Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot nine days old
Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot nine days old
I could see the three young girls laughing and singing in the courtyard below my bedroom window. Two held the skipping rope at either end counting out how many days old Chesleigh's porridge was. She tripped on eight. Chesleigh was my youngest sister. She was but seven years old, fair-skinned and golden-haired with eyes that were bluer than the midday sky on a summer day. A beautiful child. She was my father's favourite, and mine. The other two were my cousins, Annabelle and Dillian. The twins would be fifteen when November drew to a close, and never a pair of sillier girls have I ever had the misfortune to encounter. Annabelle was a giggler and Dillian a simperer and both liked nothing better than to procure a shilling or two from their uncle to go into town and buy themselves another blue ribbon or fake ivory comb. They would be returning to their home in Colchester in two weeks time, and I sincerely hoped that their influence on Chesleigh would not be permanent.
It was sunset now, and right below my window, the front door to our house opened. Mother poked her head out of the door and called to the girls to hurry indoors. It wasn't safe in London after dusk. Dillian and Annabelle dropped the rope and skipped into the house, mother ruffling their hair as they squeezed past her through the door. Chesleigh was struggling with the rope, trying to coil it up and bring it in with her. Her golden head appeared to be aflame as it reflected the orange rays of the setting sun. She looked up and saw me in the window above, flashing me a smile as she ran towards mother, with the coiled rope in her hand. And then she was gone, and mother was screaming. I dashed down the stairs and out into the courtyard and found mother there, still screaming in distress, screaming silently now, for sound had ceased coming out of her mouth.
"What happened mama? Where is Chesleigh?" I asked, knowing the answer. They had got her.
Father got home five minutes later to find us still in the courtyard. Mother was no longer screaming. She just stood there, frozen like a statue. Wrapped in her own arms. The very image of misery. Father had never been the one to provide comfort to us, which was ironic considering his line of work. He didn't know what to do with the mute, clearly distressed statue that was his wife. He slapped her once on the left cheek, and commanded her to snap out of it.
"Take your mother inside" he barked at me when his remedy failed.
He was never the same after that day, and neither was she. He withdrew from the rest of us completely, perhaps afraid to lose another child. Mother never spoke again.
They floated her back to us on the Thames three days later. Her white sun dress with the blue trim stained a deep permanent brown by the murky waters of the river. Our beautiful seven year old Chesleigh. Eyes open and blue as ever, only this time more like an artist's blue on canvas than the midday summer sky. Not quite right. Her body stiff as a board and completely drained of blood. Distinct puncture wounds in her neck. Wounds that could only have been made by a set of razor-sharp human teeth. We knew then, that the rumours were true. The creatures we had thought were only the stuff of dreams and nightmares ran freely among us, hunting us, feeding on us, murdering us.
We buried her in the churchyard. It was just me and my other sisters, and the priest from St. Patrick's Cathedral. Father could not bear to see the tiny white coffin, nor his little angel inside it, and mother had left for Cornwall under Dr. Pottersmith's advice. She had not been allowed to see Chesleigh's corpse at all, because the good doctor thought that the shock would be too much for her. The fresh sea-air at Cornwall was supposed to do calm her nerves and do her much good. And so it was that a young man and three children witnessed their sister's burial with only each other for support.
Mother never returned from Cornwall. She died there at the end of the summer from a severe attack of unseasonal influenza, a weak constitution and the lack of a will to live. Her sister, whom she had been staying with, later told us that she would have nightmares in which the thing that had taken Chesleigh came back for her. She had seen it for the merest fraction of a second as it grabbed Chesleigh, and she had never forgotten its eyes. With mother gone, we were as good as orphaned. With mother gone, we had absolutely no hope.