Town of Limbo Chapter Two: Little Miss Perfect

It's a horror story meant to specifically appeal to teenagers. It takes place in an uncanny, paranormal town with powerful entities at work. Indeed, all is not well in Mortorville

Little Miss Perfect

 

Emily Ira toys with her hair thoughtfully, as Miss Jackson writes a series of take away problems on the blackboard. But it’s not the subtraction she’s thinking about. Miss Jackson sees she’s not really here right now, but doesn’t do anything.

“6 take away 5?” asks Miss Jackson.

The children all mutter until they eventually start blurting out “3!”

Miss Jackson sighs. “Let's try a few more.”

Austin Myers, one of her usual tormentors, pulls her hair and whispers , “You’re a filthy liar. I asked my daddy. He said a no Kate ever went to this school.”

“There should be 25 kids in this class, but there are only 20. See? Candi should be in that seat!”

“25 minus 5?” asks Miss Jackson, in a voice so perfect, it sounds like it has gone through a computer.

“21” answer those who weren’t now locked onto Emily.

“That’s closer, I suppose. Closer, children.”

“There are 21 kids in this class. There is no Kate! I asked my daddy too and he said the same thing. You calling both of our daddies liars? Candi’s just sick. She’ll be back soon, ” states Judy Moon proudly.

“You said the same thing about Kate,” mumbles Emily.
“What was that?”

Austin pulls harder on the girl's soft golden hair, and she shuts her eyes determined not cry.

Miss Jackson finally notices. She’s coming over, no doubt entirely to defend Emily. But Emily doesn’t care about any of it anymore. All she can think about, as the other children glare holes in her head, and as Miss Jackson waves her finger back and forth with perfect composure, is how empty the classroom seems.

It’s been about a week and a half  now since the first child, Jasmine Terry, vanished. At first everything proceeded on as normal. Everybody, Emily included, just thought she was sick. The kids talked about the same things, and played the same games.

Then Miss Jackson stopped taking her attendance, the children stopped talking about her, and her desk went missing. She tried to alert them of this unnerving fact, but the kids still talked about the same things, and played the same games. Emily didn’t play with them. They were fine with this.

Perhaps, she thought, her parents would be of use.

“An absent student? Oh, pumpkin, you worry too much” said daddy, observing how his new tie fared in the mirror.

She thought wrong, she figured.

“Guess you’re right.”

She reached for the paper, as she usually would, only to have her mother quickly snatch it out of her hands.

“I’ve read it deary. Garbage. Not worth the paper it’s printed on, trust me on this one.”

“Oh...Okay”

“Who’s this Jasmine girl anyway. I don’t believe you’ve mentioned her. Have you heard of her honey?” Mommy said, packing herself quinoa salad for lunch.

“Nope! Can’t say I have!”

“Are you two insane? I went to her birthday party last week. ”

Jasmine invited Emily out of pity. She knows this, but couldn’t help but go anyway.

“I don’t like your tone. I’m so sorry we don’t remember all your friends, but in case you didn’t realize were under a lot of stress. Stop being such a child. ”

Emily bit her tongue, in sadness and cold fury. She had done nothing wrong, she thought. Nothing. Never in her life! But that didn’t change the fact that she was still in this. After a while daddy put his hands on Emily’s shoulders.

“Look. Tomorrow's saturday so we should be back a little earlier than usual. Why don’t we...go out for pizza! And you can tell us all about Jasmine. Okay?”

Emily faked a smile and nodded. Mommy and daddy were bad liars. But it was okay. She could make pizza herself, if she wanted.

So she rode down next winter afternoon, to the Terry’s residence, a ‘get well soon’ card in her coat pocket. As she accelerated up to the house she’d visited on Jasmine's 8th birthday, she saw a dead mutilated crow on the ground, flattened, the shape of a pancake. A bizarre mix of disgust and sympathy bubbled up inside her, as well as a tint of rage as she thought about how any other kid would just poke the thing.

Stupid Kids

She compulsively checked her front wheel for pieces of bird as she dragged her Tri-Cycle up the porch.

Jasmine’s father was lying on the sofa, the front door wide open. Passed out from alcohol poisoning. She slipped the card into his breast pocket (though it wasn’t for Jasmine anymore), and rolled him on his side. It was a trick she had had to learn from when Mommy or Daddy stumbled home after drinking with their co workers.

Jasmine was gone. This evidence was clear. Her room as stripped bare, the mattress uncovered by bedding. There was no sign of Jasmine, just pictures of her  rosy face sprawled on the floor as well as bottles of booze. An unusual way of mourning a loved one.

Stupid adults.

In the card, she left the father with a lifelike portrait of the cheerful soul, a picture beyond any normal second grader’s capabilities, but well within precocious Emily’s.

Later that day she would come back to the crow with a shoe box and rubber gloves, to bury it in her backyard. Her small frail body was frustratingly ill prepared for shoveling dirt. By the time she was done it was 4 AM and her parents still weren’t there. She started to cry. It would be nice if the crow were still alive, and could keep her company. Or better yet, Jasmine, though Emily understands she would just be a hindrance to her if she were still here.

But Jasmine was just the first. Then it was Douglas, Mary, Lee, Arnold, Jimmy, Kate, and just today, Candi. She tried. She tried so hard to tell people. When talking didn’t work, she screamed. When screaming didn’t work,  she hit.

