Chapter 5 - A Real Family

It had been three days since Michael had moved in with the house of the living dead and like most of the house's occupants I had been avoiding him in every way possible. They gave him the nursery and Vivian locked herself and Jeffrey away in her bedroom. This meant the entire middle floor was out of bounds for me, and this also meant I wasn't able to visit Violet's room. I waited for her to come and visit me in the basement, but she didn't, I couldn't help but feel pissed at her. The house was not quiet though, the bringing of a living child into the house had caused a sense of purpose for many of the residents. Moira, who still looked at the child with fear, like he could set fire to himself at any minute still cooked him three meals a day, Patrick and Chad took him for a walk in the garden and Nora took a liking to the child instantly, mainly because since he arrived here he had not spoken a single word, a quality in a child that pleased her.

The only inhabitants who did not contribute to his welcoming in some way apart from me was the Harmon's, who nobody had seen since the child arrived. On the first day of our new guests arrival I kept myself out of reach, by staying in the basement. Travis, who had a overwhelming need for companionship, much like a Labrador, had followed me down there, hoping to 'chill man to man'.
'I don't do friends.' I had told him. 'Plus if you want anybody else in this shit hole to pay some attention to you, I'd recommend not speaking to me again.'
'I don't care what anybody else has to say. If I want to be your friend, I'll be your friend.' Travis replied.
'Being my friend means Moira won't give you any of the old booze she finds in the house any more. You'll miss out on all the wine boxes she uncovered yesterday in the attic." I told him. "She won't give you anything if your friends with me."
Travis hasn't returned to the basement since.

On the second day, a range of emotions bubbled away inside me. I felt furious at my cock-sucker of a mother, she'd outdone herself this time, and yet there was a sense of curiosity I had about the child. Sure, he looked like me, but I was beginning to wonder as I paced around basement back and fourth, hearing the tiny patter of a child's footsteps on the oak floor above me what traits, other than being psychotic, he had gained from me, and I think this lingering curiosity is what made me visit the nursery.

I started at the door, and decided it was best to open it as fast as I could, meaning there was no chance for me to turn back. I turned the brass handle and the nursery door creaked open revealing the small fair haired child sat cross legged on the floor staring up at me. He had a pencil in his hand, and a pad on the floor, though I was unable to see what he was drawing as his eye's pulled me in instantly. On first appearance they appeared a dark shade of russet brown, similar to mine, but the closer I moved to the child I noticed his eye's grew darker and by the time I had knelt to the floor in front of the small being his iris had swallowed nearly his entire eyes, coating them in a jet black. Although I'd had little experience with handling children, I'd grown up being the only reliable company for Beau and Addie and I realised what I loved the most about children was their innocence. A child is never aware of the shit storm which is life swirling around them, they are oblivious to everything and they hold no responsibility for their actions. Addie and Beau knew nothing of the warped tumours growing away in my brain, they saw me as a God like figure, a brother they could love unconditionally. This 'child' was very different though. Although he looked incredibly delicate and innocent, He had the presence of a fully functioning adult, like he knew exactly who he was and why he was put here, yet he also gave the sinister impression of knowing everything about you. He stared back into my eyes, into my mind and I became overwhelmed with a rare emotion. I've felt love before, deep love before, with Violet. But the love I felt at that moment staring into my child's eyes was unlike anything I could have imagined and as my face broke into a smile, the child mirrored that same crooked smirk back.

"Let me see what you are drawing." I said, and I turned the notebook around to face me. On the paper in front he had drawn a picture of a red haired woman holding a infant in her arms, while giving birth to another. The picture mimicked a child's drawing, the stick figure with the larger than live hands and the potatoe shaped heads, yet the vile drawing itself was enough for me to realize this was not the work of a three year old child. I hesitantly turned the page to find what I was dreading to see. A drawing of Ben Harmon hanging from the grand stair-case's chandelier. The next 18 pages were dedicated to the drawings of each individual who died in this house. Violet's passing in the bathtub, Chad and Patrick's murder, and my own death were all recorded in his little drawing pad. Michael had not been smiling at me due to familiar love, he was smiling at me because he was proud of demented drawings.

I left the nursery without saying a word, and I felt the child's icy stare on the back of my head when I clicked the door to shut behind me. I sat on the stairs for a while, tears burned in my eye's and I could feel them hot and heavy rolling down my cheeks. I fucked up. No, I really fucked up. Despite the fact I'm dead I was struggling to catch my breath. The sweeping emotion of parental love I had felt for Michael in the nursery vanished as I realised he was not my child at all. Undoubtedly the supernatural infant had taken some of my DNA and mirrored a small version of me, but Michael was not a child at all, he was a shape shifter. A daemon who uses the form of a child to entice and mislead others. He was no son of mine, he was no son of anyone's.

"Mum, look I drew you! I drew your long pretty hair, see!"

I heard the child's voice from the stairs and I slunk back to the nursury and found the wooden door cracked open. Carefully and quietly I peered through the crease in the door and witnessed Michael, still in the same position I'd left him in, but his body was turned to the right and it was obvious he was not alone any more. I could make out the silhouette of a woman sat on the floor on his right, her long hair swayed in her shadow when her body moved. Michael had his warped sketchbook in front of him and was proudly flicking through his 'artwork', showing his female companion with a sick smile plastered on his face

'Your such a clever boy! You've made me look so pretty, Michael.' The female spoke.

I didn't need to see the woman to know who it was. Hayden's voice pierced the air around me, it was full of a sickly sweetness, but there was layers of coolness underneath it. She moved closer towards the boy and into my vision, placing a arm around the child and cooing in his ear.

"I thought I heard Daddy come and visit you earlier, did you show him your work?'
Michael nodded and eagerly thrust another drawing towards her.
"Ah, you showed him that one! That's one of my favourites." She stroked the top of his fair head. Although I wasn't able to get a glimpse of the drawing, my instinct told me she was referring to the drawing of Mr Harmon's hanging.
"I'm not sure he liked it though. He left quickly after looking at my drawings." Michael said, and his expression changed to to a pretend look of disappointment, a obvious manipulation.
"Oh sweetie, don't mind daddy, he's often grumpy with everybody in this house."
Michaels face lit up in a fake attempt of joy, and the child reached out for his pencil and began to draw frantically.
"Are you drawing me another picture Michael?"
The child nodded. "I'm drawing you and daddy. Together. And look, there's me in the middle." He showed her his drawing and her eye's lit up in a villainous manner. His tongue was out in concentration.
"Oh baby, that's a lovely idea. As soon as mummy's worked out how to get that horrible Violet out the way, then we can all be together, just like your picture."
"Like a real family." The boy muttered, still fixated on the image in front of him.

I stared at the scene in front of me, my blood cold, and at that moment I wasn't sure who I was scared most of. The Antichrist, or Hayden.