SILENT FRIGHT

CRYSTAL PERKINS

 

 

The First Noel

 

I’ve lived without sound my whole life. I don’t usually feel like I’m missing out on anything. Except for this time of year. Christmas. My parents love Christmas carols, and they take every chance they can to listen to them, and see them performed. They smile indulgently as I just stand next to them mouthing the words, but I know they wish I could sing with them. I see the sorrow in their eyes, the disappointment they feel because I can’t join in on their Christmas “fun.”

I don’t feel their happiness, or sense of “fun” when it comes to those songs. I can sense the vibrations of the songs, read the words on the pages of sheets that invariably get handed out when groups are singing together, and I see the happiness on the faces of everyone around me as their mouths move, singing along. It’s not enough to make me happy. At these times, I wish for the gift of hearing. I want to experience the sounds and the camaraderie that comes with singing along.

I’m here at my school’s dress rehearsal for tonight’s Christmas pageant. I’ll stand where they tell me, and read lips so I know what everyone else is doing, but once again, I’ll feel left out. Sure, the other kids and the teacher will smile at me, and we’ll all pretend that I’m just like them, but I know they’re wishing I wasn’t there to make things harder. Just another day in the life of a deaf twelve-year-old girl.

There’s a new little girl already in the room when I walk in. She has on a tattered, red velvet Christmas dress, and she looks like she hasn’t had a shower in days, if not weeks. The white bow around her waist is falling off, and I want to tell her, but I also don’t want to embarrass her. She already looks uncomfortable being here in the room with us. It’s hard to be new, and different, so I let her be.

Strangely, everyone else ignores her. I expected at least one of the other kids to point her out, or say something mean. It’s the nature of the pack. Those who want to lead seek out the weak and exploit their weakness to make themselves look strong. Yet the ones I would expect to ridicule the girl for her dirty dress seem to not realize she is there. That’s another thing that happens sometimes. Objects—and people—of no importance get ignored. Ignorance is often better than attention, so I’m strangely happy for her.

The teacher has us take our places, and the little girl covers her ears and starts to scream. I see her mouth open and know that sound has to be coming out. Still, no one pays attention. I get in place, and feel the vibrations of the music as it starts. Mouths are open all around me, and I do my expected part, standing there with a smile on my face.

I keep glancing to the girl, watching as she rocks back and forth with her hands still over her ears. Do the other kids sound that bad? They’d have to, for her to be reacting this way. For once, maybe it’s a good thing that I’m deaf.

 

*

 

I’m still thinking about the girl when I arrive back at the school with my parents that night. Will she be here? Will her dress be fixed? Will she have taken a shower? I suddenly realize that even though she looked so unclean, I didn’t smell her. Without hearing, my other senses are pretty heightened, so I would’ve noticed. Just another strange thing to ponder as I stand on the stage, my fake smile firmly in place.

Right before we start, I see the girl again. She steps out in front of the first row, in the middle of the stage. She is crying and shaking. Honestly, she looks terrified, and I wonder again why no one seems to care. I care, but I remained glued to my spot as I feel the music begin. And then it happens.

I see her open her mouth again, but this time it’s not in a scream. This time, she’s singing the words to the song that’s being played. The First Noel. She starts to glow, looking like an angel, and people start to die.

I can’t hear the screams of terror, but I can see it. I can see the adults in the audience start to stand before they fall. They writhe on the ground as blood pours from their ears, their noses, theirs mouths. I can’t move, and I can tell that none of the other children here can either. As the blood gushing from the adults around me flows across the floor, I can’t look away. It travels around the chairs, over the feet of the children, stopping only when it encounters an adult struggling on the floor.

It doesn’t seep into their clothing, like you’d think. Oh no, the blood seems to become solid, banding around the people on the floor, like it’s trying to help them on their way to the end. It wraps them like a web, taking the last of the life from those people, like it’s alive and committing murder.

There is no one who can help as my parents, my teachers, and every other adult in the room succumbs to the bloody “monsters.” I finally pull my eyes from the scene in front of me, and look around to see the kids next to me staring in horror as everyone we know and love is left in a puddle of blood. The blood once again goes back to liquid form, once life has been taken.

