Chapter 3: Hope's Horrific Hauntings 1-3

You know that house on the street that is looked down upon by all the other neighbors? The one that your mother slows down the car just to say something despicable like "Eww look at their weeds" or "Why is their roof falling apart?"

Well that's Hope Barber's home.

In three words it would be described as a "pile of shit". The inside is no better. There are rats, bed-bugs, curtains that were shredded by moths, couches that looked to have been stolen from a dump—which very well could have been, for Hope's mother, Amy, has a habit of stealing whenever she could.

Amy works as a waitress in a low-class pizza joint, where, whenever she could, steals money from purses and coats. And if she sees a higher-class, or rich, person, her eyes light up in sparks for pay-day has arrived. It's a miracle how the place hasn't shut down from all the complaints of theft, or how Amy hasn't been fired. I guess it helps that her boyfriend happens to be the owner of the place.

Speaking of boyfriends, Amy would rather spend time with them than her own daughter, Hope. Hope, however, has gotten used to this self-centered attitude of her mother. As long as her mom is paying for the homeschool teacher, Quinn James (a 32-year-old African American woman), Hope doesn't complain much.

Matter of fact, whenever Quinn is around, Hope doesn't notice her mother is gone. Quinn is what Hope expects a good mother to be. Caring, kind, passionate, and determined to make her child succeed. Amy's inconsistent payments toward Quinn still doesn't affect her attitude in homeschooling Hope. She really believes that Hope has a shot at college.

Today is October 15th, and where Hope resides now is in the grassy field along the fallen Autumn leaves beside Central Park's pond.

She gazes at the ducks and geese within the pond, and the sparrows in the trees. What really catches her attention, though, are the children playing on the other side of the pond with the bunches of leaves; throwing their hands in the air whilst the leaves of the branches fall on their tiny heads. She smiles at their joy and happy child wonder.

She lays on her side in the somewhat grassy ground, with a mixture of dirt and leaves, and skips pebbles across the pond; her highest score being 7.

Although she wouldn't admit it, she would've loved for someone to draw a portrait of her now. Because as the leaves land on her head, they camouflage within her reddish, shoulder-length, wavy, hair. It really is a beautiful sight.

Then she heard it. Nothing. The children had stopped giggling and cheering from the other side of the pond. Of course, she thought nothing bad of the situation. They just left somewhere else, she thought. I should, too.

She stood up, wiping leaves off her gray shorts, and stretched her back from side to side.

The small cobblestone bridge is just to her left, where she could just use that instead of walking along the edge of the entire pond just to get to the other side. And from the other side lies a gravel path leading to the exit of Central Park. That is where she'd take a long walk to her neighborhood on the outskirts of New York City, where the buildings gradually get smaller and smaller, and houses exist.

But as she turned to look at the bridge just a few yards ahead, she noticed a red balloon attached to a very small, rectangular, white, box with a pink bow slapped on the top.

Peculiar, she thought while walking towards it.

Now, her mother steals, but that doesn't mean she didn't. Hope Barber, after all, lived in a crappy house, wearing clothes that have moth holes in them, and smelled like dust. If there was something useful in that small box, she'd take it. This would not be the first time she stole, and this wouldn't be her last. Matter of fact, she steals as much as she could...especially from the rich. They're rich, she tells herself, they can afford a couple bucks less.

She arrives at the bridge (the middle of the bridge) and studies this tiny box. It was small enough to fit in her hand. Her head followed the string from the balloon to the shiny, red, top shining from the sun. There was an urge that came in her that wanted to pop that balloon; just a small urge.

First thing she did was slowly untie the knot of the pink bow. Then she flipped the box upside down to begin unwrapping it from the bottom. She threw the white wrapping paper on the floor of the stone bridge. What was left was an actual white box now. Very easily, she took off the top part of the case and placed it on the stone-wall railing of the bridge.

Inside of the box was a shallow opening that contained a piece of white paper. She grabbed the blank paper and turned it around to see...those haunting words.

"Why did Daddy leave?"

Her eyes dried up from the long stare she gave to the note, which was shaking from her trembling fingers.

She hadn't thought of her father in years. Or at least spoke of him out loud to anyone. And no matter how much she hated her mother, and likewise for her mother, they never discussed him. Never said his name—David—or even, in any way, inferred him. All the depressing thoughts of her...childhood...were lost within the depths of her mind. Those thoughts of...

No.

Let go. Don't think of it. She thought. But poor Hope, for flashing images of her young years had flooded her mind completely.

"Stay in the closet! Don't come out until I open the door! If you open this door, I'm gonna beat your ass!"
"Call my mommy, now! This hurts! My neck...ouch!"
"Daddy, why didn't you come to the park with me?"
"Daddy, I missed you...did you miss me?"
"Daddy, why did mommy slam the door?"
"Shut the fuck up, Hope! Go to your room! I've had enough of you constantly nagging me!"
"You've been a bad girl this year, Hope. Santa Claus is not gonna come. Krampus is. He eats children who misbehave."
"Mommy, why did Daddy leave?"

Then, as if automatic, her lips made out the phrase "Why are Mommy and Daddy mean to me?"
It wasn't her 14-year-old self talking. No. It was of her 6-year-old self.

A tear flowed down her cheek. But those sad feelings were immediately overshadowed by angry ones. Her fists clenched and she punched that box; then she threw it into the pond. She made sure the note was stomped on and torn before throwing it in the water.

As for the red balloon that was left in the grasp of her hand. She wanted the pleasure of popping it, but something else had caught her attention, making her release the string from her grip. The balloon floated high into the air, passing along Central Park and, presumably, past the skyscrapers of Manhattan.

What caught her attention was a flier paper taped on the end column of the stone bridge. It read "Missing: Zachary Dawson. Age 3. Date of Vanishing 10-5-2017."

Unfortunately, just as the horrible childhood thoughts were disappearing, this flier had brought just one more.

"Hey...Hope, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Look...I have a lollipop! Do you want it?"
"Well...I don't really like lollipops."
"Oh, that's ok! I also got this really cool chocolate bar..."
"Oooh! Can I...I mean...may I have it, please?"
"Of course, come and get it."