Alex sighs, it's his turn. He has quite the amount of stage fright. Her grabs his pamphlet from his messenger bag and marches up to the stage. He stands at the podium and motions to the side, where a young girl of only 7 or eight creeps out from behind the curtain. She wields a large cleaver, stained with blood. A red thread is draped over her neck in a noose, and her throat seems to be cut open. She drags a dark, blood-stained cat doll in her other free hand. She grins at the audience, eyes blazing red and bloody tears seeping out from them. Alex clears his throat.
"My objects were a kitchen knife, a stuffed cat, and a spool of thread."
The girl giggles and brandishes the cleaver, right before Alex begins.
This is Alex speaking now, reading off his papers, making eye contact with the audience, and doing hand motions.
This is Sarah.
The One in Your Basement.
SLIGHTLY EXPLICIT, INVOLVES SEXUAL ABUSE.
Sarah was a victim of child abuse. Her father was sexually abusive, and her mother would beat her because her father lusted for Sarah rather than her. She was a quiet little girl, only 8 years old, and she was forced to live in the basement away from the outside world. One day, after her father had crept into her room to take it from her again, she laid on the concrete floor, shivering, overalls still pulled down to her ankles. Her father snickered and shut the door, leaving her in the dark again. She whined and sobbed for a while, until her mother entered the basement, walking down the stairs to see her daughter, shivering and half-nude on the ground. She made a disgusted face. "You little whore. You stupid," She kicked her in the ribs, causing her to gasp in pain. "Awful," She kicked her again, this time in the stomach, causing her to cough up blood. She looked at her mother, tears in her eyes.
"Ugly," Her mother kicks her again.
"I'm sorry!" She sobs.
"SLUT!" Her mother shrieks, this time bringing her foot to Sarah's face. Sarah gags, blood spurts out of her nose like a geyser, and she holds her face, weeping. Her mother spits on her, turns on her heels, and marches back up the stairs, leaving Sarah in the dark.
Sarah lies in her own blood for a little while, then, on shaky legs, pulls herself up and stares at the top of the stairs. She fumbles in her pocket and pulls out a spool of bright red thread. Breath escapes her lips, and she creeps quietly up the stairs, avoiding to make a sound. Once she got to the top, she stared blankly at the rafters. Unraveling the thread, she throws it over one of the wooden boards on the ceiling. Tightening it in a noose, she drapes it over her head. She looks back at the door. "Goodbye Mommy. Goodbye Daddy." Her heart fills with rage as she stares at the sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door. "YOU'LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME, BOTH OF YOU! I SWEAR IT!"
Silence, she continues to glare at the iron door, when suddenly, she hears her fathers strangle warm laugh. His footsteps creep up to the door, and he states, ever so gently,
"No, honey. We won't."
His footsteps trail away as he laughs, as if the whole ordeal is a big joke. She scowls, and her face contorts with rage.
"We'll see, Daddy."
She jumps backwards, strung on the thread, a few feet above the air. But, instead of hanging, the thread cuts into her jugular, and blood coats the stairs below. She chokes on the metallic fluid flooding her throat as the bright red string snaps, sending her falling onto the basement floor. She died there, drowned in her own blood.
No one remembered her.
Sarahs mother sat in her rocker, knitting a scarf for her 'beloved husband,' whom she would occasionally glare at from across the room. Sarah's father, who was still shocked from his daughters death, stared blankly at the floor. They sat in silence for hour on end, everyday. Until one afternoon, when her mother passed by the cellar door.
She stopped in her tracks, frozen with fear. The whisper came closer now.
She whips around. Her breath is caught in her throat. There stands her daughter, throat sliced, shirt stained with blood. Sarah held a cleaver in her right hand. He moth did not move, but she was grinning widely, and words floated in whispers to her ears.
Did you like kicking me, Mommy?
Suddenly Sarah was in her mothers face. All her mother did was blink, and suddenly Sarah was there, grinning with blindingly white teeth.
Did you like that, Mommy? Did you enjoy my pain? Your little whore of a daughter? Huh?
Sarahs face remained frozen in the grin, her eyes blazed red. Her mother was still paralyzed. She couldn't move.
Now it's my turn, Mommy. My turn to hurt you. And I will definitely enjoy it. Like you did.
Sarah raised the cleaver. It shone in the light, and for a moment, time froze. Her mother couldn't even scream as Sarah brought the cleaver down on her. It split her head, and she fell to the ground. The carpet became soaked with blood. Sarah's grin remained, and she cackled. Turning around, she disappeared.
Her father sat in the kitchen, reading the paper. Sarah appeared, sitting on the counter, cleaver set on the granite.
Her father froze and turned his head to the sound of his daughters sweet whisper, that he had often forced out of her. Oh how he had loved that whisper, that whisper of pain and misery. But this wasn't one of those whispers. This one was full of pride. His daughter sat upon the counter, her childish figure soaked in blood, old and fresh.
You disgusting pig. I hate you. I do. And guess what?
Her frozen grin was still painted upon her face as she hopped off the counter and teleported next to her father. He fell out of his chair and scrambled away to the wall. Sarah cackled as she followed him.
You can't run Daddy. Just like I couldn't run.</b>
She swipes the knife to the side, and his head rolls off his shoulders in a fountain of blood. Sarah chuckles, and it evolves into a mad cackle. Then, suddenly, it was quiet again.
Alex sighs and rubs his shoulder. He's made quite a long story. He clears his throat again and continues.
Every single parent that has lived in that house has been killed with a sharp object. To this day, no one can find prints, evidence, or even the weapon used. Also, anyone who enters the threshold of the cellar has immediately fallen down the stairs, and ended up at the bottom, throat slit.
A child's voice has often been heard resonating from the house, sometimes sobbing, sometimes screaming, and, rarely, her audible whispers.
Alex looks up at the silent classroom. He swallows hard, collecting his papers, and scurries off the stage, hoping he didn't at least fail.