Melissa Grady cursed her sweet tooth. It caused her more trouble then a pack of wild dogs in a butcher’s shop. The few extra pounds on the hips were acceptable, the cavities were fixable, but not the death of an innocent girl.

It was ten years since that day when she was as little as the clueless Girl Scout in long pigtails with her pressed uniform, packing a case of cookies to sell. Melissa had stalked her from house to house, craving layers of chocolate chips or peanut butter and caramel medleys. She followed her until the skipping little solicitor stopped dead in front of 1226 Ladybird Lane. Melissa slipped into the dense vines and decaying woods that enveloped the forbidden house, the urban legend in her own neighborhood. Two stories of stained white siding, bone-paned windows, and a smile-wide maw of a porch held the little girl in its malignant gaze.

Melissa relived the chill that had gripped her on that summer day. Hesitantly, the little girl walked up the unpainted ramp and past the rusted porch swing. Melissa wanted to yell at her, “Hey! Don’t go up there! The Brewer sisters will come after you, scoop you up and toss you in their stew!” That was what they’d say, she and the other kids, from the safety of a street several hundred feet away after school every day. She wanted so badly to warn her but the aftertaste of cookies sizzled in her throat.

Shaking her head to chase away the demons of her past, Melissa tried to focus on her goal — a plan to end the pain she’d been forced to endure — but the little girl clung to her thoughts. Melissa unclenched her fists. Only then was she aware of how deep her nails had dug into the soft flesh of her palms. Tiny trickles of blood, bright and coppery sweet, rolled down her hands and wrist. She rubbed her palms against the sides of the long dark coat that couldn’t keep her warm, or hide the swelling abomination in her belly which twitched and writhed within her, growing larger every day.

Shadows creeping from the trees played with her mind, rekindling the past. The little bitch within rolled and kicked her abdomen again. Melissa thought about the razor blade which she sliced across her stomach to cut it out several days ago. The scabs itched every time the little demon pushed against them. This was the only way to end the pain, rid her of her sins once and for all. Melissa took a deep breath and closed her eyes as the grainy film replayed itself, as it had every day for the past six months.

The little girl stood at the front door, feet pressed together, hands clutching the cardboard case holding an assortment of sugary delights. She fidgeted for a moment before raising her hand to knock.

The door groaned as it opened. Past the threshold lay darkness so deep it swallowed light like a drowning man gasping for air. Melissa barely heard the girl’s squeaky voice but knew her words intimately. She paused suddenly, a break in the cookie-cutter speech that stilled the chilled breeze whisking by, quieted the few birds that dared chirp near the roadside. Two pits of polluted silver fired up in the darkness. They bore down on the girl, pinning her to the porch. Then she was gone, scooped up by a bony hand as big as a pitchfork. It yanked her into the darkness, cookies and all, and then slammed the door shut.

After all of these years it was as fresh as the day she saw it. Rubbing her swollen eyes, Melissa remembered the sleepless nights; the nightmares clawing at her fragile mind. Mother cradled her sweat-drenched head as Father paced in the next room, quoting biblical verse one moment then sailor talk the next. She had to tell someone, confess the shocking truth, but fear screwed her lips shut: if the Brewer sisters discovered her transgression, they’d eat her next for sure.

In silence she suffered, her spirit collapsed by the horror of it. Melissa knew what she saw; the songs they sang came from somewhere, didn’t they? They had to be true. She lived with the burden of that truth. Therapy might have eased the grief but her father wouldn’t permit it. If God couldn’t overcome this obstacle, then she wasn’t worthy of His grace. It took Melissa a year to secure her seizure-ridden nightmares behind an iron door she subconsciously constructed. There they lay dormant for almost a decade, forgotten while she grew and frolicked. Hidden as she blossomed into a young woman filled with hopes for a brighter future. There they rested, until Jimmy Douglas raped her under the school bleachers.

His body was a hormone-charged sack of cement, breath thick with yearning and whiskey. He pinned her down and didn’t bother to cover her mouth. Jimmy begged her to scream. Melissa refused him and clamped her mouth shut. In the end, as Jimmy’s thrusts bucked harder, more furious, she retreated to her secret chamber to again protect her fragile psyche — and saw the broken body of the Girl Scout. Jimmy got his screams.

“Daddy, Jimmy, you bastards. All men are fucking bastards,” she whispered over quivering lips. Melissa was on her own, abandoned by the men in her life. Her father had disowned his unwed pregnant daughter. No good Catholic girl would ever disgrace her family like this. Suicide was less of a sin. She assumed that Jimmy had got enough to make him happy, since he split town shortly afterwards.

