Practice Makes Perfect

The rain had a strange way of hitting that roof. Louder than necessary, and dripping in a few places. Leaking into the dimly lit living room with sad little plops in sad little buckets. It was an uneasy rhythm to an uneasy evening. One of many in the last month. You see, the Walsh family had been seemingly cursed. Not in a literal sense - at least to their knowledge - but it sure felt like it.

The knock on the squatty little front door made all of them jump though, if that's any indication of just how on edge the family was.

Georgie got up to get the door. She was the eldest daughter. Not a care in the world other than the occasional book or racoon trekking across the backyard. She meandered across the house. Past her mother, numbly knitting in the rocker. Her father. Muttering some angry polish at the television. And her two brothers. Fike and Andy bickering over a headless barbie doll that, to be honest, Georgie had not the slightest clue where it came from. It just… showed up.

Following the procedure for answering the door, Georgie hid the mace. Tucked the knife under her baggy knit pullover and tousled her hair a little. Glanced down at what she was wearing - good enough. It would probably just be the bloody post man anyway.

She eased the door open.

Her eyes narrowed.

The slanted porch was empty. Wet street faintly glowing from the only two working street lights but otherwise - vacant. Not even the distant stir of the stray cats. She found this peculiar but simply shook her head and disappeared back inside. Some ding dong ditcher maybe. Wouldn't be the first time. She wandered back to the couch and sat. No one had moved, they had all seemingly relaxed into a trance. The static tv buzzed on through the night.

Moments passed in the sound of the black and white film. Her mother loved them - her father could care less. At least that's what he said, but he was watching them just as intently as her. Knotting his hands together at the intense moments. Fike even said he’d seen him cry once when one of the lovers met a tragic death. Once.

Georgie was occupying herself with mending her favorite black dress. Half paying attention to the movie but mostly she couldn't care less. However, something did seem strange. The sounds this movie was making, the voices… She sewed a little slower.

All the voices were jumbled. Poor quality. But they were loud for it being on such low volume. Still, she couldn't pick out a single word. She could sense the tension though. An urgency. And where was the scratching sound coming from…

She stole a glance up at the screen. Sure enough two black and white people in dapper 20’s clothes. At some bust stop in a bustling city.

“Mamma?” Georgie ventured, as casually as she could.

“What.” Her mother grunted. Not taking her eyes off the screen for a second.

“Could you turn it up? I can barely hear them?”

Her father was the first to look at her. Then her mother and the boys. The boys just laughed like their older sister was an idiot. Nothing new - but her mom had never looked at her like that. Perplexed and concerned and almost angry. Her father is just the same. No one spoke for a good few seconds.

“Georgie…” Her father chuckled nervously. “This is Fraust. It's a uh… silent film?”

Georgies stomach did a little flip flop. Snapped her head back to the television. The woman was crying. And all she heard was a young, faint laughter.

“Right, my bad.” She muttered absent mindedly. They all went back to the apparently silent film without a second though. And yet if they would have looked at their daughter a second longer, they would have seen something was very wrong. For all the color drained from her small round face. Her hands white-knuckled the small sewing kit. It's happening again. She thought.

Georgie got up surprisingly fast for the state she was in. Marched up to her room. She listened to her own footsteps echo down the hall… unease gripping her. She flipped the lights on, shut her door. Paced for a good few seconds. She was desperately trying to shake it off. Paranoia was something they were all very familiar with at one time or another. Once, almost a week ago, Andy had seen a shadow on his wall in the dead of the night. Fike told him it was his bad dream but the very next night it appeared again. They threw an axe right through the wall. And every night since then they sleep in shifts.

Georgie sat on the edge of her bed. Breathing slowly. The voices and sounds and scratching were gone. It was truly silent. She knew she was just on edge from the door -

Her stomach did a half dozen cartwheels at the sharp sound of something hitting her window. Some muffled thud in the rain.

She stood. It thumped again. It slid up the glass.

She brandished her small little knife and threw the patchwork curtain aside. Nothing. Her heartbeat was quickening. She turned, analyzing everything in her room. Everything in her sight. Back to that single picture window. She had never not trusted her own room. Nothing had ever happened there ever. But now the shadow on her chair looked a little different. She didn't exactly remember leaving her closet door open a crack. And was her glass spilled earlier? Surly she hadn't worn her muddy boots on the carpet…

No. She shook her head vigorously. Laughed. She knew how ridiculous the words sounded. She could shake it off. But she couldn't shake those darn chills. Or the faint whisper of the window sliding open…

But she did feel the cold wet hand come from behind her, grab her around the throat.

Georgie Acrombe Welsh was, quite literally, never seen again. No one had heard her scream. No one would bat an eyelash till the next afternoon. Assuming she, exhausted, had slept in. This was simply not true, but all the less they would figure it out. Well - that she disappeared. No one would ever know how, until I came back for Fike and Andy. They would relive the same gruesome theatrics I put her through that night. I would lead them in the same. Spook them. Get them alone up to their room, it was easier than. Yank them out the window and it would be a done deal.

Maybe I could distract them like I did her. All I need is their back to the window. It's easy to set up a room. Tip something over. Scratch the walls and open the closet. Just a little. Young children fear their own rooms more than they realize - a beautiful opportunity for folks like me.

After all, I am very good at what I do. I was buried under this sad little excuse for a house decades ago. So, naturally, I have lots and lots of practice.