She peers into the hole every night. Each time, it's exactly as she remembers.
Tiny limbs, grouped together like play-dough mashed by a child's hands.
She doesn't know what to make of it. Nothing about it is logical - it's terrifying. Maybe that's why she is coming back; to see the thing that no-one else dares.
Her name is Mandy. Her neighbours don't know who she is, and they've never asked. She comes across as too private - the kind of person who peers through her window, watching everyone from the safety of her home, but rarely venturing outside. Content to watch others, but not to interact with them.
Passers-by find it strange when Mandy leaves the house just as it turns dark. They probably think she's a serial killer, emerging only at night, ready to cut up her victims. But Mandy hopes she's too ordinary-looking for that. Whether it's night or day, she sports a baseball cap, blue denim jacket and black denim jeans, brown ponytail swinging.
She jumps over the metal fencing on the opposite side of her road, where it borders an empty playground. It's a huge area, but Mandy's never seen any children playing there. Sometimes she'll go in during the day, rocking absent-mindedly on the swing, cigarette in hand. She's 22, but she often thinks she is the child the playground was built for.
On this night, it's very cold, but she ignores the shivers running across her shoulders. She is fixated on the darkness of that hole. The same limbs are inside - the ones she remembers from the night before. The hole itself looks like someone has deliberately carved it: a perfect circle, placed a few feet away from the seesaw.
This time she brings a torch, shining it inside and watching as the hands, feet, and peeled skin were illuminated. Dirt crawled into the crevices, showering the skin in a patchy brown. She is fascinated by how tiny the hands and feet were. Her own is three times the size of the ones in the hole.
Miniature hands, miniature feet, lying in a crumpled heap, disembodied. It definitely scares her. She wants to know what happened, whether this was a murder, an accident, or something else.
But she has never told anyone about it. Not once, during the two weeks she's been coming back here. She just stands here, staring, and thinking.
Perhaps she's not terrified of the disembodied limbs, but of herself.
*
Mandy can't stand it when people cry.
It triggers odd emotions in her, making her instincts go to war. She's curled up on the sofa beside the window when she hears wailing outside.
The woman next door - she's seen her only a few times - slams the door of her car before crying into her arms, leaning against the roof. Her husband runs out to comfort her straightaway, guiding her from the car and cradling her body into his chest.
Mandy catches muffled words amidst the wailing: "Miss her... shouldn't have happened... didn't deserve it."
She feels her heart jump into her mouth. She makes the connection, and it starts to scare her.
As the husband ushers the woman indoors, Mandy wonders if she should confront them. For the sake of those little limbs, hidden away like objects in a cellar. She feels angry.
When she moves to the kitchen to make coffee, she thinks of the cold air of the playground, the stench of death in the soil. She wants to go back again, keep guard, even though there is nothing alive to keep guard of.
The water in her mug turns mud-like brown as she stirs the powder into it.
Maybe later, she thinks, as she wraps her hands around the mug. If she can overcome the fear that someone might be watching her.
She jumps over the metal fencing on the opposite side of her road, where it borders an empty playground. It's a huge area, but Mandy's never seen any children playing there. Sometimes she'll go in during the day, rocking absent-mindedly on the swing, cigarette in hand. She's 22, but she often thinks she is the child the playground was built for.
On this night, it's very cold, but she ignores the shivers running across her shoulders. She is fixated on the darkness of that hole. The same limbs are inside - the ones she remembers from the night before. The hole itself looks like someone has deliberately carved it: a perfect circle, placed a few feet away from the seesaw.
This time she brings a torch, shining it inside and watching as the hands, feet, and peeled skin were illuminated. Dirt crawled into the crevices, showering the skin in a patchy brown. She is fascinated by how tiny the hands and feet were. Her own is three times the size of the ones in the hole.
Miniature hands, miniature feet, lying in a crumpled heap, disembodied. It definitely scares her. She wants to know what happened, whether this was a murder, an accident, or something else.
But she has never told anyone about it. Not once, during the two weeks she's been coming back here. She just stands here, staring, and thinking.
Perhaps she's not terrified of the disembodied limbs, but of herself.
*
Mandy can't stand it when people cry.
It triggers odd emotions in her, making her instincts go to war. She's curled up on the sofa beside the window when she hears wailing outside.
The woman next door - she's seen her only a few times - slams the door of her car before crying into her arms, leaning against the roof. Her husband runs out to comfort her straightaway, guiding her from the car and cradling her body into his chest.
Mandy catches muffled words amidst the wailing: "Miss her... shouldn't have happened... didn't deserve it."
She feels her heart jump into her mouth. She makes the connection, and it starts to scare her.
As the husband ushers the woman indoors, Mandy wonders if she should confront them. For the sake of those little limbs, hidden away like objects in a cellar. She feels angry.
When she moves to the kitchen to make coffee, she thinks of the cold air of the playground, the stench of death in the soil. She wants to go back again, keep guard, even though there is nothing alive to keep guard of.
The water in her mug turns mud-like brown as she stirs the powder into it.
Maybe later, she thinks, as she wraps her hands around the mug. If she can overcome the fear that someone might be watching her.
