FALL 2010 WRITER'S WEEKLY 24-HOUR SHORT STORY CONTEST 900 WD. LIMIT: This fall's entry "TREATS"

TREATS

Jaime’s first awareness is of pain and cinnamon. He struggles to open his eyes, but the left one is caked with blood. The cinnamon smell makes his stomach rumble, while pain makes it clench with fear. He lies quiet. Maybe it’s better with his eyes closed. Better to not know what happened.

There’s humming in another room, and closer, a soft ka-thunk, ka-thunk in time with the humming. It’s a familiar sound that Jaime can’t readily place. He slowly takes in a long, steady breath. He steels himself, then cracks his good eye open. The first thing he sees are bars, cage-like, and his heart begins to hammer in his chest. He wants to scream, but some innate sense tells him to hush, be quiet. Wait. See.

He steadies himself again, and opens his good eye. Immediately before him are the bars, and Jaime sees now that they are flat slats made of wood. He moves to reach toward them to find his hands are trussed together with a stout piece of rough rope. The rope weaves between his legs and around his ankles, which are tied to the wooden bars at his feet bending him into a nearly fetal position. As his eye begins to focus more clearly, Jaime realizes he is in a huge baby crib. He moans, and the ka-thunk, ka-thunk stops suddenly.

There is a creaking and shuffling. Jaime sees a short, lumpy figure moving toward him. At first Jaime thinks it’s another kid, but the figure is gigantically fat, and breathes in a labored, snuffling manner that reminds Jaime of the way his grandpa sounded right before he died. The room is dim, lit only by a nightlight shaped like a merry-go-round and the street lights beyond the room’s only window. The figure is outlined by the dim light. Jaime begins to shake. Short-fingered hands grab the crib rail, hands with ragged nails, dirty and creased.

A misshapen head leans over, the chin just clearing the rail.

“Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.” It says, spewing out sour breath. The voice is neither high nor low. Jaime can’t tell whether it is a boy or girl, man or woman.

“Where am I?” Jaime whispers.

“Mommy brunged you.” He-She says.

“Where?” Jaime says.

“Here. Our house.” Says He-She. “3428 Leonard Street. 3428 Leonard Street that’s where we live, I membered it and Mommy said I am real smart. I’m real smart, huh?” He-She shook at the crib, and Jaime groaned at the sharp pain in his head.

Leonard Street. He’d been trick-or-treating there. Old Mrs. Samson’s was the last house he remembered, he thought.

“Aw.” Says He-She. “I tell Mommy you waked.”

“No!” Jaime hissed. “Don’t!”

He-She slid his-her hands down the crib bars and settled in a crouching position facing Jaime, who shrank back as he gazed at the enormous moon face, jowls overlapping the chin and neck. The skin was pockmarked and yellowed, the milky blue eyes weepy and red-rimmed.

“You yell at me.” He-She said in a hurt voice. “I tell momma!”

“No, wait!” Jaime whispered. “Tell me your name. How about that? Okay?”

“I Nathan.” He said, poking his thumb into his chest. “Nathan Eldridge Samson. That’s me! And you- you Jimmy! Momma promised you to me!”

Samson? Mrs. Samson didn’t have any kids. That was partly why Jaime always made sure to walk the extra block to her little cottage at the end of Leonard Street every Halloween. She always made such a big deal over his costume and how much he’d grown and never said a word about his weight. She said he was getting nice and round, and she thought he was a handsome boy. She even made him a special bag of oatmeal cinnamon cookies every year, just special for him she said.

None of the other kids ever went down there. They said she was an old, nasty lady. They said she killed little kids but no one ever proved it. That kids who went to the end of Leonard Street just disappeared. Jaime went down there on a dare four years ago and Mrs. Samson was nice as pie to him. So he kept going back. That way he got all Mrs. Samson’s wonderful treats to himself. She was just an old widow, and she’d told him herself she never had any kids- that’s why his visits to her every year were so special.

“What did your mom promise?” Jaime said.

“She promise you!” Nathan squealed. “Special little brother. For my birthday five-zero. For Hello-Ween!” He jumped up suddenly and went to the window. He clambered into the rocking chair placed before the window. Deep grooves from the chair were worn into the wood floor. “I love Hello-Ween! It make the leaves beautiful! Hello leaves!” Nathan waved out the window.

Out in the kitchen lids clattered on pots, and the humming became more discordant. Jaime could hear the scraping of a knife on a sharpener.

“Nathan.” He croaked. “Untie me. Please.”

Nathan whirled away from the window on his unsteady feet. “Oh, Jimmy, no!” He said, clambering back to the crib. He reached through the bars and touched Jaime’s cheek with a scabby finger. Jaime cringed. “Momma be mad!” Nathan began to stroke Jaime’s face. “And you so chubby. Smell so good.”

Jaime swallowed, saliva working in his mouth. “What’s momma cooking, Nathan?” He asked.

Nathan smiled.