The Crimson Collector

The rhythmic creak-crunch of the rusted swing set was the only soundtrack to Mia’s childhood. At nine years old, Mia was a ghost in her own schoolyard.

While other children clustered in screaming groups, Mia sat on the black rubber seat of the lone swing at the edge of the woods, kicking her scuffed sneakers into the wood chips.

The loneliness wasn’t a sharp pain anymore; it was a dull, heavy fog. That was until the afternoon the fog turned crimson.

Mia first saw the flash of red near the tree line. A girl, looking no older than herself, stepped out of the shadows. She wore a pale pink puff dress that looked far too formal for the dirt path, a thick red sweater, and bright red stockings. Her hair was a startling, vibrant crimson.

“I’m Rosie.” the girl said, her voice like wind through dry leaves. “Do you want a snack?”

Rosie held out a handful of strawberries. They were the deepest red that Mia had ever seen, dripping with juice. When Mia ate one, the sweetness was overwhelming—almost dizzying. From that day on, Mia wasn’t alone.

Four weeks later, Rosie became the perfect companion for Mia. They played for hours, Rosie pirouetting in her pink ballet shoes, her red hair whipping around her like fire. Rosie had a “special trick,” too. She could “Color the World.”

With a wave of her hand, the gray park would take on a vibrant, oversaturated hue. The grass became emerald, the sky a bruised purple, and everything felt soft, like a dream.

“It’s better here when I color it, isn’t it, Mia?” Rosie would whisper, leaning in close. “Don’t you wish that it could stay like this forever?”

However as autumn bled into winter, the “Coloring” started to feel different. The vibrant reds which Rosie had conjured began to look less like sunsets and more like stains. Even Rosie herself began to change.

Soon, Rosie stopped playing with Mia, and she started watching her instead. Rosie began demanding every second of Mia’s time. If Mia looked at her mother or tried to speak to a classmate, Rosie would stand in the corner of Mia’s vision, her eyes widening until the whites showed all the way around.

“They don’t love you, Mia.” Rosie hissed one evening, her voice losing its sweetness. “I’m the only one who gives you the red fruit. I’m the only one who makes the colors right.”

Mia grew terrified. Rosie was no longer a friend; she was a shadow that wouldn’t leave. One night, Mia huddled under her covers, sobbing, and said,

“I don’t want to see you anymore, Rosie. Go away!”

The room went cold. The smell of rotting strawberries filled the air. Rosie didn’t scream; she laughed, a jagged, wet sound, and said,

“You’re coming to my garden, Mia, where the colors never fade!”

Rosie reached out, her fingers elongating into pale, spindly talons. The air behind her ripped open like old fabric, revealing a dimension of swirling crimson fog. Rosie grabbed Mia’s arm, her grip was cold as ice, pulling her toward the tear in reality.

Mia felt her feet leave the floor. The “Coloring” power hit her full force—the world turned a blinding, nauseating red, but the fear gave Mia a sudden, violent strength. As Rosie pulled, Mia planted her foot against the doorframe and shoved back with everything she had, screaming,

“YOU’RE NOT REAL, ROSIE!”

With a sickening pop, the connection snapped. Rosie tumbled backward into the red void, her face contorting into a mask of pure rage. The tear sealed shut, leaving only the scent of ozone and copper.

Mia collapsed, gasping. She was alone. Truly alone, and for the first time, she was grateful for it.

Three months passed, and Mia began to heal. She eventually felt brave enough to look through some old belongings in the attic. Tucked inside a dusty folder, she found a collection of old local news clippings from the past several years.

Mia’s heart began to hammer against her ribs. The headlines spoke of several girls who had gone missing in the area over the last decade. They had all disappeared near the park.

Mia’s hands shook as she read the details. In one report, a mother mentioned that her daughter had been talking to an imaginary friend who brought her “sweet red fruit.” Another report mentioned a small, hand-drawn picture found in a missing girl’s room.

Mia pulled the drawing out. It was a girl with vibrant red hair and a pink dress. Underneath, in shaky handwriting, were the words:

“Rosie says that she needs more friends for her garden. She says that her red hair is made of the memories that she takes.”

Mia dropped the paper, a sob of pure, cold realization escaping her throat. Rosie hadn’t been an invention of her loneliness.

Rosie was a collector of lonely souls. Looking toward the window, Mia realized that while she had escaped Rosie, the red fog was still out there, waiting for the next child who felt a little too alone on the swing set.

Credit: Noel Haynes II