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From the Mouths of Lambs



Estimated reading time — 7 minutes

It had been an unseasonably mild November day, and my lounge was flooded with the kind of beautiful caramel light that only seems particular to bright Autumn days. My fiancé, a Sports Coach at a local Secondary School, had left that morning for a tour with his rugby team.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright without me?” Jon had asked before he left, cupping my face between his large hands, calloused from too much hockey.
“Actually, I can’t wait to have a break from you!” I’d laughed, ducking away from his reactionary tickle, and chivvying him out the back door, where I stood to wave goodbye.
“Okay, you little toughie,” he’d chuckled as he climbed into his car, “But remember; no playing with matches, no running with scissors…”
“How about talking to strangers?!” I’d called, as he pulled away, waving a huge hand out of the window.
So now I sat down to begin the long, but not entirely unpleasant job of filling in Christmas reports for the children at Nursery school where I worked. I loved my job, and was good at it, despite the endless paperwork, and gradually diminishing pay. I also, honestly, loved to spend time alone. I’d poured myself a large glass of wine, and set a Nina Simone vinyl playing on my beloved record player, feeling surprisingly content, despite the long night of work ahead.
Jamie is a very polite, well-behaved boy, who has begun to show a real interest in drawing…
…. Sonika has become a lot more confident, and is now very sociable with the other children…
…. Leila has been working very hard on her numbers, and is always the first to tidy up after herself…
The children under my care, all aged from two to five, were generally delightful. They were at that inquisitive stage of life that informed so much of their character; when the seeds of who they’d later become were sown. I filled in the reports at an impressive rate, stopping only to replenish my glass and change vinyl, revelling in the freedom of being home alone.
I worked on, uninterrupted, until there was a knock at the door, which jolted me out of my reverie. Standing up, I glanced at the clock, and saw that I had been absorbed in my work for several hours. The music had stopped playing without me realising, and the sky visible through the large windows was now a luscious midnight blue.
There was a second knock, this time from the back door. I was somewhat startled – I hadn’t heard anyone walk down the path by the house, which led to the garden – but also relieved. Only our friends and family knew that the front door was in fact always locked and bolted, as it led directly into Jon’s office. This meant that any knocks from the back door were almost certainly someone we knew, and wanted to see.
I swiftly passed from the lounge into the kitchen, and opened the Yale lock on the back door, puzzled by the decidedly short shadow in the frosted glass. I swung the door open, and did a double take.
Standing on the back patio, looking down at the floor, was the sandy head of a young boy.
“Oh,” I heard myself say in surprise, before a confident voice interrupted.
“Good evening, I’m so sorry to disturb you. Can I come inside?”
I was immediately struck by the intelligent little voice with which the boy spoke. Still slightly dazed by the sudden interruption, I tried to take in who I was looking at.
The boy seemed to be around twelve years old, with blondish hair and freckled skin. It struck me that his clothes seemed more suited to a younger boy; he wore knee-length shorts, a dark blue jumper with a sailboat motif, and shiny, buckle-up shoes. I’d seen it before; children being dressed by a parent who weren’t quite ready to accept their child’s ageing, instead trying to contain them in a time warp, perpetually six years old. However, these children usually complied with this, either retaining the painful shyness of their early years, or constantly teetering at the edge of a tantrum. However this child was precocious: a confident, calm boy, who seemed unperturbed by the dark closing in around him, and perfectly content to knock on the door of a stranger, unannounced. Nonetheless, he kept his chin tucked into his chest, apparently examining his shoes in a rictus of timidity.
“P-pardon?” I stammered, still taken aback by the situation.
“Good evening, I’m so sorry to disturb you. Can I come inside?” the boy repeated, even reproducing the inflection of his first statement. Crouching down, I tried to peer into his face. His eyes were tightly clenched shut.
“Are you alone out here?” I asked gently, “Have you lost your parents?”
I couldn’t explain the acid-like sense of nerves that was beginning to rise in my stomach. There was something about this boy that was making my fingers tingle, as though he had some terrible deformity, but he looked perfectly normal. I chalked it up to the strange circumstances of a knock late at night, and began to look around for another sign of life. My back garden ran straight into a field, and the nearest neighbour was almost a mile away.
“Can I come inside?” the boy insisted. I was now beginning to feel irritated, and straightened up, folding my arms. I gave myself a small shake, and forced myself into work-mode.
“Why do you want to come inside, hey? Where are your parents?” I asked firmly, despite the jittering in my chest. “I’m happy to help, but I need to you explain what’s happened.”
There was a pause, and I got the distinct impression the boy was deciding what to say next. It was similar to when I found kids stealing biscuits from the Nursery kitchen – I could practically see the cogs turning to generate an excuse. His shoulders rose and fell with his quick breath, and his fists clenched in anticipation.
“Do you promise you won’t be angry?” the boy said, in an expressionless voice. It was almost as if he was reading the phrase aloud for the first time – he asked flatly, awkwardly. The roiling in my stomach was now, decidedly, fear.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to be angry about, ok?” I said, crouching again, and trying to look into the little boy’s face, his eyes still tightly clenched. “Just tell me why you’re wandering about here, and we’ll sort it out.” My imagination was beginning to run wild with the shadows. I began to imagine this was simply a decoy; that he was part of a gang, waiting just beyond my line of vision, to run into the house. Or maybe he himself was a thief, carefully disguising himself as a child. I was beginning to panic, when the boy suddenly seized my hand. He fingers were cold and dry, surprisingly strong. Slowly, as if he was balancing something on his head, he began to raise his face to mine and open his eyes.
I understood why he’d kept his eyes shut.
I found myself looking into two onyx pits, shining oil-back eyes, without pupil, iris or whites. I could see my own shocked face reflected twice back at me. I gasped, recoiled, and the boy’s lip curled in angry response.
“You said you wouldn’t get angry!” he hissed, his child-like face warped with rage. I felt myself flush red with shame, and immediately regretted my reaction. What if it was some kind of birth defect, or disability? I thought of the children at work, and tried to backtrack.
“No, no! I’m not angry at all!” I cried, waving my hands as though fanning a fire, in what I must have felt was a pacifying fashion. “Listen, why don’t you pop inside, and we’ll try to call your parents?” I said pleadingly. I immediately wished I had not.
Just as quickly as the anger had come, it was gone. The boy widened his sloe-coloured eyes, stretching his mouth into a smile that seemed to fill the bottom half of his face with teeth. Now, he truly did look disfigured – as though his mouth had been slashed into an impossibly wide grimace.
“You need to say it properly,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked shakily. I was beginning to understand what felt so wrong about the boy. The year before, my grandmother had died from cancer, and I had sat by her bed in the hospital for the last few days of her life, holding her hand. I loved my grandma dearly, but there had been something wrong during those last few days; something sickening. It was as though her dying body had changed the very essence of her; as if she had one foot in each world. Now, just like then, I had that feeling. My whole body was reeling away from an unmistakable presence. Death.
“What happened to you?” I breathed, my own words surprising me.
“Ask me inside. I’ll tell you.”
“No, I –“
“Ask me inside,” he whispered insistently, now calm and compelling. He already knew he’d convinced me. His huge black eyes were now moist, filled with anticipation. He seemed almost to drool.
I blinked, took a sharp breath. My body was moving without my will. I was stepping back from the door, spreading my arms wide, never once looking away from his eyes.
“Come inside.” I said.

