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I Know Better

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l stare down at my son's face, feeling the first hint of hesitation. My hand shakes, a tiny tremor but it was enough. It saw. There's a momentary flash of recognition in its eyes, and the corners of its mouth turn up just a little. It tried to hide it almost immediately but I saw. I know better. 

I turn away from my son who is not my son, tossing the shovel aside and scooping the dirt onto him with my own hands. 

"Daddy!" The thing who is not my son chokes out, as dirt rains down on him. 

"What are you doing?" It whimpers in my son's voice. "I'm scared" 

Tears sting my eyes, but I keep moving, dragging the dirt as fast as I can. It cakes underneath my fingernails, and I start to bleed as rocks cut my palms but I feel nothing. 

"Daddy - it's hard to breathe" it cries, and for the first time I hear it struggling.

*** 

"Please. I wanna go home!", its words muffled. It thrashes down in the grave I've made for it, but the rope holds. 

"Please " it gasps, "I don't wanna die." It sounds terrified, but I know better. 

 I cry into the dirt, my chest heaving. The mixture of earth and salt from my tears fills my mouth. 

"Daddy?" It calls, and I can almost hear it smile. I grit my teeth and get to my feet, grabbing the shovel and looking down into the hole. 

The thing that's not my son looks up at me with wide eyes, it's face and tops of its sneakers are visible through the dirt.

"Daddy. Help. I wanna go home" it begs, struggling to keep its head above the ground. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, and for a second I think I'll open them and be back in my house, sitting in front of the TV, my mouth tasting of cheap beer instead of dirt. But I know better. 

I begin shoveling the rest of the dirt into the grave. The thing tries to struggle but the weight of the earth on top of it is too much. I hear it whimper as it starts to panic. 

"Daddy!" It screams. 

I give the thing that looks like my son but isn't, one last look. 

"I'm not your daddy." I say. As I toss down the last of the dirt into the grave I see the thing that's not my son grinning up at me. 

I pack the ground hard under my boots and collapse on top of it. After my breathing begins to steady, I listen for any sounds underneath and recoil at the faint giggling I hear. 

I may seem cruel, evil too. But my Tim's been gone 30 years this October and still that thing comes back every autumn, scratching at the door and begging to be let in. It's eyes black as tar and smelling like death. I pray each time that it'll be the last but I know better.

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Credits

 

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