Everyone has that one terrifying nightmare from their childhood they still remember, but what happens when they find out that it was real?
When my brother James and I were growing up, our family lived in an old Victorian Style home located in Massachusetts. It was a beautiful tribute to the profound craftsmanship of the early twenties; picture a life size rustic dollhouse with an absolutely stunning part glazed, timber framed porch. It was also very secluded, with our nearest neighbor being maybe a mile away.
We would spend most of our days outside, in the treehouse our father built, as we made up stories of pirates and treasures. I was always Blackbeard while James would be Calico, we were the unstoppable duo of the high seas. There was a special hole in the middle of the tree where we would hide our stolen treasures. James had noticed it the very first day after the fort was built.
As exciting as our tree house was though, I would have to say the best part about our home was our nanny. She was so thoughtful and fun, the best nanny any child could ask for, really. During the rainy days, she would often sit with us in our room, telling us stories as she rocked in the chair. I’ll admit, some were a little different than I had remembered.
For instance, when she would tell us the story about the little deer named Bambi, it wasn’t the mother who had been killed. Instead, it was Bambi himself. She would always remind us that we needed to listen to our parents, so monsters like the hunters couldn’t hurt us. She really did care.
At night, we would hear a soft humming sound that echoed throughout our whole room. It would lull us to sleep, enveloping our minds with such a calmness that we barely had any dreams, only that soft sweet hum from nanny.
Some nights though, James and I would startle awake, both having had the same nightmare. Frequently it involved not being able to breathe, as if someone had placed a bag over our heads, or shut off our air supply some how. We would always wake up right before we died, hands on our throats, as we coughed away the night terror.
The mornings after these episodes, we would wake up to find nanny had left us a note. We couldn’t quite make out all the scribbles, but O was sure I caught the word “sorry.” We always knew she wanted us to be happy and forget about the terrible shadows that haunted our minds.
We would often tell our parents about nanny, and how she was so kind, leaving us notes in the night. They would usually comment on how feverish our imaginations were, also adding in how we needed to stop getting into the craft bin without asking. Honestly, I think they were just jealous that we were both so fond of nanny, she had quickly become our favorite person over the years.
I remember the first time I brought a girl home. Her name was Gema and she had the cutest dimples. I was about fifteen years old at the time, just learning all the ins and outs of young love. I thought we were going to grow up and get married, and I wanted nothing more than nanny’s approval.
When her mother pulled up the driveway to drop her off I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Nanny, she’s here!” I remember yelling, before I bounded out the door to greet Gema. As we made our way up the front steps, I half expected nanny to be waiting for us just on the other side of the door, and when she wasn’t, I grew worried.
I told Gema to wait in the kitchen for me while I went searching for her, but to my utmost disappointment, Nanny was nowhere to be found. The night dragged on after that, all I could think of was my dear friend. Why did she not want to meet Gema? Did she know something I didn’t? Unfortunately, it left such a bad taste in my mouth, I never asked, and Gema was the last girl I ever brought home.
James and I eventually grew up and moved out of our family abode, leaving poor nanny behind. We could feel her sadness as we packed our bags, on what would be our last night home. We both took the time to each write nanny a goodbye letter that we placed on each of our nightstands, we knew she would appreciate that later.
We had got an apartment together in the city, and boy, was it different. We both received full rides to Boston University, each taking on a different major. I had decided I wanted to be a teacher, while James was interested in Engineering, he was more interested in getting his hands dirty I guess. The school work was time-consuming, but we never forgot about Nanny.
Years later, I was going to write my college thesis on my childhood, and how I was basically raised by a nanny. While looking up our family home, I stumbled across an article online, written about the original family that lived there in 1915. A mother and father, two little ones, and their nanny. Wait, our nanny.
My head began to spin as I inspected the article more thoroughly. Was this really the same woman? How is that possible? I was confused, but I guess a little excited to learn all I could about the woman, or I guess spirit, who had helped raise both my brother and myself. I nostalgically thought to myself, Maybe she missed the kiddos from the previous family and that’s why she took such good care of us!
I could not have been more wrong.
The word “murderer,” caught my eye and I quickly scanned further down the article, mortified at what I was reading. A lump began to form in the back of my throat, as my heart sank deep into my chest.
The article reported how the nanny had lost both of her children due to the negligence of a drunk driver in 1913. Never having been able to properly cope with their deaths, she actively searched for the monster that had stolen her babies lives. That is when she became employed by the Dobson’s.
On her journey for revenge, she had taken her time, caring for the monster’s children as if they were her own. Until that dreadful night when she murdered the two sleeping babes. She had smothered them with a pillow, most likely singing to them ever so sweetly, as she always did.
After they had died, the article stated that the nanny had written what appeared to be a suicide letter and left it next to their bodies. She then killed herself.
At the very bottom, was a photo of the backyard in which my brother and I used to play. In the middle, was the tree our fort had been built upon. As I looked closer I noticed our treasure hole, only, it looked different. It was covered in a deep crimson red that made my own blood run cold.
