Monday, May 23, 2011

the horror

It's a peaceful day in the house; girls playing peacefully, birdies chirping outside. Mother does a quick pick-up while everyone's occupied. She picks up stray bits of paper, a stray sock, a puppet, a lego, another stray sock, a crayon.
She pauses, looks back.
(Cue creepy, scratchy music)
The sock. That white little girl sock she just picked up. How did it get back on the floor?
It's bedtime. Everyone carefully takes off their clothes, shoes socks, and dons footed pajamas. They put all the clothes into the laundry bin, and crawl into bed. Except--wait.
(Cue creepy, scratchy music)
The socks. They've reappeared. Somehow.
Everyone looks at each other nervously.
Putting the laundry into the wash, Mom scans the floor for strays, adds detergent, then closes and starts the machine.
(Panicky violins)
The tiny little girl sock! There's one on the floor. Wait. Is it--smiling? Laughing maniacally? Mom screams and slams the door to the house.
Girls asleep, Mom and Dad get ready for bed. They brush teeth, turn off lights, then fold back the sheets.
One small girl sock lies still at the center of the bed. So peaceful, so white, so ribbed. Then, without warning, it strikes.

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