Tears scorched her cheeks as she bit back the onslaught of memories. The baby in her belly twitched and fidgeted with each emotional outburst. Melissa sneered. This wasn’t a random thing; it was the little Girl Scout coming back to haunt Melissa for not helping, for turning tail and running away. It made perfect sense. She sought vengeance for Melissa’s cowardice. But she wasn’t a coward, or a child, no matter what her two-faced bastard of a father said. And this wasn’t your garden-variety bully, this was a spirit corrupted by an unthinkable violence: this was a spirit born of evil.

The wicked little bitch wasn’t getting her revenge; Melissa aimed to end this suffering at any cost.

In matched steps, Melissa paced up to the old house. The ramp was still there, covered in blackened tire treads. The porch swing listed, the chains creaking as a sharp breeze swayed it in an endless circle. Melissa saw the girl’s tiny feet as if they were her own, polished black and brass-buckled, dragging up the cracked ramp, across the split-board porch and up to the front door.

Thin cracks ran along the wooden siding, digging deeper into the door’s frame from the outside moving inward. In places the cracks were discolored with pitch, or was it chocolate?

“Stop being so damned naïve,” Melissa scolded herself. Father treated her like a child, as if she never grew up. Thanks to him, it gave Jimmy the advantage he needed to lure her away from safety, force her down, and...

Melissa unclenched her jaw before she broke a tooth. She balled up a fist to knock, eyes darting all around for any creeping shadows or dagger-toothed beasts, her lips twitching from corner to corner. She held up her hand, took a deep breath, and then sighed. The porch swing froze.

Run! Jump! Scream! The words ate at her frayed nerves. Common sense rattled within her brain, yet she ignored it and welcomed sweet oblivion.

The heavy scrape of a dead bolt restarted her heart. It pounded within her chest, hammering blood throughout her body like flooding rivers. The door handle clicked as Will-o-wisps flashed around her eyes and the porch leaped up to slap her face.

* * * * *

“Sweetie, are you all right? Maybe we should call an ambulance?”
 
“Pish-posh. By the time those bastards got here we’d be dead and she’d be as old as Vivian.”

The voices were wispy, hushed. Menthol hung crisp in the air, goose-pimpling Melissa’s skin. She coughed, then grabbed her face as white-hot pokers stabbed at her forehead in a violent staccato.

Cracking open one eye, Melissa searched to see where she was and who the hell was talking. A single lamp far from her tunneled vision cast a weak glow. Dark mahogany slats covered the walls, closing in the room, cramping her more then the occasional contraction from her cervix. Old paintings of large fields, maidens on horseback, and great jungle cats, just to name a few, filled the walls. Those she could make out, while others hid outside of the light. Something squeaked nearby. Wheeling into view was a weathered hag.

“Oh, she’s awake,” the old woman said. She was dishpan-faced with clicking dentures, topped with hairpins sticking out of a crooked silver wig, strapped into an all-terrain wheelchair in desperate need of a Lysol soak.

“Amazing, Glenda. Figure that out on your own, or did Zoë whisper it in your ear?”

Melissa popped open both eyes and tried to focus through the pick-ax migraine to see who owned the voice.

Glenda leaned back and scowled as another granny approached. Her rumpled black and white polka dot dress should have been burnt along with her bra back in the sixties. Hair glistened oil-black, lips cherry-red, and her skin drooped from her bones like pounds of uncooked dough. She smiled and flashed lipstick-stained teeth.

“Will the two of you stop hovering around like buzzards and get the tea!” They skulked off.

Melissa shot up then wished she hadn’t. The room spun around her a hundred times until her stomach kicked. She doubled over and heaved but nothing came out. Running her tongue across her dry lips, Melissa marveled at the miniscule amounts of food she managed to keep down and still survive.

Hands like dry leaves rubbed her back, catching threads and crackling with each pass.

“Easy, Pumpkin. Let Aunt Vivian take care of you.” Melissa looked at the third woman, a large, domineering figure, proud and stout despite her years. Her voice was husky yet warm, her face like a bulldog, with eyes blotted from cataracts.

“What’s your name, sugar?”

“Melissa,” she managed through a few coughs.

“A pleasure to meet you, Melissa. I’m Vivian Brewer. You’ve already met Twiddle-dee and Twiddle-dum.”

“I heard that,” shot a voice from the kitchen.

