The Little Crooked House

found iiiit! another repost, and one of my personal favourites

     The social worker got out of her car and tried not to look nervous walking through the trailer park. Multiple missing people in the area was reason enough to be on edge, especially when a human hand wearing one of the missing people’s watches had been found in someone’s mailbox. It was this kind of job she wished they would just give to the police. The reason she was here was to investigate the house at the end of the road, apparently in disrepair and home to a small child, whose parents no one ever saw. The social worker knew that the police sent her on this job to see if the reason for the missing people was in or around that house. She was dispensable, of course. A little murder never hurt everyone.
     When the trees on the sides of the road started looking dead, she saw the little brick house awaiting her around a bend. The roof had a gaping hole in it, and the gutter had fallen off and hit a concrete birdbath. Walking nervously up to the hollow-looking residence, her high-heels stabbed crunching holes in each autumn leaf. Upon approaching the house, the social worker could see that the water in the birdbath was stagnant and green with algae. A wheelbarrow was propped up against the shed, half hidden by flowering plants that were either out of season or dead. Inside it, concealed by more fallen leaves, was something mottled white that didn’t look much like a garden tool, but that wasn’t her problem. She prepared to go knock on the door, but was startled by a tug at her skirt.
     She gasped, then looked down to see a girl of about six or seven years of age looking into her eyes with irises of ice blue. Her once-white dress was stained and tattered. A thick red scar ran from her left eyebrow to the right side of her jawline, giving her mouth a strange appearance. How the hell did a kid get a scar like that? “Will you play with me?” the child asked the social worker. “My dolls are all dirty. I need somebody to play house with me.”
     The social worker straightened her skirt where the little girl had touched her. “Is your mommy or daddy around, sweetie?”
     The little girl shook her head. “My daddy went away. Mommy is inside the house.”
     Before she could say anything, the little girl pivotted and walked toward the house. Like a hostess. “What’s your name?” the social worker asked.
     “Winna,” replied the girl. The house’s front door wasn’t locked, or even closed all the way. Black stains ringed the doorknob in the shape of human fingers. When the social worker placed her hand tentatively on the knob to open the door wider, one stain crackled and flaked off. The social worker hastily wiped off her hand on her skirt and stepped over the threshold to feel her heels wobble slightly on the thin carpet.
     Within the house’s walls, it was dim and smelled of iron and disrepair. An odor faintly like ammonia, liked neglected animals, wafted in from some unseen portion of the abode. Furniture in the hovel was scarce and dilapidated. The walls were filthy enough that their colour was indistinguishable, and thick cobwebs hung in every corner. In each wispy mass, a large spider was fastened to the wall with a large, shiny safety pin. The social worker tried to back closer to the door, away from the sickening sight, but the heel of her shoe pushed down on something soft- a dead mouse.
     The social worker screamed. Her screech was met by the cawing of several crows, volume augmented by the enclosed space. One of them appeared around the corner, cocking its head in a puppet-like jerking motion.
     “Why are there crows in the house?” the social worker frantically asked, by now only half-heartedly trying to remain professional.
     “They’re friends with Mommy,” Winna answered. “They like to play with my toys, so they come inside.”
     Distracted by the twisted circumstances, the social worker finally remembered to ask, “Winna, do you think I could talk to your mommy for a little while?”
     The child nodded and gave her an eerily angelic smile. “I’ll go see if she’s done working yet.” She disappeared into a back room.
     The social worker was hesitant to move from where she stood, but was driven by some fearful curiosity to investigate. There was a writing desk several feet from the door, wood varnish chipping and peeling. With a pen from her pocket, she pushed aside the papers on the desk. The top layer was composed of unpaid bills dating back up to six years. Beneath these lay a series of newspaper articles, each one highlited in a variety of colors, explaining the case of a missing person who vanished in the last month. The leads from all of which traced back to this terrible place.
     “I apologize,” said a light-hearted, approaching voice. The social worker quickly pulled back her hand. A thin woman with dark brown hair walked into the front room, followed closely by Winna, who was examining a small object in her hand, caged in by her tiny fingers. The woman walked directly into the small attached kitchen and began clearing glass bottles, many broken, from the sink. “I just haven’t had any time to clean up lately.” The woman washed her hands with water from the rusted faucet. Drying them on the black apron she wore, she returned to where the social worker was standing and looked right into her eyes. The woman's eyes were a warm brown, but ringed in dark grey from what looked like insomnia. Those eyes had seen unfathomable pain, but they masked it in that sort of necessary depravity that every person must rely on from time to time. She held out her hand. “My name’s Megan. I’m Winna’s mom,” she introduced herself cheerfully.
