Note: This story is adapted from an audio script I wrote and shared on Reddit with the same title and username.
...
It's just after ten when I park the car outside of the house. It took much longer to drain, process and dump the body than I had initially estimated. I finally walk in, staggering with two heavy milk crates. I can hear her bedroom door slam open. Her bare feet race up the stairs with swift silence.
She's wearing an oversized Garfield tee-shirt with sweatpants and her hair is still braided with the pink ribbons I gave her. Her eyes are sunken and cheeks hallow from starvation. She didn't stop to greet me. I know her hunger is past the point for pleasantries. Her delicate fingers seize one of the jugs from the crates. Throwing off the cap, she guzzles down the crimson liquid. Throat fluttering, she greedily gulps down the life essence of the man I killed and drained only a few short hours ago.
I feel guilt watching her drink so hungrily. Not for the life I took but for making her wait so long to feed. It's been nearly a month since her last meal and I hate watching her try to conceal her hunger pains. I offered her some of mine, but she refused. When I accepted this position, she promised never to feed from me as long as I kept her safe.
...
I saw the ad online for an In-Home Caregiver while job hunting at the public library. I was desperate for money and a place to stay. The landlady for the apartment I subletted told me she couldn't renew my lease at the end of the month. The sublet arrangement was initially done under her nose, so I didn't blame her for wanting me out. The friend of mine who had lived there prior was trying to help me after my divorce. My daughter had died a few months before that and it wasn't long until my already frayed marriage completely fell apart.
Taking care of our daughter consumed so much of us: the endless doctor appointments, infusions, clinical trials. I took time off work to help care for her but was eventually let go. Nobody around us understood what it was like to be a parent to a sick child that would never get better. We were told when she was diagnosed with leukemia that her prognosis would be a little over 50%. But then we discovered that she had contracted HIV from a tainted blood transfusion. By that point, my wife and I were trauma bonded more than romantically attached. When our daughter passed, we were hollowed out. The last thing that kept us together was gone.
After some back and forth emailing, I showed up to the house after dusk. I stood for a moment outside wondering if I had the correct address.
...
No lights were on inside the house. It looked like no one was home. Situated on a quiet street with other old brick craftsman style homes, there wasn't anything unusual about the house from the curb. Except for the overgrown lawn and some shingles missing from the roof. Even still, a dark foreboding came over me staring at the house. If I wasn't desperate for cash and a place to crash, I would have gotten back in my car. But I didn't have that luxury.
The planks of the front porch creaked and sagged under my footsteps. I pried open the screen door that had fallen off one of its hinges. Before I could knock, the front door slowly creaked open. I stepped into a dark, musky-smelling, wood paneled foyer with faded wallpaper.
This house must have been a beautiful and cherished home once. But whoever lives here now is probably in over their head with the burden of home ownership, which would explain the need for a caregiver. I wasn't certain who I would meet when I got there. The email messages didn't give much detail about who my client would be.
"Hello?" I asked but no one responded.
I noticed a soft glow coming down the hallway. I walked in closer to investigate and heard what sounded like music from a television. I thought: Perhaps it's an elderly person with the volume jacked up so high they can't hear me? I moved closer and recognized the voice of Fred Rogers singing: *Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won't you be my neighbor?*
I poked my head into what appeared to be a living room. It was sparsely furnished, with a loveseat and rocking chair positioned in front of an old television set with antenna. Seated in the loveseat, was a girl, or what appeared at first to be a girl. With her slight frame, frilly pink dress and head full of curls, I thought at first she was a child. Slowly she turned her head from the tv towards me. Her nostrils flared and her pupils dilated.
"Hi. I'm here about the In-Home Caregiver ad?"
"I know." She responded. Her voice sounded older than what I was expecting to come from what appeared to be a girl in her teens. But then again, I'm not great at decerning people's ages. Her face looked doll-like and beautiful in the glow of the tv screen. But her eyes had dark, heavy bags; suggesting poor sleep or insomnia. She must have muted the tv somehow because I could only focus on her voice.
"So... is the position for your parent, or...."
"It is for me." She went on to tell me that she needed me to pick up a package and bring it back to the house.
She pointed to an envelope with an address written on it. She instructed me to pick up the package from the person who answers the door and give them the envelope.
"Don't open the package and don't open the envelope." She warned.
Time passed strangely quick. I barely remember getting in my car and driving to an unmarked building in a warehouse district on the other side of town. I knocked on the door and gave the man who answered the envelope. He handed over a cooler that was duct taped shut. I was confused there wasn't a package, but before I could ask a question the man slammed the door shut in my face. I shrugged, returned to my car and drove back to the house.
Before long I was back in the living room and deposited the cooler on the loveseat next to the girl. I think I heard her stomach growl. Without warning she ripped open the cooler and retrieved a full blood bag. I watched in shock as she bit into the bag and started to suck down its contents. Soon the entire bag lay flat and empty, as if she were drinking from a juice box.
The sight of blood incited memories of my daughter's transfusions. I remembered how initially she squirmed and protested before the long needle went into her little arm. Eventually she got used to this unpleasant process and would give over her arm to any nurse that asked. I regretted how desensitized she became to being poked and prodded at a such a young age. And all for what? She ended up dying anyway.
The girl looked up at me quizzically and asked what my daughter's name was.
How did she know I had a daughter? I never mentioned her in our emails. And how did she know she was gone?
"Stephanie." I said.
"I'm Evelyn."
Her eyes were an usually beautiful amber color and curtained with long, doll-like lashes. I noticed the bags under her eyes were now gone and she looked refreshed. As if she just woke up from a nap.
Licking her red stained lips Evelyn told me I had the job and could move my things in tomorrow night.
