The Zoo for Bad People

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Title: The Zoo for Bad People

Author: sleephollow_101 via reddit





There are certain things in this world that are constant, unchanging with no regards to the passage of time. No matter the era, there is war, there is money, there is greed. Each generation has its share of hatred and unjust death. There will always be crime and tragedy. These constants are things that are known and, to some extent, understood.
But there is something else that I know to be true, something perfectly cemented in time and space that the world seems to have overlooked:

Mrs. Baker owns the house at the end of Willow Street.

I know that this must seem a little strange to you. Please, give me just a few minutes to explain.
You see, Mrs. Baker wasn't just any old woman in my old neighborhood. In fact, many of us didn't think of her as a woman at all. She was more of a landmark, someone who had been there even before our parents, and would continue to exist long after all us little birdies had flown the nest. And, for as long as she'd been alive, she had owned a shabby little shack with peeling paint and squeaky shutters at the tail end of Willow Street.

For most of us still alive in the neighborhood, she had existed for all of eternity. She wasn't born, and she wouldn't die. She just... was.

Of course, logic tells us that even Mrs. Baker came from somewhere. I was told that she immigrated to our little town from France. Her first name was Camille, although nobody could ever pronounce it right. Her husband, an American whose first name has long been forgotten, brought her over after a whirlwind romance in Paris. He had died early, leaving her alone, childless.

All by herself, in the house on Willow Street.
By all accounts, Mrs. Baker was unremarkable. She was kind and friendly, in as much as social protocol demanded. She liked to sit on her front porch, surveying the unkempt grass as she embroidered yellowing hand towels. She had a cat that very well may have been as old as herself – he had gray fur and all the neighborhood kids called him Fluffy, as we were fairly unoriginal children. The only thing that set Mrs. Baker apart from the other residents was her apparent immunity to life and death – in all the time I lived there, I never saw her age, I never saw her change.

But that's not why I remember Mrs. Baker now.
Mrs. Baker didn't talk to the kids in our neighborhood very much. I always had the feeling that she disliked children. I had spoken with her a few times because my mom had dragged me to her house – my mom had a fascination with embroidery and spent a few afternoons sitting in Mrs. Baker's musty old living room, taking lessons from the old crone. I didn't mind Mrs. Baker, because she always gave me chocolate chip cookies and let me play with Fluffy. Since she never really talked to me, however, I assumed that she wasn't very fond of me.

That assumption was challenged one foggy morning in early April.

School was out for some kind of break, so I had naturally risen before the crack of dawn to get the most out of my few free days. I'd driven my mom insane in a matter of minutes and she'd sent me to play outside before she was forced to slaughter me where I stood (her words, not mine).

I was playing with some action figures when I saw Mrs. Baker standing outside her house, watching me.

Of course, she lived all the way at the end of the street, a good four houses away from me, so I couldn't really tell if she was looking at me or not. Except that I could feel her eyes on me. Like she was trying to call out to me with something other than her voice. And she succeeded, because I was so intrigued that I found myself standing up from the damp grass and taking a tentative step down the street.

As if sensing my confusion, Mrs. Baker lifted her arm and crooked a slender finger at me, beckoning me closer. I was either too young or too stupid to be cautious – besides, I'd known her all my life, as had my mother, and probably her mother before her. I didn't think anything of it as I trotted down the street. If anything, I was thinking of those chocolate chip cookies she often made.

I stopped a few feet from Mrs. Baker and I chirped out some kind of greeting. She gave me a stiff sort of smile and bent down so that she was eye-level with me. I remember thinking that I'd never seen an old person do that. It must have hurt her back, bending down like that. I suddenly felt very important.
"Dominic, you are a good boy, aren't you?"
She asked the question fully expecting an answer. There was nothing patronizing or teasing in her tone. I nodded solemnly, as though this were the most important moment of my young life. Well. I guess, in a way, it probably was.

She mirrored my nod, an aura of satisfaction radiating off of her as she asked her next question. "Would you like to see something secret?"
My ears perked up at that. A secret? I loved secrets. I was going to be a spy when I grew up, so I understood that secrets were very, very important. I nodded at her and she extended her hand to me. I took it without hesitation and she led me inside her house.

We bypassed her living room completely, much to my dismay, as I'd rather hoped that her secret involved cookies. She took me through the dining room, then the kitchen, all the way to the back of the house where she opened the door to a set of stairs, leading down into the darkness.

She turned on the light, but the basement was still quite dim, so she held my hand in her firm grip as we descended together. I gradually became aware that there were soft noises coming from the basement, sniffles and shuffles and sometimes strange choking and squealing noises. It sounded as though she had animals that were trying very hard to keep quiet.

I wondered if Fluffy had gotten trapped down there. Maybe Mrs. Baker wanted me to save him.
I didn't see Fluffy when we got to the basement.
I saw a row of cages, lining the walls in a mess of rusty iron. It was hard to see, but there were animals crouched in them, sniffing and pawing at the dirty floor beneath them.

