Daycare

219 words. Some atypical parents drop their ‘child’ off at a daycare.

Two parents enter my daycare and place their child onto my front desk. The father’s mouthless and writhing form screams at me “TAKE THE CHILD TAKE THE CHILD TAKE THE CHILD TAKE THE CHILD TAKE THE CHILD TAKE THE CHILD TAKE THE.” The mother’s ghastly and liquid visage stares at me.

Her singular eye stares through me, holding me in place. I glance at the egg. It’s pitch black, just like both parents, and has some sort of nest at its base. It radiates malignant energy. Almost a plasma, but cold. I glance back at the mother.

It was here that I noticed they had stolen the light. The room had been dim since they entered. I was distracted by the father’s gaping and toothed mouth. It still whisper-screams at me. The mother’s eye hasn’t left its place either.

Her words vertebrate out of her form, from where I know not. “You had best take the child.” She is simultaneously threatening and concerned. That cruel ectoplasm still floats off of the egg– the child?

Both parents fade out of the room, the father with a raspy groan. The lights brighten, but only barely. I look back at child, unsure of what to do with it.

Its shell cracks. Black mist floats out of it. My heart begins to pound.

Author: Kay Walker

I write short stories, and post them to my site justmynarratives.com

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