He's Coming
13 Apr 2019Today’s prompt: “A kid in your grade whom you don’t know very well shows up at your house one day to tell you something important. What does he look like? What does he say?”
Your mom calls your name. “One of your little friends is at the door!” she adds.
You run downstairs, hoping it’s one of the kids you play Pokemon with.
It is not. Instead, it’s Jeremy.
“He’s not one of my friends,” you think. You want to correct your mom, but you know then you’ll just get a lecture about being nice.
Jeremy’s wearing the same T-shirt he always wears, and he smells a bit. You file this away as ammo in case your mom tries to get you to play with Jeremy or something, knowing that if you use it, you’ll get the “be nice” lecture and give her ammo about regular baths, and you’ll probably get some pondering on her part about what his family life must be like, like you can do anything about that.
You approach the screen door. “What do you want?” you mumble.
“He’s coming,” Jeremy says, a weird, faraway look in his eyes.
You don’t really want to prolong this conversation, but your curiousity gets the better of you. “Who’s coming?”
“Ka-thoo-loo,” he says.
“So?” you say. The name means nothing to you.
“He’s coming to de-vow-er us,” Jeremy says.
“Quit being weird,” you say.
“The adults are bringing Ka-thoo-loo here. They want the monsters to come.”
Now you’re curious again. Adults doing bad things could mean more ammo for you the next time you have an argument with your mom. “Which adults?”
“My mom and dad,” he says. No wonder, you think. “Mrs. Simonson.” Your teacher. No way. “Pastor Whitford.” Huh. Maybe. “And your dad.” Okay, he’s full of crap.
“You take it back,” you say.
“It’s true,” Jeremy says.
“You better go away,” you say.
He doesn’t move.
“You better go away!” you repeat louder. Jeremy runs off.
Your mom heard that. She comes around the corner.
“Why did you tell him to go away?” she asks you. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“He was telling lies about dad!” you say. This is definitely good ammo. Mom wouldn’t stand for that.
She looks surprised. “What did he say?” she asks.
“He said dad and his parents and Pastor Whitford and Mrs. Simonson are bringing Ka-thoo-loo here!” you say.
“He said that?” your mom seems surprised, and a bit concerned. “Okay. Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you do some coloring?”
“Okay,” you say. You color at the kitchen table while your mom cooks spaghetti.
“Mom, what does de-vow-er mean?” you ask.
“It means eat,” she says absently.
Dinner comes. Then bedtime. You pretend to go to sleep, then get up and press your ear to your door. Sure enough, your parents start arguing. You can’t make it all out, but there’s definitely talk of Ka-thoo-loo.
And then there’s a muffled scream.
And then there’s an eerie quiet.
And then you hear footsteps. You run to your bed. You pretend to sleep.
Your father cracks open the door to your room. He’s holding a bloody knife. He walks toward you.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You know too much.”