Lila
I rarely see anyone my age. Until today.
By: Cayla Stanton
On my walk home from school, I scout the crunchiest looking leaf to step on. I crave the satisfying sound of my shoe crumbling the fall foliage. It is my favorite time of the year, when my street is beautifully decorated with shades of brown, red and orange. My neighborhood has always been quiet, I appreciate that there is no HOA to harass homeowners to rake leaves off the sidewalk. I live near elderly people who have just retired, and they have no desire to do yardwork. One downside is that it’s always dead on my favorite holiday – Halloween. I rarely see anyone my age. Until today.
As I continue my walk, I hear it – a sound that is out of sync with my own footstep. Crunch. But this time, it isn’t mine. I freeze mid-step, my sneaker hovering above a perfectly crisp maple leaf. The sound comes again, faint but deliberate. A soft, staggered rhythm of footsteps behind me. Slowly, I turn. At first, I see nothing but the endless carpet of leaves and the dull glow of the streetlights flickering on. Then, from behind a bare oak tree, a small figure steps out.
It’s a girl. She can’t be older than eight. Her hair hangs in matted clumps over her face, and she’s barefoot, her toes darkened with dirt and cold. Her clothes are torn, a thin nightgown with one sleeve ripped off. Her skin looks pale, almost gray beneath the orange lamplight.
Sometimes I encounter my neighbors’ grandchildren when they’re visiting. But this child does not look as if they’re being pampered at a weekend away at grandma’s house. She seems neglected, no spark in her eyes, no innocence in her aura.
“Hello,” I say carefully, trying not to startle her. “Are you okay? Where are your parents?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with wide, hollow eyes.
I kneel down, ignoring the chill seeping through my jacket. “Do you want to come inside? It’s freezing.”
She nods, just once.
Normally, I’d call someone – the police, child protective services, someone. But my parents are away again, this time in Boston for a work trip. The house has felt emptier than usual. Maybe that’s why I don’t think twice before taking her hand and leading her down the cobble path toward home. She seems like she needs me, and maybe I need her too.
Inside, she’s quiet at first. Too quiet. Her movements are stiff and calculated. Oddly, she knew the exact path to my living room. She perches on the edge of the couch, her bare feet leaving faint, muddy prints on the rug. I give her a blanket, some soup, and ask her name.
“Lila,” she whispers, so faint I can barely hear.
I attempt to make casual conversation with her, hoping to find out where she’s from or where her parents are. But she does not answer. The blanket and soup are left untouched. The tension heightens – she’s staring at me directly in the eyes, like they’re a window to my soul. I contemplate if I should say something else, the discomfort fills up the room. Fear arises in me.
“Why won’t you answer?” the question bursts out of me.
Lila’s eyes widen, filled with fury. She lets out a frightening, blood curdling scream and sprints out of my living room.
“I didn’t mean to upset you!” I yell as the door to my bedroom slams shut.
Silence. I didn’t think the absence of sound could get any louder. I wait for a response, but I’m left with nothing but the sound of ticking from a clock hanging on the wall.
Until I hear an eerie scraping sound coming from my room. I realize something isn’t right. Nothing is right about this. Who is this girl? Why would I welcome her into my home so openly? Where did she come from? Why is she here?
I tip-toe towards the door, the scraping noise piercing my ear drums as I inch closer. When I open the door, Lila is sitting on the floor, facing towards the far wall. Her long black hair covers her face. Her arms … they are abnormally long. They stretch all the way to the back wall, as she drags her fingernails slowly, methodically, carving shapes into the paint. I slowly look up to view her masterpiece of sinister eyes coating my wall.
Dozens of them.
When she turns to notice the fear light up my eyes, her mouth stretches into a crooked smile. “You shouldn’t have brought me inside,” she says softly.