Next to the tree was the lifeless body of our Nanny, gun still in hand.
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Credits
When my brother James and I were growing up, our family lived in an old Victorian Style home located in Massachusetts. It was a beautiful tribute to the profound craftsmanship of the early twenties; picture a life size rustic dollhouse with an absolutely stunning part glazed, timber framed porch. It was also very secluded, with our nearest neighbor being maybe a mile away.
We would spend most of our days outside, in the treehouse our father built, as we made up stories of pirates and treasures. I was always Blackbeard while James would be Calico, we were the unstoppable duo of the high seas. There was a special hole in the middle of the tree where we would hide our stolen treasures. James had noticed it the very first day after the fort was built.
As exciting as our tree house was though, I would have to say the best part about our home was our nanny. She was so thoughtful and fun, the best nanny any child could ask for, really. During the rainy days, she would often sit with us in our room, telling us stories as she rocked in the chair. I’ll admit, some were a little different than I had remembered.
For instance, when she would tell us the story about the little deer named Bambi, it wasn’t the mother who had been killed. Instead, it was Bambi himself. She would always remind us that we needed to listen to our parents, so monsters like the hunters couldn’t hurt us. She really did care.
At night, we would hear a soft humming sound that echoed throughout our whole room. It would lull us to sleep, enveloping our minds with such a calmness that we barely had any dreams, only that soft sweet hum from nanny.
Some nights though, James and I would startle awake, both having had the same nightmare. Frequently it involved not being able to breathe, as if someone had placed a bag over our heads, or shut off our air supply some how. We would always wake up right before we died, hands on our throats, as we coughed away the night terror.
The mornings after these episodes, we would wake up to find nanny had left us a note. We couldn’t quite make out all the scribbles, but O was sure I caught the word “sorry.” We always knew she wanted us to be happy and forget about the terrible shadows that haunted our minds.
We would often tell our parents about nanny, and how she was so kind, leaving us notes in the night. They would usually comment on how feverish our imaginations were, also adding in how we needed to stop getting into the craft bin without asking. Honestly, I think they were just jealous that we were both so fond of nanny, she had quickly become our favorite person over the years.
I remember the first time I brought a girl home. Her name was Gema and she had the cutest dimples. I was about fifteen years old at the time, just learning all the ins and outs of young love. I thought we were going to grow up and get married, and I wanted nothing more than nanny’s approval.
When her mother pulled up the driveway to drop her off I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Nanny, she’s here!” I remember yelling, before I bounded out the door to greet Gema. As we made our way up the front steps, I half expected nanny to be waiting for us just on the other side of the door, and when she wasn’t, I grew worried.
I told Gema to wait in the kitchen for me while I went searching for her, but to my utmost disappointment, Nanny was nowhere to be found. The night dragged on after that, all I could think of was my dear friend. Why did she not want to meet Gema? Did she know something I didn’t? Unfortunately, it left such a bad taste in my mouth, I never asked, and Gema was the last girl I ever brought home.
James and I eventually grew up and moved out of our family abode, leaving poor nanny behind. We could feel her sadness as we packed our bags, on what would be our last night home. We both took the time to each write nanny a goodbye letter that we placed on each of our nightstands, we knew she would appreciate that later.
We had got an apartment together in the city, and boy, was it different. We both received full rides to Boston University, each taking on a different major. I had decided I wanted to be a teacher, while James was interested in Engineering, he was more interested in getting his hands dirty I guess. The school work was time-consuming, but we never forgot about Nanny.
Years later, I was going to write my college thesis on my childhood, and how I was basically raised by a nanny. While looking up our family home, I stumbled across an article online, written about the original family that lived there in 1915. A mother and father, two little ones, and their nanny. Wait, our nanny.
My head began to spin as I inspected the article more thoroughly. Was this really the same woman? How is that possible? I was confused, but I guess a little excited to learn all I could about the woman, or I guess spirit, who had helped raise both my brother and myself. I nostalgically thought to myself, Maybe she missed the kiddos from the previous family and that’s why she took such good care of us!
I could not have been more wrong.
The word “murderer,” caught my eye and I quickly scanned further down the article, mortified at what I was reading. A lump began to form in the back of my throat, as my heart sank deep into my chest.
The article reported how the nanny had lost both of her children due to the negligence of a drunk driver in 1913. Never having been able to properly cope with their deaths, she actively searched for the monster that had stolen her babies lives. That is when she became employed by the Dobson’s.
On her journey for revenge, she had taken her time, caring for the monster’s children as if they were her own. Until that dreadful night when she murdered the two sleeping babes. She had smothered them with a pillow, most likely singing to them ever so sweetly, as she always did.
After they had died, the article stated that the nanny had written what appeared to be a suicide letter and left it next to their bodies. She then killed herself.
At the very bottom, was a photo of the backyard in which my brother and I used to play. In the middle, was the tree our fort had been built upon. As I looked closer I noticed our treasure hole, only, it looked different. It was covered in a deep crimson red that made my own blood run cold.
Next to the tree was the lifeless body of our Nanny, gun still in hand.
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Credits
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