Melissa stiffened. She was in the Brewers’ house! She passed out on their porch and they dragged her in. “Oh God,” she muttered repeatedly. The flight reflex kicked in, her legs shaking like old engine rods, fingers ready to claw any fool stepping in her way, and a little girl laughed in her belly. Gripping the couch, Melissa planned her quickest escape but couldn’t see the front door from which she certainly came in. Heavy curtains hung over the windows and, for all she knew, they could be on the second floor or in the basement.

No, she came here for a reason and would stay, no matter how much she wanted to run and cry and flee. Daddy kicked her to the curb, just like Jimmy. No one cared if she lived or died, and that was just the way she wanted it.

The other sisters re-entered the room. The one with the crooked wig scooted in her wheelchair. The stench of decayed food and dried feces smacked Melissa right in the nose. She breathed slowly through her mouth as the old woman carried over a silver tea tray.

“I’m Glenda. I hope you like mint.”

“Zoë,” said the other through a clenched Virginia Slim poking out of her mouth. The crisp smoke ripened the other odors more then she could stand. This time Melissa covered her mouth and bolted for the other room. It was a kitchen, filled to the ceiling with gleaming white porcelain and enamel. She hit the sink and spat up a mouthful of bile. Reaching up, she turned on the faucet, an old two-handle fixture with large, chromed knobs. Cold water sputtered from the spout and she splashed some into her mouth and across her face. Floorboards creaked and feet shuffled from behind her. Melissa turned to see Glenda set the tea service down on a beige and brass dining table with two matching chairs. Zoë stood outside the kitchen, working her cigarette one lungful at a time, while Vivian glided her fingertips along the wall and furniture as she entered the kitchen.

“Grab a seat and some tea,” Vivian said. “It will help. And Zoë, put that damned thing out before you gas us to death.”

“No worse then Glenda, she rumbles like a methane factory.”

Glenda gasped. “How dare you say such a thing in front of our guest, Mrs. Dribblepants!”

“Why, you little harpy!”

“Both of you, shut up!” Vivian stood between her sisters, staring at Melissa with her opaque eyes. The old woman bared her tiny teeth, grinding them in quick jerks. “Please forgive us; we don’t get many visitors, so my sisters have forgotten their manners, among other things.” She motioned Melissa towards the table. Glenda, bobbing in her seat, patted the empty chair next to her. Weary, Melissa dragged heavy feet over then sat down.

“You three aren’t anything like I expected.” Melissa was surprised at her own bluntness, but after today it didn’t matter. She took her tea, cradling the hot cup in her quivering hands, and then sipped it. The mint couldn’t hide the heavy herbs that steeped in the water. She scooped several spoonfuls of sugar in and swirled it.

“You mean like those songs the children sing?” Vivian searched for the sugar and cream; she found both easily enough. “Children can be so cruel and disrespectful.”

And dead. Melissa held back the words as the Girl Scout flipped through her mind. She tried to envision how they would be capable of harming anyone. They should all be in some nursing home eating pureed corned beef and cabbage.

“What brings you to our door, sugar?” Vivian sipped her tea as she looked directly at Melissa, who squirmed under the force of the milky eyes. She didn’t expect to have to explain herself. They should have killed her or taken the baby by now. What the hell was wrong here? Did she make the whole damned thing up? Ridiculous, no child could envision such a horrific tale. Melissa cleared her throat as she deduced a way to bait these monsters.

“I’m in trouble and I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“What about your parents?” Zoë asked from the edge of the kitchen.

“They don’t care; nobody does. They’d be better off if I were dead.” Melissa felt the baby kick, mocking her, telling her that she must kill these creatures before they hurt another. She must have her revenge or Melissa would never sleep a restful night again.

“What about the father?” Glenda smiled as her eyes trailed down to Melissa’s stomach. “Yes, we know you’re pregnant. You’re as big as a house.”

“He didn’t want a baby, just me. The motherfucker raped me!”

“Easy, muffin,” Vivian said. “Show some respect for your elders.”

“I don’t care, I just want it gone, dead, and you have to help me.”

The three women remained silent, each looking at the other as if communicating on a psychic level before returning their gaze back to Melissa.

Vivian set down her tea, then said, “We’re not butchers, and you appear beyond a simple abortion.”

The Girl Scout screamed in her brain, fighting to escape as rows of teeth like knives ripped the flesh from her bones.

“I saw you take her, that little girl. I was in the trees and I saw you take her and I was so afraid to tell. I never told anyone.” Fear weighed down her shoulders like a hungry lion pressed against her, like Jimmy.

