08 – Freya

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“So,” Chuck said. “You’re really a wimp after all. Shouldn’t have told me you wouldn’t hurt me, wimp.”

“I said I don’t want to hurt you,” Trystyn said, “but try anything and I’ll keep my promise. You’ll spend the rest of your life drinking dinner through a straw.”

The Caretaker pulled them apart. “That’s enough, you two. We get it. You’re tough. Get over it.”

He pulled out a mop and bucket. “Now, boys and girls, I only have one of these, so you’re going to clean the floor in shifts. I’ll go first to show you what to do, and you lot take it from there.”

He pointed to the wall. “Everyone who’s told a story, line up there.”

Everyone who’d told a story lined up where he pointed. Everyone else took their places after them. The Caretaker shook his head when Chuck and his goons tried to take the last spots and sent them to the middle of the line instead. The girl they’d been behind sighed in relief.

“Your name’s Freya, right?” the Caretaker said.

Freya nodded.

“Well, Freya, since you’re last in line, you can tell the next story.”

Freya’s Story

Our town is small and surrounded by farms. Lots of families here hire transient workers, so we often get a lodger for a season before they move on. That’s why, when the tall, pale stranger knocked on our door asking about a room, I called Mum like usual and left him to wait. Despite the chill, he stayed outside. Usually, they wait in the foyer.

“May I come in?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said. “We can’t have you waiting out there in the cold.”

She took him to the kitchen, and they talked about money or something. I wasn’t interested, not when the latest update of my favorite game had just finished loading.

An hour later, she introduced me to our new guest, Mr. Shush. He worked nights, didn’t say where, and only needed a place to sleep during the day. Everything else, he assured us, would be taken care of by his employers.

Mum showed him up to the guest room, apologizing for her repeated yawns, like she could use some sleep herself. She gave Mr. Shush a key and said she’d have his drink waiting for him when he got back from work. I asked her to pick me up a Coke if she was heading to the store for him.

After school the next day, I saw Mum in town. She’d already spent Mr. Shush’s deposit on a pair of long velvet gloves.

“Aren’t they lovely?” she said.

“Sure.” I didn’t want to tell her she looked like Grandma. “They’re great. Real classy.”

For the first time I could remember, she wasn’t worrying about the bills. She even started giving me regular pocket money instead of loose change she found in her pockets, all thanks to Mr. Shush.

Yet despite the change he’d made in our lives, he never joined us for dinner or breakfast or anything, really. I don’t think I saw him at all after that.

The only sign he was living with us was a complimentary glass of tomato juice Mum left outside his door before she went to bed, and again after she woke. She also bought more long gloves, one in every color.

A few nights later, I noticed a bat outside my room. They weren’t uncommon here, but I’d never seen one so close. It hung upside down right outside my window, facing in.

I snapped a photo on my phone, but the flash scared it off. Bats must move fast because it wasn’t in the picture. It returned later as I was getting into bed. Call me paranoid, but the thought of a creepy rodent watching me sleep wasn’t all that appealing, so I closed the curtains first.

Later that night, I was woken by the sound of Mum shuffling across the carpet. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t really focusing. She looked so pale in the hallway light. Was she sleepwalking? And why was she still wearing those gloves?

She tugged the curtains back and looked out the window. My bat friend returned, and she smiled at it before shuffling back to her room. I shook my head and went back to sleep. Mum clearly needed to relax more.

I woke again before dawn, needing the bathroom. The sudden movement must have scared the bat because it launched itself away from my window. Curiously, another bat, maybe the same one, landed outside the bathroom window when I went in. Maybe one was the wife.

On the way back to my room, I caught my mother shuffling into our guest’s room. I followed her, thinking he probably wouldn’t appreciate a sleepwalking old woman rummaging through his belongings and pulling back his curtains.

“Mum, come out. This is Mr. Shush’s room,” I said.

She turned to face me and pointed to a glass. “I’m just pouring our guest some tomato juice, sweetie. Go back to sleep.”

I gave her a half-asleep nod and turned away, but a thought hit me. I hadn’t seen a single carton of tomato juice in this house. Ever.

I looked back. Mum’s finger hovered over the cup, and it wasn’t pointing into it. A long cut in her finger bled into the tumbler, filling it fast.

The sound of Mr. Shush walking up the stairs behind me made my stomach drop. Before I could say anything, he walked past me with a polite nod and took the glass from Mum.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said, and drank it down.

Mum ushered me out and closed the door. She slipped her gloves back on, smiled, and told me she was going to make breakfast.

When she left, I peeked through Mr. Shush’s keyhole. He was hanging upside down in the darkened room, just like a bat.

I made a mental note to keep my curtains closed from now on.

The thought of bats watching me sleep creeped me out after that, but when I woke to find the curtains I’d closed open again, and my mother a little paler every morning, I couldn’t help but think something was terribly wrong.

And Mr. Shush is still living in our house.

Still drinking my mother’s blood.