“Daddy,” Rose said.
Her voice was unfamiliar, distant, almost foreign. It wasn’t the voice of his five-year-old daughter–not the one he remembered, not the…
His mind trailed into nothingness. He closed his eyes, concentrating, searching desperately.
What did she sound like?
“Daddy. My head doesn’t hurt anymore,” Rose said, smiling from her bed. The bright, rosy hue returned to her freckled skin. Her red-haired head poked out of the quilt, which she had drawn up under her chin.
No. It wasn’t her voice, but it was his daughter. Her emerald eyes still sparkled in the full-moon light. He rubbed the tiny, cute mole on her chin with his thumb.
Yes, it was her.
“Good, honeybear, good,” he said. His voice cracked as he ran a hand through her wiry hair. Her fever had broken, and the knot in his stomach had dissolved, only to be replaced by an icy chill down his spine.
Yes, he made the deal.
“What’s wrong?” Rose said, pulling the quilt up a little further, so it covered her chin.
The ice trailed down his lower back, down his legs, and into his toes. “Nothing,” he lied. He hated lying to her, but she was all he had left. Nothing would take her away from him. “Now, close your eyes and go to sleep,” he said gently, tucking her further under the quilt.
Moonlight poured into their cabin through an open window. He watched her close her eyes, each blink heavier than the last, and finally fall asleep a few minutes later. He watched her all night, hoping this would be the last deal he had to make.
“Get up,” someone said, shaking his shoulder. He startled awake, screaming, reaching for the knife he kept under his pillow. He sprang up. Someone was in their house.
Where is Rose?
He spun, snarling, ready to fight the intruder, but there she was, Rose, cowering like a puppy about to be disciplined. Her arms shielded her face. Tears streamed from her eyes.
“Daddy,” Rose pleaded, in her strange, too-high-pitched voice.
He dropped the knife onto the floor and pulled Rose into a tight hug. “I’m sorry, honeybear,” he said, his tears falling onto her bird’s nest hair.
He had grown accustomed to Rose’s new voice; in fact, he almost liked it. It had a quiet, innocent lilt about it. It was still different, though, sweet, but almost sour, like milk that was about to spoil, but she was healthy and still his.
He wiped sweat from his brow as he chopped the last piece of firewood. A cool breeze drifted through the forest, rustling auburn leaves from the cascading branches of Oak trees that hung over their house. He peeked his head through the window, expecting to see Rose playing with her doll by the fireplace, but she wasn’t there.
A familiar knot expanded inside his stomach, crawling up into his chest as he ran around the cabin. An orange-tinted full moon emerged above the tree tops.
No. Not yet.
He darted to the barn. She wasn’t there. “Rose,” he screamed. “Rose.” He ransacked the house, throwing blankets onto the floor, praying that she might be playing a game of hide and seek. She wasn’t there.
The knot expanded into his shoulders, sending shooting pain down his arms as he sprinted to the creek. “Rose,” he screamed again. Birds scattered from the trees as he ran.
He heard the usually calming sound of running water as he approached the creek, and there, on the bank, was Rose, shaking and convulsing on the rocks, her head just inches away from falling into the water.
“I’m here, honeybear,” he said, kneeling beside her and picking her up. He had to hold her tight to keep his grip. The convulsions seemed to soften as he carried her to the cabin. Water dripped from her hair down his arms and onto his legs. He pulled the door open, nearly dropping her as he fidgeted with the handle. A breeze followed him into the house. The door didn’t close. He grabbed a pillow from the floor and placed her onto the bed, covering her with her mother’s quilt.
Rose stopped moving. She was frozen, other than her breath steaming out of her mouth. The door clicked closed.
“She is quite resilient for one so small,” a shrill, spine-chilling voice said from behind him.
“No, please, no more,” he said, holding his daughter tight.
The wind whistled behind him. A dark, featureless figure sat on the edge of Rose’s bed just as her mother used to. Its black hand reaching out to touch her. He tried to smack the appendage away, but his hand went right through, shooting icicles through his fingers.
“We can always end our arrangement,” the demon said, placing its hand on Rose’s leg.
He shook his head. “What will happen to Rose?”
“You know.”
He did know.
“I don’t have many more to give,” he said, watching Rose’s chest slowly move up and down.
“There’s always more to give,” the demon said, standing up and moving to the other side near Rose’s head. He slid over, blocking the demon from her gentle face. “Her life for your memories.”
He sighed. He had been desperate. The plague robbed him of the rest of his family, so he made the deal–a new memory each full moon until she was healed.
“I can’t.”
Rose coughed. Her breathing quickened. The rash had already started to creep into her face. Each moon, the disease returned harsher and faster than before.
“Very well,” the demon said, drifting away like a storm cloud.
Rose coughed again. It sounded harsh and painful. The veins in her neck bulged.
“Fine,” he wept. “Take another.”
The demon reappeared on the other side of the bed. It placed its hands on Rose’s body. The rash on her face started to recede. Her breathing returned to normal.
He laid his head on Rose’s chest, listening to her heartbeat. It started frighteningly fast, before slowly fading into a soothing cadence.
“Accepted,” the demon said, dissolving into the dark night air.
His face flushed with heat, his own heart anticipating the worst. He squeezed his daughter’s hand, closed his eyes, and whispered. “I love you.”
“Daddy,” the girl said.
Writing Update
Three weeks in a row. How bout it?
I made some great progress this week. It was fun to write something different than Bards & Bargains. I hope you guys liked the short story. I want to do a few more of them while I finish the first draft of my novel. Which crossed the 100,000 word mark this week! Let’s go. The end is near. (Of draft 1 anyway)
The writing streak is up to 31 days in a row. That’s a whole dang month. Here’s to keeping it going next week.
Thank you for reading. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.
Share & Stay in Touch
If you enjoy these occasional updates, and short stories, and want them on a more regular basis, share my stories with someone who’d like them. See you soonish. (Come on. Four weeks in a row. Don’t be crazy!)
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