When I look to the girl again, she is still singing. Not the same song, but one I can’t decipher. I can read lips like nobody’s business, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I know without a doubt that she caused this massacre to happen. She killed every adult in this room. I just don’t know why.

What I do know is that for once, I’m thankful I couldn’t hear the words, and I never again want to be anywhere where Christmas carols are. Because as sure as I know that that little girl killed them, I also know the carols had a part in it too.

“On the second day of Christmas”

I’ve been in my current foster home for six months. This one’s a little better than the last, but none of them are great. They all know how to sign—I wouldn’t be placed with them if they didn’t—but once my case worker is gone, they pretend that they don’t. I would probably have a better chance at a good home if my reputation didn’t precede me, but it always does.

After what happened at the Christmas pageant two years ago, I tried to tell everyone about the girl. No one believed me, because no one else saw her. The thought of a little girl in a tattered dress causing a massacre was not something anyone was willing to believe. They also didn’t believe that the blood seemed to come alive. Never mind the fact that two years later no one still has a clue what happened. Well, no one except for me—the crazy girl.

Theories have abounded, from some kind of chemical warfare to a gas leak. Not one thing these so called “experts” come up with has been able to give a reason for all of us children still living and breathing. There is no question that we were there, and yet we lived, while they all died.

My former classmates are all spread out around the country now. I’ve gone to the library and seen stories on the internet about how some have capitalized on the horror we saw that day. They have book deals, movie deals, and even record deals. Then there are the others. The ones who couldn’t get past what we saw, who took their own lives. Those are the ones I can relate to.

Many nights I have fought sleep, because when I sleep, I sometimes dream. I dream of a girl who glows and sings words I can’t hear or read on her lips. I dream of my parents and their friends on the ground, with blood coming out of every orifice as they tear at their own skin, and then have the life squeezed out of them by their own blood. I dream, and I wait. I know that that Christmas was not a one-time thing. I know it with all my heart. The only thing I don’t know is when it will happen again.

Last year, I went to church with the foster family I had then, and sobbed as the Christmas songs were played. I could feel the joy of the people around me, and I prayed harder than I ever have, asking God to please not let the people around me die. He must’ve heard my prayer, because everyone walked out unscathed that night. Everyone but me. The terror I felt throughout the service was palpable. I could feel it in every fiber of my being, and at one time, it even felt like I could see it. I didn’t see her, but I was afraid I might. Afraid that my fear would bring her back.

She didn’t come, but after that family saw how distressed I was, they said I ruined Christmas for them. They claimed the other kids—their biological kids—had a horrible time, and were inconsolable after seeing me fall apart. That’s a lie. The only reason those spoiled brats had a bad time is because they didn’t think their pile of presents was enough. Even when I was forced to give my gifts to them as well, as penance for what I “did,” it wasn’t enough. I was the easy one to blame, and it was even easier for them to send me away.

My current foster mother comes into the attic room I’ve been given and tells me I need to get dressed for the town tree lighting. I shake my head, and she takes that to mean that I couldn’t read her lips. I see her mouth form the words again, and once again, I shake my head. I can tell that she’s angry when she signs the same thing to me, and she’s even madder when I sign back that I’m not going. She gets right up in my face and tells me that if I want to stay in this home, then yes, I am going. I start to move my hands to tell her I’d rather leave, but then where would I go. I’m pretty sure they’re running out of people who can sign that are willing to take me. I sigh and nod my head. I’ll go.

 

*

 

The town square is already filled with people when we arrive. It looks like the entire town has come out for this event. We border the big city I used to live in, and while we’re not nearly as large, the population here is not small either. Seeing everyone at once is a little overwhelming.

My family pushes their way to the front, pulling me along with them. I see a choir on the big stage, and I start to shake. I turn to push my way back out of here, but my foster father clamps a hand on my arm. I see his mouth move and can tell that he’s demanding I stay and behave. I try to shake free, not caring about the consequences right now. I just know I need to leave before the choir starts. I need to.