     The social worker shook Megan’s hand. It was smooth, rawboned, and cold. Glancing down at it rapidly, she caught sight of cuts all over the fingertips and wrists, seeming unintentional. The woman's grip was firm. “Megan, good to meet you,” the social worker forced herself to say in a pleasant but, in the end, strained voice. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to talk to you about…well, your living conditions.”
     “Oh, dear,” sighed Megan with a small smile on her face, revealing that her teeth were porcelain white. The social worker noticed a little blood on the woman’s lip. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. It’s just been so hard on us after I…after we lost her father. Such a wonderful man,” she quietly mused, shaking her head slightly. “It’s tough for us to get by. But I assure you, Winna is very happy here, and I manage to find enough for us to drink- well, eat. So you see-"
     “Mommy!” Winna whined from the background.
Megan turned around to answer, and it could be seen that, in profile, the bones in her shoulders and spine threw shadows on her stone-white skin. “What is it, sweety?”
     A pout was on Winna’s distorted lips. “One of my dollies broke again.” She held up her left hand in the air, pulling into view a human body, headless and covered in blood. “One of the hands came off.” Behind Winna, visible through an open door, was a room that was nearly pitch black, but appeared to hold the forms of what once were people. A woman with curly black hair was propped against a wall, her eyes wide and staring. Beth Walker, age 42. Last seen: April 15.
     A frown stained the perfect mouth of Megan, who appeared not to notice the horrified gasp from the social worker. “Oh, dear. What a shame. I’ll get you a new doll right away, okay honey?”
     Winna’s visage slowly showed a smile again and she answered, “I’ll get you your things then?”
     Megan smiled and nodded, watching her daughter scamper eagerly out of the room. She turned back to the social worker, whose hands were clamped over her mouth. “She’s got a whole room of them,” she informed her with a grin, as if she were talking about Beanie Babies instead of corpses. “They keep breaking, though. It’s because the crows are always picking at them. Oh, look at this.” She picked up a filthy human finger, a tarnished gold band on one end, from next to the writing desk. “It looks like my husband’s,” she observed, putting her hand on her hip.
     By this time, the social worker was stumbling backwards, terrified of turning around to find the door, and afraid to the point of dizziness of what went on in this crooked place. Those pale hands were beginning to look spidery. Like the things they pinned to the wall. Was this what insanity felt like? “Oh, don't leave us just yet, dear,” crooned Megan.
     “Can she be my new doll, Mommy?” This was Winna’s voice. The social worker glanced behind only long enough to see that the scarred child was locking the door, and holding a long, silver object.
     “What a fine idea!” exclaimed Megan, clapping her hands together. “Bring me that knife, darling.”
     The social worker’s voice broke as she plead, “Please, please, no!” Louder, she screamed, “Don’t do this!” She waved her left hand about in front of her, not wanting it to collide with any more vermin or digits on the ground.
     The social worker felt somthing metal and flat slam sideways into the back of her head, and she felt onto her backside. A shovel clattered down next to her. Apparently it had been hurled at her from behind by Winna, who she at first thought to be so innocent. “Don’t worry,” soothed Megan. “You’ll be so lovely, after all, with all that blonde hair.” She ran her finger across the edge of the knife, a giant butcher-type affair that looked well-cleaned. The blade went nearly halfway through the top part of her finger, down to the highest joint. Blood gushed down to drip silently onto the floor. Megan popped her finger into her mouth and sucked as if she were only tasting the sauce she was cooking for dinner. The house suddenly seemed to be an oven of swarming heat. The social worker felt her eyes rolling back into her head and fought not to lose consciousness, though she wondered briefly if that would be less painful. She vaguely felt a crow pecking at her right hand, but couldn’t move away or she would fall. She was already on the ground, and feared that sinking to the floor would seal her fate.
     She heard the other two people laugh. What were these people? Human, even? “Don’t do this, please!” she begged in vain, doubting the effectiveness of her word, tears bubbling waterfall-like out of her eyes. Her body shook so violently that her spectacles fell to the floor. She was trapped in a cobweb, just like everyone before her. Megan stepped closer with a big smile on her face. Her mud-brown eyes were now almost deranged.
     “It’ll only take a second,” she said, as she raised the knife like a club above her head. “Sweet dreams!” she said sing-song, and the social worker shrieked as she saw the blade swing down.

There lived a crooked woman
With some very crooked tastes
And she had a little daughter
With a pretty, crooked face
The child brought her crooked dolls
And, yes, the crooked mouse
And they all lived together in their
Little crooked house

Author's Note

please tell me about any typos somewhere in your review, it was late and i know there must be a couple...