I enter the next bedroom, grabbing the laundry.
The boys have barely been back, and the never-ending laundry reminds me of the days when they were young. The washing hampers were never empty. Despite trying to stay on top of it, the pile of laundry was always growing.
I miss those days.
I lean down, picking up the discarded shirt and dumping it in the hamper before I move on to the third bedroom, and then to the fourth bedroom. I walk around the room collecting the dirty laundry, reaching down for a pair of socks beside the bed, when I frown, seeing something on the floor.
“Dirt?” I murmur. But something about it is strange. The hue isn’t grey or brown or black; instead, it’s almost green.
I sniff it, unable to place the smell. It smells… wrong.
I can’t explain it.
What is this?
Placing the hamper down, I get down on my knees and liftthe bed sheet. Peering underneath the bed, I realise the dirt or whatever it is, is inside a large square wooden tray. I drag it out from under the bed to get a proper look.
My heart skips a beat the moment my eyes land on it. This…
I don’t need to be a witch or have any special abilities to know that there is something wrong with this. The more I stare at it, the more my stomach knots with unease. In the centre, there’s a lock of hair, cocooned in stained rope. Five strings spread from the lock of hair and are pinned in five different directions across the board. There are unfamiliar symbols written across the board, around the lock of hair, and where the five ropes are pinned down. I don’t need to sniff the board to know that the writing and the stains on the rope are blood.
Dread pools cold and heavy in my gut. This… this shouldn’t be here...
Why is this here?
Did someone put it here?
No.
A thought crosses my mind, and my chest tightens.
I shove the board away and lean down again, peering into the shadows beneath the bed. At the very back, crushed sheets of paper catch my eye. I lie flat on my stomach, my arms aren’t long enough, so I squeeze beneath the bed, grunting as I grasp the sheets and drag them closer with my fingertips.
My hands begin to tremble as I smooth them out and look them over.
“Goddess…” I whisper.
They’re diary entries, but not just any entries; they’re fuelled with rage and resentment, written with hatred. The pen strokes are angry and sharp.
Once again, he’s the favourite child. The goody two-shoes. The perfect one. Sometimes, I just wish he would drop dead.
I gasp shakily; the room seems to spin as I look at another page.
When they die, I will rejoice. On their blood, I will dine.
My ears ring, my heart slamming violently against my ribs. The handwriting is messy scrawls, but it’s unmistakable. I would recognise it anywhere.
How could a mother not recognise her own child’s handwriting?
The pages slip from my fingers as I frantically skim through them, hate upon hate, rage consuming every page.
I hate her, I hate her with every fibre of my being. She calls herself a mother, but she’s useless and weak. What a bitch. I want her gone.
I freeze, my eyes blurring. Is this a cruel game?
I’m so consumed by the horror unfolding in my handsthat I don’t notice another presence in the room until a shadow falls over me.
“What are you doing?”