It’s too late. I can feel the music start. I turn back to see the choir in their fancy clothes—and notice a boy in a torn, dirty suit. He looks to be around five, and I know. I know. There’s going to be another massacre. I try to yell, but my throat is dry, and underused. I can feel a sound come out as my throat vibrates, but I know it’s not enough. I pull on the family’s arms, but they just turn and laugh at me.

Until the birds come, and then I can see their screams. The crows swoop so close to me that I can feel the tips of their wings on my cheeks. They don’t attack me as I stand still, watching the horror around me. But they’re close. Very close. Too close. It’s like they want me, but they can’t have me. I don’t know why, but I do know I’m responsible for what’s happening. Again.

It’s not the same this time, but it’s just as deadly. The birds seem to be multiplying, and slowly pecking and tearing the adults to death. Once again, the children aren’t moving. I want to move, but I can’t look away. I shouldn’t be watching the silent screams of the victims as they are torn to death, but I must. I have to see what I somehow caused to happen.

The birds peck and swallow. Over and over. Unlike the blood, these deaths aren’t quick. It’s slow, terrifying. A few adults try to run, but there are just too many birds. I watch a face being slowly torn off, revealing the bones beneath, but I focus on something else as the bird goes for the meaty eye.

I rub my arms, even though I know I’m not being taken apart. I still feel something on me. Like when you brush a bug off your shoulder, but still think it could be there, and for hours you feel something. That’s how I feel as I watch thousands of blackbirds slowly tear apart the adults. I feel like something is on me, touching me, even though I can’t see it.

When I can tear my eyes away, I see the boy. I knew he’d still be singing, and he is. Like the girl, I can’t tell what words are coming out of his mouth, and I can’t understand why no one notices him. All I know is that that girl and this boy are angry, and from the looks of them, it’s no wonder. I just don’t know how they’re doing what they’re doing. Or why I’m the only one who seems to be able to see them. I do know that they didn’t come to me last year in the church, and that tells me they are truly on the side of evil. Just another reason to be scared.

The other children and I must stand there for hours; although time passes so quickly, it only feels like minutes. I’m disgusted by the carcasses that have been mostly cleaned of their flesh, but I find that I don’t feel much more than that. I’m sorry this happened to these people, because I know that somehow I’m connected, but I don’t really care that they’re dead. I guess that makes me a bad person, but I can’t change how I feel. And apparently, I can’t change the fates of adults who come in contact with me when Christmas carols are being sung. I tried to stay home, but I was forced to go. That woman and her husband died because of it, but I can’t say I didn’t try, because I really did.

 

 

We Three

 

Three years. It’s been three years since the last ones died. I’m seventeen and emancipated now. The system had to wait until I was sixteen to let me out of it, but I wasn’t placed with a family for the two years after the boy appeared and the birds attacked. I lived in group homes where no one cared if it was Christmas, and they definitely didn’t sing any carols.

At sixteen, I was offered the chance to live on my own and get a small amount of money from the state. I jumped at the chance. Just because I can’t hear doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take care of myself. I’ve been cooking and cleaning for years, as well as communicating with notes and hand signals when people couldn’t sign. I’m told there are apps on phones now that can help with communication, but that’s not something I can afford. I live a simple life and I can wait for small luxuries like a fancy cell phone.

My biological parents had large life insurance policies that I’ll have access to when I turn eighteen. I don’t know what I want to do yet, maybe college, maybe not. I can decide once the money is in my bank account—there’s really no use in counting on it yet anyway. So for now, it’s ramen some days, and pork chops when I can afford them. I could have it so much worse, and I’m truly thankful that I’m still alive, haven’t gone crazy, and have something to eat every night.

The only problem with the whole emancipation thing is that I still have to go to school. A social worker checks in with me every week, and makes sure I’m caring for myself. The one I have is actually pretty good. She’s even brought me a bag of groceries to help tide over my meager offerings for a little longer. Even so, she still looks at me like most people do.

