Esmay sat crying on the porch steps, thinking with dread at what her daddy had planned.  At first she thought it was all a sick and cruel joke; his way of paying her back for something she wasn’t quite sure she had done.  But as the days had wore on things became obviously clear that it was as real as the tears that filled her small hands.  She had planned to run; hide anything to avoid the terror not moments away.  She was an only child and the betrayal she felt deep inside sickened her to the core. He was her daddy, how could he? Looking both ways the street was quiet.  She hugged herself turning back toward the house.

Her mother had been gone for almost a year.  Esmay knew that the anniversary of her death was only days away and she wondered if this was the reason for her father’s treachery.  The loss had hit them both hard, the house becoming an unofficial shrine to her memory; but as the months passed, things had started to get better.  Her daddy had commented one morning not two weeks back at how nice she looked in the dress she was wearing, and at that moment, she knew that they were going to be alright.  She couldn’t do much around the house, due to her being  nine, and daddy would swear if she went anywhere near the stove; but she tried all the same.  She would vacuum, and spray some of that lemon spray mummy always used, that was still in the cupboard under the sink and she would set the table for when daddy got home at night, ready for the meals so often cooked by Mrs Womack who lived over the road, and smiled and smelled funny all at the same time when she was close to daddy.

Esmay peaked through the half open curtains and stepped back in shock to see Mrs Womack doing the same. It was all starting to become clear; she started to panic.  The woman she thought a friend was in on it.  She looked to the cupboard under the stairs willing it to swallow her whole, but it stayed shut denying her entry.  Her fright was now absolute, and the only answer lay upstairs with the blade daddy used to shave his face.  There was no one to help her, and she couldn’t help herself. She would rather die than face the fear.

Greg pulled up outside the house and he waved over Prue who had been waiting his return.  They both walked side by side smiling at the brown front door, and as they hid the man that followed with the funny cloths and big bunch of balloons, neither knew of the birthday girls phobia of cheerfully coloured clowns.

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David Ryan: I work as a landscape gardener during the day and write at night.  My passion is books and one day I hope to fill the shelves with my own horror novels.

Unraveling life hidden meanings – A different short contest story.