"What is it?" I asked, a little uncertain what to make of what I saw.

"It's a zoo," said Mrs. Baker. My eyes lit up in wonder. I loved the zoo – my mother used to take my little brother and me, if we'd been very good. I realized why it was a secret, now – having a zoo in your basement was a genius idea. Although, she wouldn't be able to keep very big animals. I was a little disappointed at that, because giraffes were my favorite. Still, I was very excited to see her zoo.
She must have been able to sense my anticipation, because she let go of my hand and gestured forward. "Go on," she said.

I didn't need a second invitation.

I practically skipped forward, starting with the cage closest to me. Because the light was so dim, I had to bend down and press my face up against the bars to make out what was inside.

My little heart froze in my chest when I finally saw what was in the cage.

It was a little girl, a few years younger than me – she couldn't have been more than five. She was crouched down, her hands trembling, and I could see that something was dripping from her fingers. I thought about trying to speak to her, but then I saw her lips.

They'd been sewn shut.

I gasped and stumbled backwards, right into Mrs. Baker's arms.

All too late, I began to feel that something was very, very wrong. I looked back at Mrs. Baker, white-faced and shaking. I couldn't make out her face in the dark basement, and for that I was almost glad.

"What is she doing in there?" I demanded, trying to sound like I wasn't scared. I failed miserably.

"She was bad."

"Bad?"

Mrs. Baker nodded, but didn't give any more explanation. She simply stated, "This is a zoo for bad people."

She gestured again for me to continue looking. I walked on unsteady legs and looked into the next cage.

This one was a boy. He was moaning a little, obviously trying to keep quiet, and pressing his hands to his chest. Except then I realized that he didn't have hands – he had dark, oozing stumps where his hands should have been.

I looked back at Mrs. Baker, suddenly wanting very much to go back home. She sensed my intentions and shook her head.

I couldn't leave until I looked in every cage.
There were about twelve cages in all, I think, although I can't say for certain. My memory gets a little fuzzy at this point – I know I saw many children, scared and sick and frightened, but they all begin to blend together in my mind. Rather than seeing a whole person, I see bits and pieces. I see missing fingers, eyes sewn shut, teeth wrenched out. Everything is a mass of mutilation.

I don't even really remember making it to the last cage, nor do I remember walking up the stairs. The next image in my mind is of Mrs. Baker's living room, sitting in her overstuffed armchair, drinking a cup of tea, eating some warm cookies, just out of the oven.

"Do you know why I have a zoo for bad people, Dominic?" Mrs. Baker's voice is so clear to me, even all these years later.

I shook my head, feeling numb and confused inside.
"Bad people don't deserve to live in this world," she answered, her voice taking on a strength, a conviction that it had never possessed before. "They need to be locked up. For everyone's sake. Do you understand?"

I nodded. I didn't know what else to do.

She seemed satisfied with that. Once I'd finished my cookies, she'd patted me on the head and led me to the front door.

I had just stepped out of that suffocating house, the skies cleared of fog and the sun beginning to warm the tips of the grass, when I felt her bony hand squeezing into my shoulder again. My heart skipped a beat.

I turned back to look at her. In all my life, no matter how many times I am reincarnated, I am sure I will never forget that look of pure menace on her face as she said,
"Good boys don't tell secrets. You're still a good boy, aren't you, Dominic?"

My head bobbed violently. Her grip loosened just a little and I bounded away, racing on lithe feet back to the comfort of my own home.

I never told anybody what I saw in Mrs. Baker's house.

Now that I'm older, I often ask myself why I didn't tell my mother. Sometimes, I think it's that I didn't know what to do, didn't believe what I'd seen, had no way of explaining the horrors inside that basement. Other times, I tell myself that I dreamed it all up, there was no way Mrs. Baker could have – would have – done something like that.

These are lies. There is only one truth: I was too scared of Mrs. Baker finding out that I was a bad boy.

I was afraid of the zoo.

All these years, I have remained silent, choosing to forget the one dark moment of my childhood. I thought it would be enough, until my mother called me yesterday and told me,

"Mrs. Baker just passed away."

Everything seemed to freeze in time as the memory of that day rushed upon me full-force. I waited for my mother to tell me they'd found the secret waiting in the basement, but she didn't. Instead, she said, "She didn't have much money left, but it's the funniest thing, she left it all to you in her will. Do you have any idea why?"

No, I didn't. But that didn't stop my stomach from roiling and heaving its contents all over my kitchen floor.

To this day, I don't know what Mrs. Baker saw in me, or why she called out to me, told me her secret. I don't know why she gave me the money. Worst of all, I don't know what happened to those children, where she hid their bodies, or if any of them survived.

There is one more constant now, in my life.
Every night until I die, I will dream of the house at the end of Willow Street, and its zoo for bad people, only this time, I'll dream it from inside the cages

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