I may have escaped the state I grew up in, but I can’t escape the ghosts of my past. The people who died while I was around. There is absolutely no other common denominator. The people in the city I grew up in had nothing in common with the small town that suffered such a similar fate. Nothing except me, that is.

I’m well-known now—the girl who sees children who aren’t really there and thinks her Christmases are cursed. Well, I think they’re cursed. Since no one else believes that I’ve really seen the children, or that the carols are what is causing the mass deaths, I must be crazy. Obviously.

I’m not crazy, but I am scared. Very scared. Three years may seem like a short time to most people, and the Christmas season is even shorter, but to me it seems to last forever. I have learned to stock up on as many things as I can afford, so that I can avoid stores. Their carols are piped in but I still don’t feel safe if I know they’re playing. Those birds came way too close to me and I’m not looking for a repeat performance of carols, downtrodden children who cause blood to gush from people, or birds. I’m not ashamed to say I hide. I’ll admit it freely if someone asks. They never do. They just cross the street if they see me coming, or scoot their desks away from me in class. I’m all alone, and most days, I’m really okay with that.

 

*

 

My sociology teacher is requiring us to attend one school sporting event in order to observe how people act at these things. I’ve been putting it off, but I finally used my free ticket tonight. I watch the people walk in from my perch at the top of the stands and try to determine why they’re here. All of them are in red or green, which I find odd. This game is in December, but from what I’ve witnessed at school, the people here care more for football than following the traditions of Christ. No one is charitable toward me, or even slightly welcoming. I moved here because research said it was a good town, and I thought it would be small enough for me to escape to. That hasn’t been the case, and so yeah, I’m stymied by the Christmas colors.

Everyone stands up and looks to the middle of the field. I don’t know what’s going on but I stand too. What I see turns my blood to ice. No…no…NO! They cannot have a choir on the field. I don’t want to watch people die again. I can handle it but I don’t want to. I know I’m powerless to stop it when I see the three children walking to stand in front of the choir.

Like the other two I’ve seen, these children have torn and soiled clothing on. Their faces and other exposed skin are covered with dirt and their hair appears unwashed. The three of them look straight at me as the choir opens their mouths. I know they’re singing… and I know death is coming. Even if I could yell, these people wouldn’t believe me. No one believes me and I fear no one ever will.

As I watch with more than a little morbid fascination taking over me, I see the adults in the crowd transform. There are no birds, and there isn’t blood dripping from them, but something’s happening. I don’t know what, until they all turn to me. Every single adult turns their attention on me, and I see it. Things I’ve only read about in books or seen on TV. They’ve turned into ghouls, complete with red eyes and sharp teeth.

I press my back against the wall behind me and prepare to be eaten alive. There’s no other outcome. I don’t have water, fire, or any other weapon at my disposal to ward them off. I don’t fear death, but I must admit that the thought of being eaten alive terrifies me just a little. Or a lot.

My fears are unwarranted as they turn from me and run for the football field where all of the students have fled. Ignoring small children, the adults go for the teenagers. Those kids try to fight, but it’s no use. I see death once again and this time it’s the most gruesome yet.

Parents, teachers, coaches—the ones who are supposed to protect us—begin to feed in earnest. They bite and tear at the flesh of their victims with those sharp teeth. They’re eating those teenagers like they’d eat a steak. I see them savor each bite and my stomach turns. I haven’t eaten enough to throw up but I dry heave a few times. The other deaths were bad, but this…this is something on a whole new level.

I watch those things…ghouls…bite the flesh off my classmates, and yet again, I feel no sadness. Disgust at what I’m seeing, yes, but that’s it. No sadness, or even remorse, that I somehow caused this. If anything, I feel relief. When they all turned to me, I thought I’d die tonight, but I’m safe for the moment. Not forever. I know that without a doubt. But for now, I’ll live to see another day. And face more scrutiny as the only teenage survivor of the ghoul attack of 2015.

“Fall on Your Knees”

I’m eighteen now, an adult. A very wealthy adult. I live in a mansion, have servants who know sign language, and eat three hearty meals per day. My past is not forgotten but people tend to ignore it now that I’m rich. It’s funny how all sins can be forgiven when money is involved. Not that I think I committed a sin that was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people. I never purposely did anything to cause those massacres.

