Crimson. Burgundy. Ruby red. Everywhere I turn, that is all I see. It is eight o’clock in the morning, and I can’t escape the smell; it is dizzying and paralyzing. I grasp the doorframe tightly and strain to catch my breath, stunned by the scene before me. Chancing a peek downward, I see the red kaleidoscope drifting toward me. So long to my Steve Madden sneakers. Every color bleeds into my fear, just as the blood drained from Mr. Hoffman’s body.
There is no use screaming for help, as Mr. Hoffman and I are usually the first to arrive. As the janitor, Mr. Hoffman is responsible for opening the center each day. Well, he was. Now, he is lying prone in the middle of the very daycare he was preparing to tidy up. A jagged and deep gash adorns his throat. It looks as if whoever did this sought to decapitate the poor man. My hand not clinging to the doorframe slowly comes up to my mouth, and the tears spill from my eyes.
He was the first person to encourage me when I began my internship at Brightside Daycare. As a primary education major, this is one of my final student teaching assignments. Mr. Hoffman saw me that first day, close to tears, like most of the kids. He pushed his large broom and offered me a kind smile with wise eyes. He stopped sweeping and reached into his pocket. I watched him warily and cocked an eyebrow. He pulled out Hello Kitty stickers and handed me one. I laughed for the first time that week thanks to Mr. Hoffman. He laughed with me, and we were work buddies ever since.
Seeing him now, I can’t help but think about that first day and all the other times he gave me encouragement or praise. I think about his wife of twenty-five years, Annie, and how devastated she’ll be. They have two children around my age; now they no longer have a father. My tears continue to fall, unable to mix with the sticky, hardened blood under my feet.
I realize quickly that my phone is in my room next door. Finally out of my stupor, I turn on my heel and come face to face with a small stuffed toy. I squint in confusion because it was not there when I got here. The toy is a new one in a bunch that was recently donated to the daycare. The Lanunu doll stands upright. I look left, then right, then back to the doll. Its teeth-riddled grin unnerves me, and I go to take a step towards my room. As I do, the weird doll mirrors my movements.
I freeze mid-step, and so does the Lanunu. I swallow and squeeze my eyes shut, willing this nightmare to end. First, Mr. Hoffman is dead. Now, this doll is alive?! I should have never trash-talked these toothy gremlins in front of the kindergarteners the other day.
I try very hard to contain my composure. That all fades when the Lanunu’s head turns towards me. I sprint to my classroom then. I need as much space between myself and this haunted stuffy as possible. I skitter to my door and slam into it. Throwing open the door, I slam it shut behind me and lock it. I can’t believe I’m fighting off a possessed doll. I’m not paid enough for this!
I head straight to my desk, clutching blindly around the clutter for my phone. I’m scrambling and perturbed and scattered. My body is at my desk, but my mind is trying to grasp for the present. I sling papers to the floor in frustration. My phone is nowhere to be found, even though I know I left it on my desk.
The sound of a scrape across the floor halts my movements. The stuttering rubber reverberates in my ears. I slowly dare to lift my gaze. Surrounding my desk, all fifty donated Lanunus stand eerily motionless in a semicircle around my desk. The right-most doll drags my phone behind it.
They all stare at me; I frown back. I carefully reach for my stapler and box cutter in my top drawers. The Lanunus advance as one. My classroom door creaks open, and the Head Lanunu in charge arrives. Even with its presence, I refuse to be taken out by these creatures.
“This is for Mr. Hoffman!” I tell them and topple over my desk. The Lanunus jump, crawl, and impress upon me. Head Lanunu flies and lands on my face, obscuring my view. Slashing wildly, I swing the box cutter and shoot staples at these nuisances. A scream tears through me, but I know it can only be heard by the Lanunus whose only goal is the maim.
When I make it out of this, I’m asking for a raise!
Luci Strong is a budding writer, hailing from Mississippi. Her Southern experiences and upbringing shape her writing. She loves to read romances, thrillers, and fantasy novels. When she is not reading, writing, or working in healthcare, she enjoys baking, hanging out with family and friends, and binging various TV shows (current binge: Real Housewives of Atlanta).
Featured image by Mouad Bouallayel on Unsplash.
