Never Fear (52 page)

“
On the second day of
Christmas”

I’ve been in my current foster home
for six months. This one’s a little better than the last, but none
of them are great. They all know how to sign—I wouldn’t be placed
with them if they didn’t—but once my case worker is gone, they
pretend that they don’t. I would probably have a better chance at a
good home if my reputation didn’t precede me, but it always
does.

After what happened at the Christmas
pageant two years ago, I tried to tell everyone about the girl. No
one believed me, because no one else saw her. The thought of a
little girl in a tattered dress causing a massacre was not
something anyone was willing to believe. They also didn’t believe
that the blood seemed to come alive. Never mind the fact that two
years later no one still has a clue what happened. Well, no one
except for me—the crazy girl.

Theories have abounded, from some kind
of chemical warfare to a gas leak. Not one thing these so called
“experts” come up with has been able to give a reason for all of us
children still living and breathing. There is no question that we
were there, and yet we lived, while they all died.

My former classmates are all spread
out around the country now. I’ve gone to the library and seen
stories on the internet about how some have capitalized on the
horror we saw that day. They have book deals, movie deals, and even
record deals. Then there are the others. The ones who couldn’t get
past what we saw, who took their own lives. Those are the ones I
can relate to.

Many nights I have fought
sleep, because when I sleep, I sometimes dream. I dream of a girl
who glows and sings words I can’t hear or read on her lips. I dream
of my parents and their friends on the ground, with blood coming
out of every orifice as they tear at their own skin, and then have
the life squeezed out of them by their own blood. I dream, and I
wait. I know that
that
Christmas was not a one-time thing. I know it with all my
heart. The only thing I don’t know is when it will happen
again.

Last year, I went to
church with the foster family I had then, and sobbed as the
Christmas songs were played. I could feel the joy of the people
around me, and I prayed harder than I ever have, asking God to
please not let the people around me die. He must’ve heard my
prayer, because everyone walked out unscathed that night. Everyone
but me. The terror I felt throughout the service was palpable. I
could feel it in every fiber of my being, and at one time, it even
felt like I could see it. I didn’t see
her,
but I was afraid I might.
Afraid that my fear would bring her back.

She didn’t come, but after that family
saw how distressed I was, they said I ruined Christmas for them.
They claimed the other kids—their biological kids—had a horrible
time, and were inconsolable after seeing me fall apart. That’s a
lie. The only reason those spoiled brats had a bad time is because
they didn’t think their pile of presents was enough. Even when I
was forced to give my gifts to them as well, as penance for what I
“did,” it wasn’t enough. I was the easy one to blame, and it was
even easier for them to send me away.

My current foster mother comes into
the attic room I’ve been given and tells me I need to get dressed
for the town tree lighting. I shake my head, and she takes that to
mean that I couldn’t read her lips. I see her mouth form the words
again, and once again, I shake my head. I can tell that she’s angry
when she signs the same thing to me, and she’s even madder when I
sign back that I’m not going. She gets right up in my face and
tells me that if I want to stay in this home, then yes, I am going.
I start to move my hands to tell her I’d rather leave, but then
where would I go. I’m pretty sure they’re running out of people who
can sign that are willing to take me. I sigh and nod my head. I’ll
go.

*

The town square is already filled with
people when we arrive. It looks like the entire town has come out
for this event. We border the big city I used to live in, and while
we’re not nearly as large, the population here is not small either.
Seeing everyone at once is a little overwhelming.

My family pushes their way
to the front, pulling me along with them. I see a choir on the big
stage, and I start to shake. I turn to push my way back out of
here, but my foster father clamps a hand on my arm. I see his mouth
move and can tell that he’s demanding I stay and behave. I try to
shake free, not caring about the consequences right now. I just
know I need to leave before the choir starts. I
need
to.

It’s too late. I can feel
the music start. I turn back to see the choir in their fancy
clothes—and notice a boy in a torn, dirty suit. He looks to be
around five, and I know.
I
know
. There’s going to be another
massacre. I try to yell, but my throat is dry, and underused. I can
feel a sound come out as my throat vibrates, but I know it’s not
enough. I pull on the family’s arms, but they just turn and laugh
at me.

Until the birds come, and
then I can see
their
screams. The crows swoop so close to me that I can feel the
tips of their wings on my cheeks. They don’t attack me as I stand
still, watching the horror around me. But they’re close. Very
close.
Too
close.
It’s like they want me, but they can’t have me. I don’t know why,
but I do know I’m responsible for what’s happening.
Again.

It’s not the same this time, but it’s
just as deadly. The birds seem to be multiplying, and slowly
pecking and tearing the adults to death. Once again, the children
aren’t moving. I want to move, but I can’t look away. I shouldn’t
be watching the silent screams of the victims as they are torn to
death, but I must. I have to see what I somehow caused to
happen.

The birds peck and swallow. Over and
over. Unlike the blood, these deaths aren’t quick. It’s slow,
terrifying. A few adults try to run, but there are just too many
birds. I watch a face being slowly torn off, revealing the bones
beneath, but I focus on something else as the bird goes for the
meaty eye.

I rub my arms, even though
I know I’m not being taken apart. I still feel something on me.
Like when you brush a bug off your shoulder, but still think it
could be there, and for hours you feel
something
. That’s how I feel as I
watch thousands of blackbirds slowly tear apart the adults. I feel
like something is on me, touching me, even though I can’t see
it.