“I’m home!” Jon cried as he shunted the back door open with a shoulder. Heaving his bag inside, he listened for a response from Mia. He was met with silence.
“Mia, hello!” he called again, shutting the door behind him and walking into the kitchen, exhausted. A bottle of white wine stood on the counter, open and warm. Jon chuckled, and scooped it up from the side.
“Seriously?!” he shouted, still laughing to himself. “It’s not even 10am! Was it that hard to spend a week without me?”
Silence.
Then, from behind the door to the hallway, a thud.
“Mia?” Jon called, moving towards the hall, “Don’t even try to scare me, I will tickle you until you-“
The door swung open. Jon staggered back, gagging.
The carpet in the hall was completely saturated. No longer beige, it was impossibly crimson; soaked with blood, surely more blood than one body could possibly hold. The air was thick with it, the walls splashed, as though something had been thrown in it.
The week that had passed since its first spill had let it warm; around the radiator, it was beginning to dry and flake. By the door, a large pile of mail was soaked.
Jon was frozen, almost hypnotised. It was then that he noticed a heap at the bottom of the stairs, like a pile of discarded clothes. It too was covered in blood, but Jon distinctly recognised Mia’s grew cardigan.
His body seemed to understand before his mind did. With an involuntary whimper, he realised something within the pile was moving jerkily, savagely. He had only a moment in which to wonder, horrified, what it was, when an emaciated hand dropped onto the sodden carpet, knocked aside.
As the small blonde figure arose from the other side of the heap with something wet and purplish in its mouth, Jon could only wonder dimly, deliriously which piece of his fiancé was the last thing he’d see.

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Credit: Luella

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24 thoughts on “From the Mouths of Lambs”

  1. Fantastic. Genuinely had me scared. However, the description of the bloody room and dead body was a bit over the top (not the scenario itself, just the description ) and in my opinion it could have been described a bit better. 9/10

  2. Mandi Apple Collingridge

    Copied almost wholesale from reports of black-eyed children. Unoriginal and a lot of the language is poor.

  3. BEK are son flipping scary. One time around 2am we got a knock on our house door. Now, we live in a very nice suburban neighborhood with cops around and a fire station just a few blocks round. There’s also hundreds of houses. Now it was during a thunderstorm with freaky rain and lightning, a record for the area. I was awake the entire time and could not go to sleep. Why? Because of a documentary I had watched just hours before about the BEK. Now I was a preteen and scared, living with my parents. Since I loved all that scary crap, we always say down as a family and watched shows like that. But as soon as I heard that doorbell, I just died inside. My dad got up and just as he was about to open the door, I screamed at him. I screamed at him to not open the door, to not do it. That there were other houses, other places the person could go. Just not here, not today. My dad yelled at me back and we argued, but finally he just went back to sleep without checking the door. I can never truly forget about the weird sinking feeling in my heart and the fear I had never felt before, but what I do know, is that you are only confronted by a BEK after you happen to know about them. I learned about them last night. Coincidence, maybe. But I can sure as tell you this. Crazy paranormal things have always happened to me and I know better. Better than to simply just call them coincidences.