Her parents stopped their News subscription.

“Maybe if you stopped reading such drivel, and watched sesame street liking a normal child, you’d stop acting like a little demon.”

But that didn’t stop her. The police were next. But when she’d begged them to help her, they went “There there child” with big grins on their faces. Emily didn’t get the joke. Neither did Mommy and Daddy.

“Do you know how much time off work we had to take off for you, and your imaginary friends?” Mommy didn’t even give her the dignity of eye contact now.

“I’ve had it up to here with you? For the last time their is no goddamn Kate! No Jasmine! Understand or do I have to spell it out for you? This child is from hell!”

 

No. Emily thought, smiling as Daddy beat her. I must be an angel.

But her optimism only withstood so long. All the the little pushes and pulls from her classmates, and even the gentle teasing of the adults who didn’t want to grow up, had started to seap into her cracks.

As she eats her lunch in a bathroom stall, going through all the lovely notes her peers have slipped her, a part of her laughs at their spelling mistakes, while the other part wonders if she really is from hell. The notes are kind of impressive in their own way, in how exceptionally and earnestly cruel they are for Elementary Schooler’s, describing all the unique ways they would like her to disappear. The week and a half felt like years of torture, and the girl is left with only one person to turn to.

She sighs in relief as break comes, and everyone rushes out. Austin shoots one final glare at Emily before becoming more interested in a game of freeze tag. If this doesn’t work, perhaps it really would be better if she just disappeared.

For the first time in a long time, she thinks of Big Brother, Walter. When he left her parents cheered and danced, and he probably did the same. Emily misses him though. One person cares for him. Maybe Miss Jackson will be that one for her.

Emily walks up to her unconventional second grade teacher, looking like an angel in her wedding dress, a book in her proximity as always. Although her veil hides her expression, Emily can’t help but get the impression she is smiling at her. She smiles back. No one knows why the mysterious teachers dresses like this.

“Is something troubling you, dear?” Her voice is delicate, yet bold.

Emily takes a deep breath, her small frame shakes, and finally she shatters, entrusting all her pieces to Miss Jackson.

“M-miss Jackson, you see...I. I-I seem to have these imaginary friends. Hah, the only thing is I don’t think they’re imaginary. Kids are going missing, and no one cares. No one cares! N-not my parents, the kids at school, no one. Oh god. Oh no-oh god! It’s me isn’t it? They’re right I'm the crazy one. ”

The next second she feels warm arms around her.

“Miss Ira...thank god. I thought I was the only one.”

Miss Ira. The words bounce around her head, instantly knocking away all her worries.

“I..*sniff*...thought I was crazy.”

“Crazy! Oh no, no, no! Emily, can I tell you a secret?’’

“*Sniff*...yes?”

She puts a finger to where her lips should be, “Promise you won’t tell anyone else?”

“I promise,” she says, giggling, wiping her eyes, and mimicking her. She is acting like a child, but she doesn’t mind, not if it is Miss Jackson.

“Oh My sweet, sweet child,” Miss Jackson gently brushes her hair “you’re a genius.”

“W-hat?”

“A genius Emily! Cmon now. Surely you’ve noticed. You’re not like the other kids Emily. You can do things most adults can’t! If you’re crazy there isn’t much hope for the rest of us.”

Is it true? Yes, yes. It must be! She was born into the world with a book in her nose. She always suspected, especially when she noticed none of other kids read the same books Miss Jackson did.

And the math, and the art. It’s easy for her. How did she not notice earlier?

She sits on her teacher's lap. She smells like chocolate chip cookies.

“There’s plenty of hope for you, Miss Jackson.”

Her perfect teacher laughs her perfect laugh. This is better than she could have imagined.

She has questions. Why was it hidden from her? What are we going to do about the kids? But  frankly, right now, she can’t be bothered. Because she isn’t crazy. Everyone else is  crazy. She and Miss Jackson are the only sane people in the whole world. Those kids are really nuts. Ignorance is bliss, she supposes. She will come back stronger, more perfect. She will make them pay. She is no child. Not like them. She has a right to exist. She has well earned it. They haven’t. They’re the ones with no reason to cry

But what she doesn't know is that they all cry into their pillows at night as she does. They cry in their denial, in their lack of acceptance. Only she KNOWS and ACCEPTS her grief.

“You’re the perfect little girl.”

It wouldn’t surprise Emily if kids were staring in with sour eyes right now. Whatever. Let them stare. She will be okay from now on.

“I wish I could have had a daughter like you. If only my husband hadn’t been so flawed…we could have afforded one.”

She thinks she hears her say that as she falls asleep. She eyes the book on the desk right before her eyes close.

The Encyclopedia of Eugenics.

 

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Author's Note

Any and all criticism welcome.

Reviews

[Zoya]

Wow...suspence seriously increases after each sentence...you evoked empathy in the readers for the poor little girl, I wish everyone just believed the little girl, and everyone was 'sane' like her.
"But what she doesn't know is that they all cry into their pillows at night as she does. They cry in their denial, in their lack of acceptance. Only she KNOWS and ACCEPTS her grief." -these lines were full of wisdom...people who are not ready to accept things the way they are, or just don't give a damn about the happenings around them, regret afterwards to have not believed the reality of the situation they were actually in. Very well written. I enjoyed the story so far. Will come back soon. Keep writing!