Droplets of liquid clear to form the word Scratch. My mother’s smile pokes through the red. I hear a scratching sound coming from the bed frame. I bolt for the door. It’s locked.

Jenny Dean (Scratch)

Scratch

“Hear that Charlie?” I question my brother jokingly.

“What are you talking about?” he quivers.

“You know, that scratching sound” I say, scratching the wooden bed frame harder.

“Stop that! I know it’s you” whimpered Charlie.

I decide to quit being a pest and let Charlie sleep.

Moonlight shines through the window of the orphanage and I let my thoughts roam. I don’t remember my parents well, but I think of them often. They were murdered one year after Charlie was born, stabbed to death and etched with the word Scratch and 3 and 4 across their chests. An open casket wasn’t an option, for there were remnants left by the uncaptured killer. The only motive the police could think up was my father’s inherited fortune. Too bad I won’t see the money until I’m an adult. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Madame Woodrow stole it for herself.  Though they’re gone, my father’s green eyes are worn by me, and Charlie bears by mother’s pale skin. I keep a photo of my smiling newlywed parents on my nightstand. I’ll probably never have happy parents again.

I’m putting the photograph on the nightstand as something catches my eye.

“Scratch” is written on the back of the photograph in red ink. Bloody hell, I think to myself. Who put that there? I glance around for signs of a prankster but only see the soft breathing of young boys. I look again at the photograph but the words are gone. The moonlight is playing tricks on my tired eyes.

—

“Hugo! Get up! Today’s the day!” shouts Charlie excitedly.

I’m only two years older, but I have much less faith than Charlie.

“Alright, I’m coming mate” I sigh tiredly and head downstairs for breakfast.

“‘You two are so lucky’ grumbles Oliver, ‘I’ve been here for  fifteen years and don’t see any prospective parents knocking down my door’”.

“I may be a redhead, but I’m not a blimey stepchild” ranted Oliver. Oliver is my best friend, mostly because of his sarcastic humor.

Charlie is downing a bowl of Cheerios when Madame Woodrow walks into the dining room. She has voluminous brown hair and spectacles that rest on the bridge of her pointed cartilage. They’ll never fall off with her nose turned up the way it always is.

“How many birds do you think have mistaken her hair for their nest?” Oliver whispers in my ear. I spit coffee, soaking the white tablecloth.

“‘Hugo Wallace!’ shouts Madame Woodrow smacking me up the side of my head ‘where are your manners boy?’” I gulp the rest of my rudeness in one swallow.

“Sorry madam,” I lie, laughing internally.

“Take care of this mess and get cleaned up. Your prospective parents will be here shortly,” snaps the hag as she bustles from the room.

“I can’t wait! What do you think they’re like? I bet they’re spectacular! Do you think they’ve got a puppy? Maybe we’ll have our own bedrooms!” rambles Charlie. I decide to play along and let the dreamer dream.

We are sitting in Madame Woodrow’s office and the lights are off because she’s frugal. The overcast clouds send an ominous glow into the room. I’ve learned to lower my standards so I don’t become disappointed. Charlie’s eyes glow with excitement as if the mundane wall color is his favorite. The doorknob creaks open and in comes Madame Woodrow with two unfamiliar faces. I have seen beautiful people before, but not like this. The woman is tall and thin, wearing a sleek black robe and leather gloves. Her perfect curls frame her mile-high cheekbones. The man is even taller than her and has a jawline that could cut glass. He has jet black hair and wears a sports coat. He pulls out a golden pocket watch and looks up with a smile. They both give off an aura of happiness and I start to feel hopeful for the first time since I can remember. As they take a seat, I notice they both have unnaturally bright, blue eyes. The woman extends her hand to me.

“‘My name is Sarah Scriver,’ she chatters excitedly, ‘We have been waiting so long to see you.’” Her husband nods and shakes our hands causing content to show on Charlie’s face.

“My name is Brendon” he beamed with charm. I’ve never seen two people so charismatic.

“There are just a few questions we have to get to know you two” says Mr. Scriver.

“Do you like swimming? We do live on Haweswater. I hope you don’t mind” says Mr. Scriver.

“Oh boy I-I love the water!” stammers Charlie with so much excitement I thought water was going to pour out of his eyes.

“That wouldn’t be a problem” I reply coolly, hiding my excitement to avoid getting my hopes up.

“‘I hope you two like to eat’ giggled Mrs. Scriver ‘I love baking.’” This just keeps getting better.

“Brendon is a lawyer and I work for Ralph Lauren’s British line” says Mrs. Scriver. My mouth drops to the floor. This is unreal. Why wouldn’t perfect people like this want to have their own perfect children? I decide that’s not exactly an appropriate question to ask. Madame Woodrow asks Charlie and me to step out of the room while they finish some paperwork. Mrs. Scriver is closing the door when I catch a glimpse of red light on her hand. A beautiful red ruby rests between two diamonds on a gold wedding band. I look into her eyes and for the shortest moment I see an a flash of red again.

“Scratch” says a hissing voice in my ear.

“What’s that, Charlie?” I ask turning around to face my brother. Charlie is ten feet away sitting on his palms in a wooden chair humming to himself. The door shuts gently. What was that? I think back to the word written on my parents’ photograph. My excitement about a new family gets the best of me and I ignore the sound. After impatiently waiting, Madame Woodrow opens the door.