    (THIS STORY IS TRUE BTW AND IT DID HAPPEN TO ME AND REALLY STRANGE THING GO ON IN MY LIFE THAT NOBODY CAN EXPLAIN AND ID LIKE TO SPILL IT ALL OUT BUT IM SCARED)

  4. Black eyed kids..I don’t scare easily but something about bEK terrify me. I always wonder what happens when you let them inside..awesome story, would love to read more from you!!!

  5. The story was well written, but I think it would’ve been better if the husband was only gone for a day or two. The monster is still eating one week later? Wouldn’t it have been discovered by now if it takes so long to eat? Just my thoughts on it.

  6. This story isn’t bad, but the subject matter is cliche and overdone. Now don’t get me wrong. Writing about vampire-like creatures isn’t inherently bad, but you need to bring something good to the table, too. Something that puts a twist on the original formula.

    This story doesn’t have the slightest originality, though. It’s the same story we have read a thousand times before, just with different characters in a different location, and the monster maybe has a slightly different name.

    If there’s an upside, I’d say your writing style is pretty good. It reads quickly and is well-paced. The thing is, with a story like this, there’s just no way people are going to be positive about it. The Black-Eyed Children have enough in them to make a great story, but none of it shows.

    1. I disagree with this. I found the black eyes to be terrifying. This story shows the trusting nature of a mother figure and the innocent looking child in need. As a mom I’d help him. That’s what makes this so scary. That child in need ending up being a deadly hunter and taking a woman’s kindness and using it against her. There is a certain depth to this pasta that I really respect and enjoyed. That’s just my opinion.

      1. I don’t disagree with the fact that it’s terrifying, because it is. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s basically just another stereotypical vampire story, crafted entirely to fit the formula. For what it is, it’s quite good, but I feel like it could have been much more.

        1. But it is a child. I don’t see many child vamp stories. It’s a different variation of a stereotypical vampire. To me that is creative.

        1. Chrissy Bordenkircher

          There are stories about black eyed kids who knock on doors and asked to be let in to use the phone. I felt like this was a mashup of the black eyed kid stories and vampires.

  7. See people?! And this is why, reading Creepy Pastas is Good for you! They are often educational and could save your sorry ass? I would have told that little BEK to wait just a moment and then brought him a glass of “lemonade”, spiked with a potent tincture of sage, salt, colloidal silver and maybe, just to cover as many bases as possible, some holy water. Then while he was drinking that lovely little cocktail, which I would insist upon, by feigning something along the lines of, “Oh, you poor dear! Before another word is said, I must insist you drink something! Please! Then, immediately, after you’ve slaked your thirst, we have to get you inside and once you are safe in here, with me, then we can talk”, I would douse It, (hopefully while It strangles & chokes on my little beverage) with a fairly large, but easily handled vessel, containing a fiercely more potent and concentrated version of the aforementioned and obviously, pre prepared and quickly accessible tincture (cute pitcher in the fridge, easily retrieved) which, still resting in my other hand, is coyly hidden,in plain sight,by that seemingly, casually, innocuous vessel…. Going to be honest. If I could get that far in this scenario and It, was actually reduced to a writhing mass, even temporarily, going for the gas can and matches would be my next, very swift action, Its a( fish fingers crossed) blazing, screeching, inferno on my back steps within minutes and by the time ten minutes have lapsed since that little BEK disturbed my alone, wine time, I will be gathering it’s no longer smoldering remains (having extinguished it’s smoldering Black ash heap with another dose of high octane tincture) with a high amp dust buster, with a silver mesh filter of course, which will shortly be enrobed in a binding spell, and promptly buried at numerically magic, but considerable depth. In the end my garden will have a new addition. A strong young oak sapling will be planted in that recently disturbed area of it. My neighbors will wonder, as usual, what the heck I’m up to though, if, they happen to spy my “activities” on the next few new moons. Oh well, they’ll just take it in stride. Thinking I’m just scrubbing my back steps at night in conjunction with some new fengshuai kick…….

    1. 10/10… This is, without a doubt, the best comment I’ve ever read! I’d really like to see this one with an infographic. Could save lives!

  8. Pretty cool :-) I like the use of children as the vamp. makes creepy factor go up when you take something so innocent and turn it into something deadly. Loved it. 9/10. Just a few spelling errors. Otherwise great!

  9. The first part of the story is good, and the second part of the story is good. It’s disjointed between the part where she invites the boy inside and where her fiance finds her.

    The story is extremely creepy, and the pieces of the story are well written. The change in narrative voice is jarring. Particularly going from first person to third person. With a little more meat to the story and carefully worked transitions it might be interesting to work with changing first person perspectives.

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