When I can tear my eyes
away, I see the boy. I knew he’d still be singing, and he is. Like
the girl, I can’t tell what words are coming out of his mouth, and
I can’t understand why no one notices him. All I know is that that
girl and this boy are angry, and from the looks of them, it’s no
wonder. I just don’t know how they’re doing what they’re doing. Or
why I’m the only one who seems to be able to see them. I
do
know that they didn’t
come to me last year in the church, and that tells me they are
truly on the side of evil. Just another reason to be
scared.

The other children and I must stand
there for hours; although time passes so quickly, it only feels
like minutes. I’m disgusted by the carcasses that have been mostly
cleaned of their flesh, but I find that I don’t feel much more than
that. I’m sorry this happened to these people, because I know that
somehow I’m connected, but I don’t really care that they’re dead. I
guess that makes me a bad person, but I can’t change how I feel.
And apparently, I can’t change the fates of adults who come in
contact with me when Christmas carols are being sung. I tried to
stay home, but I was forced to go. That woman and her husband died
because of it, but I can’t say I didn’t try, because I really
did.

We Three

Three years. It’s been three years
since the last ones died. I’m seventeen and emancipated now. The
system had to wait until I was sixteen to let me out of it, but I
wasn’t placed with a family for the two years after the boy
appeared and the birds attacked. I lived in group homes where no
one cared if it was Christmas, and they definitely didn’t sing any
carols.

At sixteen, I was offered the chance
to live on my own and get a small amount of money from the state. I
jumped at the chance. Just because I can’t hear doesn’t mean I
don’t know how to take care of myself. I’ve been cooking and
cleaning for years, as well as communicating with notes and hand
signals when people couldn’t sign. I’m told there are apps on
phones now that can help with communication, but that’s not
something I can afford. I live a simple life and I can wait for
small luxuries like a fancy cell phone.

My biological parents had large life
insurance policies that I’ll have access to when I turn eighteen. I
don’t know what I want to do yet, maybe college, maybe not. I can
decide once the money is in my bank account—there’s really no use
in counting on it yet anyway. So for now, it’s ramen some days, and
pork chops when I can afford them. I could have it so much worse,
and I’m truly thankful that I’m still alive, haven’t gone crazy,
and have something to eat every night.

The only problem with the whole
emancipation thing is that I still have to go to school. A social
worker checks in with me every week, and makes sure I’m caring for
myself. The one I have is actually pretty good. She’s even brought
me a bag of groceries to help tide over my meager offerings for a
little longer. Even so, she still looks at me like most people
do.

I may have escaped the state I grew up
in, but I can’t escape the ghosts of my past. The people who died
while I was around. There is absolutely no other common
denominator. The people in the city I grew up in had nothing in
common with the small town that suffered such a similar fate.
Nothing except me, that is.

I’m well-known now—the girl who sees
children who aren’t really there and thinks her Christmases are
cursed. Well, I think they’re cursed. Since no one else believes
that I’ve really seen the children, or that the carols are what is
causing the mass deaths, I must be crazy. Obviously.

I’m not crazy, but
I
am
scared. Very
scared. Three years may seem like a short time to most people, and
the Christmas season is even shorter, but to me it seems to last
forever. I have learned to stock up on as many things as I can
afford, so that I can avoid stores. Their carols are piped in but I
still don’t feel safe if I know they’re playing. Those birds came
way too close to me and I’m not looking for a repeat performance of
carols, downtrodden children who cause blood to gush from people,
or birds. I’m not ashamed to say I hide. I’ll admit it freely if
someone asks. They never do. They just cross the street if they see
me coming, or scoot their desks away from me in class. I’m all
alone, and most days, I’m really okay with that.

*

My sociology teacher is requiring us
to attend one school sporting event in order to observe how people
act at these things. I’ve been putting it off, but I finally used
my free ticket tonight. I watch the people walk in from my perch at
the top of the stands and try to determine why they’re here. All of
them are in red or green, which I find odd. This game is in
December, but from what I’ve witnessed at school, the people here
care more for football than following the traditions of Christ. No
one is charitable toward me, or even slightly welcoming. I moved
here because research said it was a good town, and I thought it
would be small enough for me to escape to. That hasn’t been the
case, and so yeah, I’m stymied by the Christmas colors.

Everyone stands up and
looks to the middle of the field. I don’t know what’s going on but
I stand too. What I see turns my blood to ice. No…no…NO! They
cannot have a choir on the field. I don’t want to watch people die
again. I can handle it but I don’t
want
to. I know I’m powerless to
stop it when I see the three children walking to stand in front of
the choir.

Like the other two I’ve seen, these
children have torn and soiled clothing on. Their faces and other
exposed skin are covered with dirt and their hair appears unwashed.
The three of them look straight at me as the choir opens their
mouths. I know they’re singing… and I know death is coming. Even if
I could yell, these people wouldn’t believe me. No one believes me
and I fear no one ever will.

As I watch with more than a little
morbid fascination taking over me, I see the adults in the crowd
transform. There are no birds, and there isn’t blood dripping from
them, but something’s happening. I don’t know what, until they all
turn to me. Every single adult turns their attention on me, and I
see it. Things I’ve only read about in books or seen on TV. They’ve
turned into ghouls, complete with red eyes and sharp
teeth.

I press my back against the wall
behind me and prepare to be eaten alive. There’s no other outcome.
I don’t have water, fire, or any other weapon at my disposal to
ward them off. I don’t fear death, but I must admit that the
thought of being eaten alive terrifies me just a little. Or a
lot.

My fears are unwarranted as they turn
from me and run for the football field where all of the students
have fled. Ignoring small children, the adults go for the
teenagers. Those kids try to fight, but it’s no use. I see death
once again and this time it’s the most gruesome yet.