Ten | Grandfather McVinch

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Bill was laying out the photos in the museum study. This wasn't a coincidence. He was sure of it. He looked at the old photograph again - the one with the daughter and father. The doll in the girl's hand definitely matched up with his step daughter. The more he looked, the more evident it became. There was no question about it. Bill turned the old photo over to see two names. Martha and Nicholas S. in scrawly handwriting. 

His frown deepened. The names didn't ring any bells. Confused, he logged into his computer, but found nothing on the internet when he searched the names. Defeated, he slumped down in his chair. Suddenly, an idea popped into Bill's head. He bent down, and opened a draw filed with files. He flicked through them, until he came to the one he was looking for. It was brown and slightly crumpled. He opened it up, desperate for an answer. There it was. A photocopy of the photo he held now. He went further through the file, and found the donator of the photo. Carl McVinch.

Bill frowned. His grandfather? He was sure he would remember his own grandfather donating a photo. But the thing was, he didn't. Bill shrugged it off internally, and decided to pay his grandfather a visit. 

Bill turned the radio on after clambering into his old station wagon. As he turned the key, a reporter's voice echoed through the small space. He wasn't surprised when he caught sense of what they were talking about. Dust. That seemed to be all this country talked about right now. 

Bill sighed, and started the engine. As he drove through the streets, he noticed two children around eleven or twelve walking together. How strange... Since the first death, the number of children let out of their homes alone had decreased hugely, especially as Dust struck again and again throughout the town. Seeing kids out alone had become a rarity. 

Bill passed the laughing boys, and five minuets later, he pulled up into the driveway of the address in the file. It was overgrown by weeds and tall grass, and thin, low-hanging branches scraped across the roof of the car. Bill winced as he imagined the scratches. Bill climbed out of the car, and slammed the door shut behind him. It came across too loud in the peaceful yard, the only other sound Bill's boots crunching across the messy gravel in the driveway. 

As Bill neared the front door, he couldn't help but notice how run down the house seemed compared to the houses that surrounded it. He hesitated as his hand hovered over the brass knocker. He lifted the ring, and knocked. Almost seconds later, there was a thump from inside. Bill squinted at the door as if it would suddenly become transparent, and he could see what was on the other side. Suddenly, the door flew open, and a short man stood it the doorway. He had long bedraggled, white hair that stood off his head like half of a lions mane, and wire glasses. He wore long trousers covered in fluff, along with a checkered shirt.

Bill held out his hand to his grandfather. He looked at it, as if unsure how to respond. He then seemed to decide on giving the hand a cautious poke. Bill frowned, before remembering how 'confused' his grandfather was. How could he have forgotten? The man looked up at him with a toothy smile.

"Hello. Who might you be?", the man asked. 

"I'm Bill McVinch. Your grandson?" The man nodded. "Ah, yes. Bill. It's great to see you again." Bill considered attempting to shake the his hand again, but decided against it.

Bill nodded to himself, paused, then continued. "I believe you donated something to my museum on the... Uh..." Bill rummaged through his memory for a date. "The fourth of October."

"I did?"

"Yes, Pa. An old photo of a father and a daughter."

"Ahh..." Carl stroked his small beard as if recalling what he had done. "Yup. Don't remember doin' that."

Bill sighed, before taking out the photo from his pocket. As he unfolded it, and showed it to Carl, he noticed the smaller man freeze.

"Get- get that thing away from me."

Bill frowned. "This? The photo?"

"You don't know what the hell that is."

"Pa-"

"My grandaddy gave that to me."

"He did?" Bill tried to understand how that was relevant.

"Yeah, he did. His father's father sent that little girl to her death."

Bill tried to follow. "So you're grandfather's grandfather? He killed the girl?"

"Yeah. But Bill, you don't understand-"

"What don't I understand?"

"He punished her. Him and the other councillors."

"Punished her?"

Carl narrowed his eyes, and whispered "They burnt her to death. On the stake, when she was nine."

Bill's eyes widened in surprise. "What? What did she do?"

The man's eyes darted back and forth, as if someone might be listening, then leaned in so close that Bill could feel his rancid breath on his skin. "She was a witch."

Paul looked at his dirty hands, then held them under the tap. He watched closely as the orange water swirled round and round in the sink, until it disappeared down the metal plughole. His eyes were glued to the sink as the water became lighter and lighter, then he smiled when it was clear. His hands were clean. He was in his own house, in the kitchen, recently coming in from gardening. He turned the tap off, and dried his hands with the towel. Clean.

He thought about Ms. Haley, and how she had talked to him about his problem. The girl. The one who was hurting him. She said the girl didn't exist.

Paul frowned. Ms. Haley was always right. He trusted her with all his heart. But this time, he wasn't so sure. The girl watched him eat dinner every night. She watched him sleep, and play with his toys. She watched him talk with Ms. Haley.

But she didn't watch him try to talk about her. Whenever he tried to tell anyone about her, she hurt him. One second she would be at the other end of the room, then the next she would be right next to him, holding her chisel. It was like a flickering light. Or like static.

And she would chisel the skin on his forehead. Even so, there would be no mark afterwards. Paul screamed and cried, but that never got rid of her. He couldn't say anything. He tried to talk with her, but she wasn't nice.

But Ms. Haley said it was his imagination. It couldn't be! He hadn't made her up... Had he? He thought about that movie he watched by mistake. She looked a lot like that. Maybe he had made her up.

"Maybe not", whispered a harsh, sharp voice in his head.

Paul's face dipped into a frown.

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Georgia

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