Emily, My Emily

So I wrote this for my writing class... yeah I know its really dark. This may in fact be the darkest thing I've ever written.... *shudders* Just a fair warning, not for the faint of hearted to read. In fact, don't read it at all. You'll regret it. Go read another of my works instead. In fact, I'll post a happy sunshine poem after this, so go read that instead!

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Emily, My Emily

The holy father had assured us that the farm would be safe now, but Amelia still had her doubts after what she had seen. It was a spacious property tucked away in eastern Oregon, serrounded by low hills covered with long golden grass, a piece of the prarie that had survived the harsh desert. On either side the closest neighbors were 27 and 32 miles away respectfully. Isolation was what had allowed it to happen. It was why no one had noticed. Why it kept happening over and over and over again. And why Amelia knew it would keep happening. No matter what some excercist may say.

But I had other ideas. Having grown up in the city all my life, but with a real country heart, I couldn’t wait to get out on the little patch of prarie and begin building on my claim like the pioneers of old. As soon as we moved in I repainted the house and the barn, made sure the three cows that came with the house were up to date on their shots, and began planting the corn.

That was my second mistake, according to Amelia. She said that they had planted corn too and if we did then it would all start again. So I gently reminded her that part of the reason we had moved out here was also for her degenerating health. That she was sick. Very sick. And that right now she should just focus on getting better.

“But Harry, I’m scared! I know! I know its going to happen!” she mumbled through persed lips.

“Scared of what?” I inquired, trying to be gentle with her frail mind but she refused to talk, pressing her lips together as if she would swallow them before revealing what she knew.

Amelia had grown up in this part of the country. She knew all about it. Every stream, every blade of yellowed grass was intimate with her. She could lie on her back in a field at night and find all the stars and tell you their names and life stories and where they would hide. I think thats why I first fell in love with her. She was the living embodiment of my beloved country-life.

But as much as she loved to tell me about the country she did not one to tell me one thing. What had happened on the farm, and to its previous owners. All she insisted was that I call a priest before she would even set foot in the house. I obliged, partly out of genuin concern for her, partly out of my own curiosity to see if the priest would know anything, but mostly because I really wanted to house. It was my dream house after all.

Once we moved in she was apprehensive. Apprehensive about everything. She creeped through the house, stepped gingerly on the floor, faintly traced the walls, as if afraid to make too much contact with any part of the house at once. At night, she shivered, even when it was warm. We had to sleep with a light on for her.

But as the years passed we grew accostomed to the house. Or maybe I just grew used to the way she acted around it. She had gotten paler, thinner, with a gaunt look about her eyes. It was soon after the birth of our daughter, Emily. When Amelia decided to become the assistant teacher at Emily’s preschool I was glad, I won’t lie. Having her mope about the farm was tiresome. In the spring I hired a few hands to help me plant corn and hopefully they’d be back in the fall around harvest time. It was intresting thought, I had put the add out and literally the next day they were there. I didn’t know it worked that fast, but that must just be country folk’s good neighborlyness.

When the corn was high and harvest time was near, I cut the corn into a maze. It was bizaar. The hired hands showed up, hopping out of the old black pickup, and said they had come early to cut the maze. Said it was a tradition. I wasn’t sure what to say. But the next night, I had the most vivid dream and woke up with the perfect idea for the maze. A maze that would be impossible to see the exit out of when you were inside, unless you had a map.

They looked at my plans and smiled. I can’t describe the smile because I can’t really describe their faces. They all seemed similar in a way. Come to think of it, everything about them seems really hazy... and out of focus.... no matter how hard I try to remember... but anyway...

The maze was cut. The pumpkins were ready. Our cat we brought along had a litter of kittens. It was most definitly time for the Pumpkin patch to be opened. Couples came with their children. Teenagers came with their boy friends and girlfriends to kiss in the maze. Fall was in the air and everyone was celebrating it. It was Halloween, when we decided to invite the preschool to the pumpkin patch.

They arrived in the afternoon and fell upon the various activies we had planned for them. They carved pumpkins. Had pumkin seed spitting contests. They drew pictures. They played tag in the patch. But we had told them, no one was to go into the maze. They were too young. The last thing we needed was a crying lost child.

But my Emily didn’t listen. She went into the maze. The maze! And it was an hour before we realized she was gone. Amelia was frantic. The teacher hearded the rest of the children aboard the school bus and they left. We searched and searched but could not find her anywhere. My wife was sobbing, cluthing my arm viselike repeating the words, its happening again, its happening again.

Finally in a half crazed mode, I ran for the cutter, and jumped in. My wife grabbed my arm and screamed to me.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cutting my way through to find Emily!”

I started the motor and careened towards the field. I passed over acre and acre hitting rocks and stray pumkins as I went, but she was nowhere to be found. I kept screaming over the tops of my lungs, calling her name but she was no where to be found. As I made a turn around the corner, I hit another pumkin that squelched and cracked as I ran over it in the cutter, tears stinging my eyes as I kept looking for my little girl. My wife ran to me, jumped up on the cutter and started hitting me, screaming hysterically. I grabbed her wrists but couldn’t hear what she was saying. I turned the cutter off.

She was hysterical, screaming, and had red splatter marks on her face and dress. As I went to her, to see if she was okay, she tried running, but again I grabbed both of those delicate and frail wrists and yanked her towards me, forcing her to look me in the eyes. Her eyes were wild and red and tears gushed down her cheeks and she continued to cry, thin lips pressed together in agony.

“What’s wrong? Did you get hurt?” I asked but she just shook her head in response, more tears rising.

“Then what? Whats wrong?” I asked, daring her to say what I dreaded most, shaking her violently as I yelled it again, “What is wrong!”

She simply whimpered and pointed a shaking finger towards the cutter. Its blades gleamed red in the harvest moonlight and dangling from one of the sharp scyths was a tuff of blond Emily shaded hair, matted with the redness, and one of her tiny pink gloves she had been wearing. But it didn’t make sense.

Why would Emily have left her glove there? And why a lock of her hair? What strange child was this who could disappear like an elf and then leave such strange clues to her wereabouts. I did not know why but suddenly my eyes began to tear. Why was I crying? What was wrong with me? I couldn’t think. My brain was roaring.

Then I saw her, there, running between the cut stalks of corn, jumping over them in her pink gloshes, flashing her grin and letting her blond curls catch in the wind. Which I thought was odd too because there was no wind. My little girl. But why was she running from me? Why did so go towards the old black pickup at the other end of the field? The same one the hired hands had come out of. No, don’t go with them, my girl. They will be doing hard work. You wouldn’t want to do that.

“Come back over here right now, young lady. Emily, I mean it. Come on Emily, I’m not going to say it again.” I notice my wife backing away towards the house... did think that or say it aloud.... I can’t seem to be able to tell the difference.

“Emily! Emily! Where are you going Emily!?” I called after her, laughing... why was I laughing?

Next think I know you were here officer, asking me all about the house and my wife and Emily. I told you. I know where Emily is. Nothing bad happened to her. No that must be someone else’ daughter. No, my Emily’s hair isn’t red like that. No that can’t be her blood cause her blood is inside of her right now. She’s with them. No. She’s here. With us. And the three men who all look the same are all here too. Can’t you see them officer? Can’t you understand? The priest said nothing bad would happen any more! The pries said! The priest said!!! Emily! Emily! Amelia! Emalelia! My bow –– to atoms blown!”