“What are you getting at, Pumpkin?” Glenda said, her tongue gliding over her cracked lips.

“I saw you, one of you, scoop that Girl Scout right in and slam the door.”

Vivian chuckled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Her name was Emily Brody and you killed her. I saw it.”

“Be mindful of your tone; you’re a guest in this house.”

“Don’t bullshit me, you crazy old witch. Everyone knows that you kill and eat kids and I saw it! I’m not insane and I didn’t make it up.” This was going all wrong. Anger welled within her chest, squeezing tight until it hurt to breathe.

“I think it’s best that you calm down or leave.” Vivian scooted back her chair from the table.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you feel it? It’s her; it’s Emily!” Melissa slapped the sides of her stomach as she searched the faces of the sisters. “She’s come back for revenge against all of us!”

“Maybe we should call your parents, Muffin, and have them pick you up.”

“No!” Melissa shot up, shoving the table and knocking over her seat. The room looped around her in a slow pivot. “Don’t lie to me! I can’t take this any more.”

“How dare you come into our home with these accusations? How dare you throw our hospitality back in our faces like that! You should be damned thankful we brought you in and took care of you rather then leaving you out there. Unless you want me to take you over my knee and give you a good spanking — and don’t think either one of us is too old for that — I suggest you settle down this instant and apologize.” Vivian stood inches from Melissa’s face, unwavering. Hot plumes of sour breath pelted the girl’s nose. The milk-stained eyes held a fire that stifled Melissa’s rage.

She reached back for her chair then sat down. Maybe she had made a mistake. Maybe this was all wrong. The endless well of tears pooled around her tired eyes then streaked down her face. Guilt was a wicked bitch. Melissa had only wanted a cookie. How could she have been so wrong? Did the rape fuck up her mind? Christ, it hurt to think.

“I just want it out. Please, I didn’t want her to die. I never asked Jimmy to touch me. I didn’t deserve this.” Hands caressed Melissa’s shoulders as others slid the still full teacup in front of her. She drank it down to the last herb, then settled into her seat. She rubbed the tears from her eyes then said, “I’m sorry. You can’t understand what a burden it’s been, keeping that to myself. I don’t know where the idea came from. I mean, look at you. You’re so old and nice, letting me bitch and cry like that. The tea and back rubs. My dad would never have let me fly off the handle like that.” Glenda refilled the teacup and Melissa finished it just as quick.

“Think nothing of it, Cupcake,” Zoë said, wiping a hint of saliva from her lips as she lit a fresh cigarette. “We’ve had our moments.”

“Ever since that day I’ve questioned a lot of things: relationships, religion, life in general. I’ve spent so much of my life hiding from my own fears that I think I missed something along the way.”

“Life doesn’t come with instructions,” Glenda said as she offered Melissa a plate of cookies. “We just pick a road and try to stay on it, no matter how rough it gets.”

Melissa took a cookie, a Tagalong, a Girl Scout standard. Laughter blurted from her mouth. How delightfully ironic, she mused. Melissa popped the cookie in her mouth and savored the chocolate and peanut butter mixture. Nothing had tasted this good for months — or stayed down, for that matter. She took another, then looked down at her cup as the little herbs stuck to the sides crawled in slow circles around the bottom. They chased each other, making her eyes roll and her stomach clench.

“Something wrong, Pumpkin? More tea?” Glenda held the pot over her cup, eyes wide and eager.

“No, I’m just so tired. I...” Melissa’s head hit the table like a stone. She slumped from her seat to the floor. The cup fell next to her, breaking into several small pieces.

“It’s about time. I thought she’d never pass out.” Vivian walked around the table and collected the broken fragments.

“She’s a fighter,” Glenda said as she stood from her wheelchair and brushed out her robe. “I can’t believe we were ever that sloppy.”

“Sweet Minerva, who cares? I’m starving. Someone carve this turkey so we can eat,” Zoë said while wisps of smoke curled from her thinning lips. A set of false teeth fell from her mouth to the floor, revealing rows of growing incisors, dripping wet.

“Patience,” Vivian insisted, skin stretching, eyes glowing. She drew a long, curved blade from a drawer near the sink, holding it steady in her tree-limb fingers.

Glenda beamed. “I feel twenty years younger just looking at her.” Hands gnarled, talons flexing.

“You will be that and more,” Vivian said, her lips curling wide as an engorged moon consumed the charcoal sky outside. “I had a feeling she’d come back to us. All these years, sweetening her meat with fear and anger, makes this meal worth the wait. Dinner is about to be served.”