Besides knowing sign language, I required that the people working for me don’t celebrate Christmas. It may be discriminatory but I don’t care. There’s no one to force me to sing in a choir or go to a tree lighting ceremony, and since I got my GED online, there’s no class that requires me to attend a sporting event. I’ve become a recluse, and with no chance of Christmas carols, I’m safe now. Completely and totally safe from whatever forces chose me as their catalyst along with those damn songs. Songs I could never hear, yet am terrified of.

Money can’t buy me happiness but it can allow me to do what I want, when I want. And what I want is to live out my life with a full stomach and no mention of Christmas or carols ever again. December is just another month to me now. Snow may fall and lights may twinkle in the distance, but no one crossing through my front door will do so in the name of holidays—happy or otherwise.

 

*

 

It’s December 24th, and nothing is different here at my home. At least nothing should be different. I sense that something is wrong as I enter the grand foyer. My butler is gesturing wildly with his hands and I rush over to see what the problem is. And then it happens.

A small group of children are gathered outside my front door. I don’t know who let them in the gates but I know what’s about to happen; and I’m too late to stop it. These are not ordinary children. Oh no, these are the ones who’ve haunted my dreams for years. The little girl in the tattered dress, the boy in the torn suit, and the three who look like they need a bath and a meal.

What’s odd to me is that my butler sees them, too. Did all of the adults in my past see them before they died? If they were visible to the adults, why not the other children besides me? And why did no one realize that I was telling the truth before they died? Or did they? Did those ghouls realize that I was telling the truth and look to me in that moment, not to attack me, but to let me know they were sorry for ever doubting me? I’ll never know the answers to those questions, but I do know my money can’t save me now.

I sign to my butler, telling him to run. He gives me a sad look and then does as I ask. I wasn’t sure he’d even be able to, but they let him go. It’s me they want. I always thought that, but once he’s gone, I know it’s true. I hear their words in my head. They are the first words I have ever heard and they terrify me. The fact that I hear them at all terrifies me. This is not a happy thing, this “gift” of hearing. It’s another part of my curse. They aren’t exactly singing; it’s more like chanting and it doesn’t really sound right. It sounds like children trying to rhyme, which I guess, in fact, it is.

Here we are to claim you,

Join us, you know you want to.

Every year, we were forced to sing these songs,

Songs of hope, but for us they’re wrong.

We suffered at the hands of fate,

And we were killed when we ran away.

You are us, and we are you,

All children from the same womb.

One for all, but not you for us,

You survived when we turned to dust.

Hearing lost saved you then,

But now we come to do you in.

Adults we kill to right our wrongs,

Now come with us and sing our songs

Before I can even process all of what I’ve heard, my nose starts to bleed. I wipe it and see the bright red blood staining my hand. I want to beg for my life, and tell them I haven’t had it easy either, but I don’t get the chance.

I feel the wings before the beak and I know the birds have come. For real this time. Not just a shadow feeling—the birds are really here for me. I fall to my knees as blood starts pouring out of other parts of me and the birds begin to peck in earnest at my flesh. Moments later, I sense a larger presence and turn to see my butler behind me. He didn’t escape. I’ve failed us both. Those are my last thoughts as he takes his first bite.

I can’t hear my scream as blood comes for me, squeezing the life out of me as the birds try and get some of my flesh before my ghoul butler takes it all. I didn’t feel sadness for those adults who died, and right now, I don’t feel sadness for myself. Ironically, it’s the children I’m sorry for.

They suffered for the beloved songs so many people love and I have a strange sense that they’re telling the truth. I am one of them. I don’t understand how my lack of hearing saved me until now, but I know in my bones that it did. I will not become one of them, though. They can kill me but I won’t be an instrument of death. I just won’t.

The children smile at me as I succumb to the horrors they’ve sent for me. I don’t want to be one of them and I’m no longer a child. Neither of those things matter to them as I slowly, painfully die.

At least… there will be no more carols, only utter, true silence.