Death is Not the End, Daddy, Page 2

her voice still sounds sleepy, with both the beginning and ending of the word fading out.

  “Yeah, sweets,” I say. The nickname makes her smile. She feels loved; at least I hope she does.

  “I can’t find my Freddy the teddy.”

  I look for him. He’s wedged under the bed. She doesn’t yet know about the little sheets of scripture I have rolled up and stuffed into his stuffing. The Lord gave me that idea one night. She was afraid, so I wrote 2nd Timothy 1:7 on a small sheet of paper: Jesus has not given me a spirit of fear, but one of power, love, and a sound mind. I place him in her arms.

  I ask her if she wants something to drink to settle her upset stomach. She shakes her head, and lays back down. I rub her back and tell her that I love her. And I do.

  She says it back to me with sleepy continuing to fill her words.

  John Doe

  Sometimes when Teddy is quiet, like he is tonight, I sit and ponder. I ask myself why I take children. The only answer I can ever come up with is that Teddy tells me to. I ask myself why I put a plastic bag over their heads, and wait for their muffled screams to become quiet. I get the same answer: Teddy tells me to. And now I ask myself why I am waiting to take another. Fear fills me. I think Teddy is awake. The bear has never moved, but he is always watching me. He is in the seat next to me, as brown and faded as when I was a boy.

  “Why do you question this?” he is in my head, awake and angry. I don’t want to look over. I’m terrified. “Everything I’ve done for you. The freedom I have given you! The covering I have provided!”

  My eyes hurt. I can feel the wet of a nosebleed running down my lips. I can taste the blood filling the gaps in between my teeth.

  My hands are now controlled, brought from my sides to the ten and two of the steering wheel. I can only squeeze until it feels like my fingers are going to break.

  “I’m so-sorry.” I say with what little power I have. “For-forgive me.” he does, but not before making me dig my sharp and dirty thumb nail deep into my cheek. I can feel the wet of new blood. He tells me to take a lick. I don’t want to, but do.

  And now he becomes quiet again. I ask again. What is more powerful than Teddy?

  Matthew Mills

  Marcy is sleeping now. Her cheek is still moist from the long kiss I gave. The streaks of sickness have faded from her face. I might keep her home from school, since she only has a few hours left to sleep. I’ll decide when the time comes.

  When I close my eyes, I still see blood. This isn’t a dream. And I have had visions before. This is something different. The stirring has become a presence. I’m the weakest I have been in quite some time, and the attack is strong tonight. The Lord hasn’t forsaken me. There is a reason for me not being able to feel Him. I just don’t know what it is.

  I grab the doorknob and turn. The hallway is freezing. My skin grows bumps and I step out into the open hallway. The lights flicker and then die. I search for any words of scripture to bind up this presence. They are lost, as if I know none whatsoever. I can see the outline of the furniture, and something walking past it. It’s small in size, wearing a dress.

  “Hello,” I’m able to say, though my voice is shaking.

  “Death is not the end, daddy.” the lights come back on. Marcy stands before me, drenched in blood. The blonde of her hair now looks orange. Her face is pale. She is many feet away, and I can’t begin to walk forward.

  I try to say, what happened to you? But my words are stuck in my throat. She begins to walk toward the stairs that lead to our entryway. I don’t want her to go. The Lord is absent from this house, and I feel the devil waiting to take her away. I hear him call her in a voice that sends absolute terror toward me. She smiles at me with eyes that are already gone, and then runs toward it.

  I scream, and then feel a soft hand rub against my arm. My eyes are open, but I can’t move. Marcy is looking at me, with Freddy the teddy snug in her arms.

  “Bad dream, daddy?” she asks.

  The sun is slicing through her window. My head is lying on the pink blanket on her bed, and my legs are tucked under my backside on the floor. I must have fallen asleep. I can feel warmth again. The Lord is with me. But, He wasn’t in that dream. There wasn’t a hint of Him. I was completely controlled.

  “Feel better, sweets?” I’m able to ask without tremors.

  She just smiles at me. Her blue eyes look green with the way the light is in this room. There is no sickness on her. And the image of her covered in blood has begun to fade from my mind.

  “Do you want me to keep you home from school?” I ask, more than willing. After that dream, I want to keep her home.

