Jaidyn Mansfield

The Caretaker

When the sharp October air rustled the curtains open, when the clock struck 3:07 am, Babette's eyes snapped open as she sucked in a breath of terror. It’s grandma again, kneeling all of her weight atop her small chest, rocking side to side as if on a boat. She appeared grotesque, cadaverous. Glossy eyes, spidery white face-mold clinging to her nostrils and right cheek, mouth parted as if she were about to utter a secret. Babette’s neck was as stiff as wood, and her eyes refused to squeeze shut. She lay staring up at her, breath ragged. A fold of grey skin from her grand-mère’s forehead peeled and fell onto Babette’s own as she leaned downwards towards her ear, scent malodorous with dirt and death. Grandma rasped, gasping and sputtering, “Peregrine Hill…”