“It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. and Mrs. Scriver” I smiled, my eyes glued to Mrs. Scriver’s ring.

“You can call me Mom” replies Mrs. Scriver her blue eyes sparkling.

“And I’ll be Dad” Mr. Scriver joined in. I see a glint of red in his glasses for a moment, but I blink and it’s gone. Charlie jumps into Mrs. Scriver’s arms, and I see red again in her eyes, only for a moment. That coffee mustn’t be working I think to myself.

“‘Pack your bags children’ says Mrs. Woodrow ‘we haven’t got a month of Sundays.’” She can’t wait for her tablecloths to stay white. I hurry upstairs with Charlie and we’re ready within minutes. It doesn’t take long to pack when you have nothing. I look at my parents’ photograph. They would be happy we are going to such a nice family.

“You have to cause extra trouble for me okay? And we have to write each other” I say to Oliver.

“You bet mate” he replies shaking my hand. Even with rain pouring from the sky, I can see clearly the fancy car in the driveway as my foot hits the pavement.

“Hop in kids” says Mr. Scriver gesticulating to the Bentley. I think I’m in heaven.

The ride is two hours long but Charlie and the countryside scenery keep my mind occupied.

Mrs. Scriver pulls down the mirror of the passenger seat to apply lipstick, smudging it when the tires hit a pothole. She rolls her eyes and in the corner of the mirror I see a quick red flash.

“Is there something in your eye?” I ask daringly.

“Oh no dear” she replies sweetly, leaving me puzzled.

We pull into a long driveway and I gaze at the perfect white house surrounded by meticulous landscaping. Sunshine glints off the lake like a mirror and nearly blinds me. I walk up each step of the grand staircase like a prince. Charlie runs full speed ahead to the mahogany door.

“‘Welcome home,” says Mrs. Scriver. I smell roses and fresh bread. Fine wines rest on display in the kitchen. Charlie steps off the mat and leaves a footprint on the floor causing the red to glow again in Mrs. Scriver’s eyes.

Charlie runs and I amble up the staircase to find two empty bedrooms at opposite ends of a corridor. Charlie has already slammed the door to his room and is probably unpacking his luggage. I open my door to find a perfectly made bed with a fresh red rose on the pillow. There is a tea set on the nightstand and a large window overlooking Haweswater. I set my luggage on the bed and unlock the buckles. My parents’ photo is gone. ‘I thought I put it on top,’ I think to myself. I feel a draft behind me and the door slams shut. I look up and notice the rose has turned to what looks like red liquid, seeping into the white pillowcase. The dripping stem hangs off the bed and steers my eyes to a pool on the floor. Resting in the red liquid is the photograph I hold so dearly to my heart. Droplets of liquid clear to form the word Scratch. My mother’s smile pokes through the red. I hear a scratching sound coming from the bed frame. I bolt for the door. It’s locked.

“Charlie!” I shout at the top of my lungs. All I hear is the slow clicking of heels. The door opens and Mrs. Scriver is a skyscraper holding Charlie’s hand. Her eyes are shining bright red and her ring is glowing. Charlie is shaking as if he’s holding the hand of the devil himself.

“Tea time dear” says Mrs. Scriver. I don’t understand what’s going on.

“Who are you?!” I demand.

“Your mother of course” she replies casually. I have no choice but to follow her downstairs.

Mr. Scriver walks into the kitchen covered in dirt as Mrs. Scriver pours tea.

“It’s all ready honey” said Mr. Scriver kissing his wife on the cheek. Her eyes flash again when she glances at the dirt he tracked in. There is menace hidden in their perfect features.

Charlie sips the tea nervously and I leave mine to turn cold. After Charlie finishes off his drink Mrs. Scriver suggests we go for a walk. I silently grab the Bentley’s keys off the hanger and nod to Charlie. As soon as we hit the bottom step of the staircase, Charlie and I run toward the car. Before I can reach the door handle, I feel a sharp pain on my forearm. The letter s appears etched in my skin. Charlie screams in pain as b becomes etched on his forearm. The Scrivers walk to the car and grab us with immense force.

“‘I said we are going for a walk,” scolds Mrs. Scriver, eyes glaring red now.

Charlie and I are marched to the backyard. I see a hole in the ground next to ten stones, all numbered in order and carved with one word each. I see stones 3 and 4, both with the word scratch.

Mr. Scriver throws Charlie into the hole. The letter u appears on his arm. Charlie is frantically trying to climb higher but cannot move.

“Bury him Hugo” orders Mrs. Scriver.

“You’re out of your minds!” I shout. The Schrivers link hands and their rings shine a blinding red. Sharp pains shoot through my arm; they’ve finished their idea of calligraphy. Shot is etched in my skin bubbling with blood. Demonic power takes control of my body and I pick up the shovel. My vision is gone but I hear Charlie screaming, as salty tears soak the writing in my flesh.

The screams cease, and I hear one last sentence before a bullet penetrates my heart.

“‘Who’s the redhead dear?’ Mrs. Scriver asks her husband, ‘Oliver I believe.’”