Innocence by Marylinn S. Grimm

At 2 a.m., a child is the very last thing people expect to see on their porch.

The boy seemed no older than five. His light-blonde curls were framing the sunken cheeks and timid, wide-open eyes. The sky-blue innocent gaze intently studied my shutters. This summer was warm, so the toddler sported a light shirt and shorts – cotton or linen, the kind of fabric caring parents wouldn't hesitate to splurge on for their kid. The tiny figure wiped his runny nose with the sleeve. This sweet, lively gesture should have made me realize that a child posed no threat.

Of course, I knew their methods. They hadn't changed from year to year.

As soon as he caught sight of my silhouette against the curtains, the boy reached for the door latch.

"Get the hell away!!!" I yelled. There was no point in hiding. It knew there were people in the house.

His curls swayed in the light breeze as the child turned his head toward me. I could feel his gaze, even though I was certain he couldn't see me.

"I'm sorry, I... I'm lost," a thin voice whimpered. Frightened. Ha. As if I’d buy that.

"GET THE FUCK OFF, YOU DEMON!!"

"Sir, please..." the toddler was on the verge of tears. "Help me... I'm really, really scared..."

The Thing wanted to trick me. It was doing a damn good job, I'll give it that. I gripped the shotgun tighter, silently praying that Katie and Sarah would stay upstairs. They had to stay upstairs. If I suddenly had to shoot, it had to happen in a way that Katie would never, under any circumstances, see it.

"Are you deaf or what? GET THE FUCK OUT, I KNOW what you are! You can't fucking fool me. You will NOT touch my daughter, you got that?!"

For a few minutes, silence hung in the air.

"I'm sorry..." the same tearful voice said. "But I'm really, really scared..."

This time, I waited in silence. When a squelching, wet sound reached my ears – the kind that sounded like blood being pumped out of a human being – I forced myself to hold back and not look out the window. The past few times had been more than enough.

About half an hour later, I pulled back the curtain, scanning the yard. Ten minutes after, I flung the door open, strode out with quick, heavy steps toward the child's body, slung it over my shoulder, and vanished inside the house. I tried not to look into the empty eye sockets; tried not to notice a myriad of punctures – bite marks – on the dead, skinny arms; tried to forget about the little body drained by the Thing. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, I will bring the Kylams what is left of their son, who went missing four years ago. But for now – bolt, latch, another bolt, lock. Now, we were safe. It had already moved on to another, less cautious family.