  But, she says no. She says that she can’t get a perfect record if I keep her home. My little A student. I’m proud of her, but worried. The dream’s images are fading, but the impact is growing. Death is not the end, daddy? Who said it was, sweetie?

  John Doe

  Most of the trees are bare, but some still have leaves of changed color. The sun is hitting the town just right that it looks like something out of a picture. The children will soon empty out of their homes, and run to this small elementary school. I doubt any age older than eleven or twelve attends here. This town has a thousand people at the most—lots of children for Teddy to choose from. He’s already given me something. M. M is her nickname. It’s all I have so far. Once I see her, I’ll know. Teddy will tell me.

  The mark on my cheek has dried. And the blood in my mouth has stained against my teeth. My hygiene is only existent when by rest stops on the highway. I swipe a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small bottle of shampoo from a gas station. I cut my own hair from time to time. Right now it is long strands of grease hanging across my scarred forehead. It’s black, as is the hair growing over my lip and under my chin.

  I am ugly. Teddy says this in other words. He talks about my disproportionate face, the Indian corn that my teeth have become, and the smell that surrounds me. I only have three outfits in my wardrobe. They are bunched up in the back seat, in a plastic bag alongside a new teddy bear. The new bear is a darker brown than Teddy. And its eyes are blue.

  I am dressed in faded blue jeans and a thrift store trench coat. It’s layered and warm, but I am still cold. The Buick is off for now. My breath looks like smoke. The blood that came from my nose has now crusted inside of it. I hate the cold. My ears are sure to be as red as my cheeks by now. Teddy looks cold, too. The tips of his fur are now frosted.

  My head still aches from the nosebleed Teddy gave me. It feels like pounding behind both eyes, and somewhere deep inside my brain. My thoughts aren’t deep, but they are covered with worry. I’m just waiting for the kids to arrive. This is the quietest Teddy has been in some time. It almost feels like he isn’t here at all.

  “Matthew is the name of her father.” Teddy is speaking again. “He supervises the factory in the town. Tell her you are an employee. She’ll listen to that. Call her M. Everyone close to her calls her M, except her father. He likes the name Marcy.”

  Teddy quiets. My eyes close. I can’t open them. This is familiar. The pounding in my head has become swirling. It feels like the beginning of a dream, though it’s still different. I see only an image, instead of a scene. She is small in size, with blonde hair tied into unbraided pigtails by two little blue bows. Her eyes are blue too. Light sits in them. Teddy hates the light. He especially hates the kids that have it. She does, more so than anyone before her. It must be why he chose her. It must be.

  Matthew Mills

  Marcy is bathing. I used my finger to test the temperature. She likes it hot, just like me.

  I am standing at the top of the stairs that lead down to the entryway. Words of scripture are filling my head, and I say them in a tone of command. This is my house. But, ten minutes ago, it wasn’t. Ten minutes ago this was a house controlled by the devil, with God completely absent. I know it was a dream, but it continues to feel stronger than that. I am not able to look down at the entryway without thinking about the vo
ice that called for my Marcy. I’m not able to close my eyes without seeing hers already gone. And that almost gleeful smile that she gave before she ran down to the devil’s call has turned my skin cold.

  A thought has come to me. 2nd Timothy 1:7. It’s the verse I pray over Marcy. The Lord is telling me to use it over myself. As I say it, the fear begins to dissipate. I’m told to say it again. I do. This time it’s louder. The soft tremble in my hand has stopped. My cold skin has begun to warm. I don’t feel watched, as I did. But, I still feel a hint of fear.

  The clock in the kitchen is almost as loud as it was last night. I can hear Marcy splashing, while humming happily. I think it is Jesus Loves Me, but I can’t be sure. My feet feel heavy. I walk past the closed bathroom door and towards our bedroom.

  Anoint Marcy, the thought has just come to me. Grab the bottle from your dresser drawer and anoint her.

  “Matthew!” Janet is calling me in a voice that sounds far too awake for this time of morning. I open the door. She is sitting at the edge of the bed. Her eyes are as red as they were the day that our baby bled out of her. She has been crying, maybe all night. But, I didn’t hear it.

  “How are you doing, honey?” I ask, trying to avoid looking at the red of her eyes.

  She just shrugs. Her brown hair is matted with dried tears; her face is the