Evil Children

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
They were evil children. Not bad. Not misbehaved. Not annoying. Evil.

Submitted: September 24, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 24, 2011



They were not good children, everyone knew that.

The people didn’t like them and their habits. Their clothes were too dirty, their eyes were too fiery, their hair was too shaggy.

But they were not evil children. Not that anyone knew of. But of course, evil has a way of hiding itself at times. It is as elusive as smoke, slipping away no matter how hard you try to catch it. And so they were not evil. Or at least, no one thought they were evil.

But little Sammy Richards, he knew they were evil. He had seen them do things that he couldn’t even comprehend. Little Sammy knew, but no one listened. He was, after all, only six, and his father was the poorest man in town, an alcoholic deep in debt to Mr. Wilder, the owner of the inn.

They were evil children, Sammy knew. Evil as can be. They were horrible. Their smiles were never sincere, and a bit of manic always radiated off their skin. He had seen it in the gleam of their horrible, twisted teeth and their fiery, blackened eyes.

But poor Sammy Richards was never heard. Not by the teacher. Not by Mr. Wilder. Not even by his own father, who slapped him every time he tried to speak. So Sammy Richards decided it was time for confrontation. He would ask the evil children themselves what they were up to, why they did it, and then go turn them in. They deserved it, they did.

So he followed them one night. It was cold and the wind whistled lightly in the trees, making them bend and sway, like shadows dancing to an unheard rhythm. Sammy was wearing a large overcoat, three sizes too big, and followed the evil children, hiding in the underbrush as he did so. They were taking the long path, the one that wound all the way around the hills to Blithely Forest, where no child in the village was allowed to venture.

As Sammy followed them, he realized something in the back of his mind. They were evil children. Who knew what evil children would do if they caught him? The thought made him stop for a moment, and that was his mistake. He stepped on a twig, deep in thought. It made a resonating crack in the pitch darkness, and Sammy gasped.

Suddenly, out of the black night, two large hands grabbed at his shoulders, locking him into a death grip. Sammy gasped for air, frightened out of his mind. They had found him.

“Thought you’d come to watch, eh?” a raspy voice hissed in his ear. Suddenly, there were many hands, all groping at him. He could feel rough hands, smooth hands, rich hands, poor hands, farmer’s hands, lady’s hands, writing hands, drawing hands, and every other kind of hand, touching him, trying to touch his body, like one would touch a sacrifice.

“A—Ah,” Sammy cried, trying to breathe as the hands smothered him. And all of a sudden, just as quickly as they had come, the hands retreated. The two large ones that had grabbed him first dropped him onto the soft earth, where he crumpled into a pile, whimpering.

“The Clan is a single entity comprised of many detached souls, searching in the oblivion for their counterparts,” the raspy voice chanted. It was repeated by other voices. Sammy tried to crawl, but the hands would return every time he moved, now not touching, but clawing at him, raking their nails over his bare skin.

“The souls have found a home in each other, and shall remain bound forever,” the raspy voice continued.

“There is no separation from the Clan. There are no witnesses. The witnesses do not exist, or if they do, they should be removed from existence,” the voice said, hissing and spitting as it did so. The other voices roared in approval, chanting in an undecipherable tone now.

“Witnesses are killed. Witnesses are killed. Kill him, kill him, kill him!” the other voices cried, becoming more fanatically obsessed with clawing at Sammy.

As he fought the horrible hands, it dawned upon Sammy. They were going to kill him. The two great large hands that belonged to the raspy speaker came down upon him and pressed on his throat. He gasped and choked, but there was no relent. There was no relent, and there was no regret. Within moments, little Sammy Richards was dead.


“You are the boy’s brother?” Officer Reynolds asked the teenage boy that stood before him, solemn and emotionless. The boy stared at his little brother’s body with such grief and terror, he could not physically or verbally express it. He nodded to answer the policeman’s question.

Sammy’s body was mangled, almost beyond recognition. The brother watched in agony as two men lifted the body gently into the wagon, where his little brother would be taken to a cemetery.

“You’ll have to come to station later,” Reynolds said quietly, patting the boy awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, in a raspy, almost hiss-like voice.

© Copyright 2018 Kieran Ferrite. All rights reserved.

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