was, but shock of a different kind. I took a look at my call history. Three thirty-five.
The call was at three thirty-five. I shook so hard the phone clattered to the floor.
Jane was still her take-charge self. Even while reeling from shock, she managed to call
up the emergency number from the register with shaky fingers and dialed Abigail C.,
Mr. C's sister. The cops weren't going to pick Lucy up; they had better things to do.
She would be on the red eye flight over to get Lucy first thing in the morning. That
left us with the problem of taking care of the baby overnight. Jane offered to pay me
double to stay there overnight with Lucy and I'd get the day off the next day to boot.
It was a practical decision. None of the staff had small children at home and it would be
easier to leave the baby in a familiar environment than to move all the stuff to one of our houses.
I had settled down for the evening. Dinner was some forgettable microwaved package out
of the fridge. At least the place was set up for sleeping over. I'd been given a couple
of hours off to grab an overnight bag and a shower. One by one, the rest of the staff
said goodbye, until it was just me and Lucy. I couldn't shake off the feeling that there
was someone else in the center apart from Lucy and I, the kind of feeling you get on
the small hairs on the back of your neck that something isn't quite right. I put it down
to that creepy episode with the dark man earlier in the day and that impossible phone call.
I checked on Lucy for the fifth or sixth time. She was sound asleep. Sleep came less easy
for me. Lucy's crying woke me up in the middle of
the night. I rushed over to the next room. I checked her ***; she didn't need changing.
It was only after I blinked the sleep from my eyes that I saw the indentation of a hand
on the clean white sheets of her crib. A big print. A man's hand. I didn't have to touch
it to know that it would be freezing cold just like the countertop, but I did it anyway.
I sucked at my lips as the cold sheet burnt my finger, almost like putting my finger on
an ice cube straight from the freezer. I hugged Lucy to my chest.
I gave a little scream as my phone rang from the next room. I looked at the number. Mr.
C. It took me three tries to hang up, my quivering finger missing the little spot on the touch-screen
over and over. Immediately after I killed the call, my phone sounded again. And again.
And again, until I powered it down. I glared at it, chest heaving.
Ever wondered what goes through your mind when there's nothing pumping through your
veins but ice, and no motivation but raw animal fear? Nothing. That's what. Instincts take
over. You look for an escape. An opportunity. But what was there to run from? The feeling
that I was being watched by that dark stranger? The phone calls from a dead man? I hit all
the lights in the center, power bill be damned. I felt trapped by those cheery pastel walls.
I looked at the clock. Three A.M. Another three hours till first light. I held Lucy
tighter. Those were the longest three hours of my life.
A rap on the front door woke me up. A tall, thin woman stood outside the glass doors of
the centre. She was dressed for mourning, black from head to toe. It was windy out,
her short bob whipping around her head. I hurried to let her in. She introduced herself as Mr. C's sister.
Sensing my doubt, she showed me her driver's license and the phone which had the number
on our records. Lucy didn't complain when the lady picked her up.
I got the release form ready and passed it over for the lady's perfunctory signature.
Everything checked out except for one thing. She didn't have a trace of sadness around
her, apart from a little dark under her eyes from the late flight across the country. Funny,
for someone whose brother had just shot himself. She flashed me a smile as she pushed the signed
form back across the glass counter. I watched her stride confidently back out
through the glass doors. There was something out of place with Mr. C's sister.
"From someone else more amenable." That's what the man said. If not me, then "someone
else." There was a thud as the door closed. The wind
snagged the woman's hair from the collar of her dress, and there, red and raw on the nape
of her neck, was the same symbol. By the time I got out from behind the counter
and out through the door, they were both gone. It's been a week. Mr. C. didn't have family
in town. The authorities didn't bother us about her, really. A cop called by to make
sure that she had been handed over to an appropriate guardian and that was that. When nobody was
looking, I would try dialing both Mr. C's number as well as his sister. The numbers
were live for a day or so, and then they were disconnected. I've tried for hours to remember
the symbol that was on Lucy's hip, the bizarre thing that appeared the day her father died.
But I can't. I just can't do it. I wonder what kind of agreement he had with
Mr. C, and how Lucy fit into the whole thing. I hope that Lucy is alright, somewhere out
there, and that I'm just being paranoid. I know deep in my heart that this is a lie I
need to tell myself if I am to have any semblance of normalcy after that one day. Most of all,
I try to forget the face of the dark stranger with the perfect smile, who made me feel all
hot and shameful at once, and those freezing cold hands. And I lie awake in bed, hoping
that if I forget him, then maybe, just maybe, he will not remember me.