By Elizabeth F. Badger
 

I think of myself as a man of common sense.

This may seem like I'm being egotistical, but I'm not. I make it a point to think every situation through logically, whether its how to prevent the dishes from crashing to the ground or an extremely difficult math problem, I always look for the most sensible solution before taking drastic measures.

Thus, you can understand my reaction when my friend Mike said to me one day as we sat to lunch, "I'm baby-sitting evil incarnate."

"Excuse me?" I asked incredulously. Mike takes odd baby-sitting jobs as a way to help him get through uni. ("Such a sweet boy -- and he's good with kids, or so I've heard!") His current job was baby-sitting for a couple who just needed a few days to themselves -- out of the country -- in New York City. (Whichever way that works for you, I suppose.) Mike had baby-sat some real brats before, but he never felt obliged to describe them quite like that before.

"I am baby-sitting Rosemary's baby," he said.

"Oh come off it, Mike," I said as I removed the lid off my lunch box,  "Chris can't possibly be as bad as all that."

"No, I'm serious, Todd! That kid is literally a demon from Hell," he said, unsuccessfully suppressing a shudder.

I studied him for a moment. His normally rounded, cheerful face currently looked anxious and gaunt, and worry lines had eked themselves into his forehead. The dark shadows under his eyes did nothing to dispel the general impression he gave of death warmed up.

"You're not on drugs, mate, are you? Your pupils do look a little dilated right now..."

"Jesus, Todd, how can you even suggest that? I come to you with a problem and you just act like I'm some sort of lunatic!" To say that he looked a little upset was like saying the Pope looked a little Catholic.

"Well come on, Mike! How did you expect me to react -- ask, 'Oh my God, have you called an exorcist?' You know me, mate -- use a little common sense!"

"Forget it. You're not even going to take me seriously." He turned away, looking disgruntled.

Whatever was spooking him, it was obviously far beyond his "just-because-I'm-paranoid-doesn't-mean-they're-not-out-to-get-
me" attitude that he'd get from time to time. Usually when he was like this, he was easily talked out of it. This time, however, he was definitely scared of something.

I sighed. "All right. If you're that scared, I'll come stay with you tonight. Then maybe you'll start acting sensibly again," I
told him, resigned.

"The weekend. Stay the entire weekend."

"The WEEKEND?" I gaped.

"Come on, Todd! You're my mate, right?" He looked at me, pleading. Christ, he really was serious about this.

"All right," I sighed again. "You owe me big, though."

Mike looked relieved. "You have no idea."
 

Whatever was spooking Mike out, it certainly wasn't the atmosphere -- your basic suburban neighborhood with brick houses
occupied by yuppie couples and nuclear families. Nor was it the house itself -- no Bates motel or Transylvanian castle here. It was, in fact, a very modern, generic house, not too unlike one that you'd see on Neighbours[1] or American sitcoms. (Which could actually be seen either way; personally I find both to be extremely frightening.)

"So what -- does Vlad the Impaler live next door or something?" I asked, smiling a little at the thought of a large Transylvanian castle with two bikes and a satellite dish in the front yard.

"Just wait, will you?" said Mike, fumbling with the keys.

The inside of the house was just as generic as its exterior, with doors leading into the living room on the left and a dining room on the right. Straight ahead was a hall which led to the kitchen, a bathroom and a flight of stairs.

"Is this where the Kennedies[2] come down with axes?" I muttered under my breath as Mike hung up his coat. As if by cue, Mike suddenly tensed as the sound of footsteps came down the stairs.

I looked. A young boy of about seven was walking down the stairs. With blonde, tasseled hair and a blanket clutched to his side, he hardly seemed to be an object of mass terror.

Except for the eyes.

I'd be lying if I said there wasn't something strange about the eyes.

Their color, somewhat clashing against the color of his hair, were brown almost to the point of being black. This by itself could be dismissed as an unusual case of genetics. However, the look he gave with those eyes was one of extreme apathy and had none of the brightness that boys his age usually had. It was the sort of look killers gave after murdering a few people and then sticking the knife into your own back. For a second, I felt as though my heart had been stuck in a freezer, but I shook out of it.

It's just Mike's stories getting into your head, I thought. He's just a little boy, for goodness sake -- use a little common sense!

"Todd? This, erm, is Chris," said Mike as an introduction. Any tenser and you could use him as a support beam.

"Hey! Hi, I'm Todd! Mike's told me a lot about you," I said in greeting, leaving out, of course, exactly what Mike told me about him.

Chris just sort of stared at me for a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, you're not my type."

I blinked. Not my type? The last time I'd heard that line was when I'd started chatting up a girl I'd met at singles night at a pub
Mike had taken me to once. I recovered quickly. "Come on, I'm a nice guy -- we can be mates! What don't you like about me?"

Chris just smiled and went back up.
 

"I don't really see what's wrong with him. A little creepy, maybe, but he's all right," I said to Mike the next morning. Chris was still asleep upstairs and I had made the two of us some coffee (decaffeinated; the last thing Mike needed was caffeine).

"You haven't heard all of it," he said, gripping his cup as if it were the lifeline off a very steep cliff side. "You haven't heard
about the rabbit."

"The rabbit."

"Yeah."

"What about the rabbit?" I asked. I wasn't sure whether I had remained non-chalant in asking this, because against all sensibility he had me interested.

"Well, you've seen the rabbit hutch out back, right?"

"Right..." I said, prompting him onwards.

"Well, I checked it the other day. The rabbit that used to live in it had been completely flayed." Mike shuddered.

"So? A cat probably just got to it! It doesn't mean anything!"

"What cat do you know of that can pick the lock of a rabbit hutch, completely skin an animal, and not even bother to nibble at the remains?" I could see panic creeping into his eyes again.

"It's been known to happen. And if it wasn't a cat, it was probably just some neighborhood kids playing some kind of sick prank," I said, feeling slightly annoyed.

"That's possible. But the weird thing is, I'd looked in my bedroom mirror shortly before I checked on the rabbit and I know I saw the poor thing in my mirror for a few seconds, looking exactly like it did when I checked on it, skinless and all!"

"Mike..."

"And then it vanished, just like that! That's what prompted me to check on it in the first place!"

"Mike..."

"And I just know I saw a smug look on his face when I came back in, almost as if --"

"MIKE!"

He jumped. I would have laughed if it wasn't for the fact that I was completely riled up at the time.

"For God's sake, Mike! You sound like those little old biddies that scream about omens and evil all the time in those old movies! Get a hold of yourself, mate!" I shouted.

Mike didn't calm down so much as deflate. Suddenly, he seemed even older than before. I sighed and cooled myself down, remembering Chris upstairs.

"Look, Mike," I said, "I know you're a little stressed out at the moment, especially with the rabbit and all. But don't start acting like Agent Mulder and seeing things that aren't there. Usually, the simplest explanations are the right ones. It's just a matter of common sense."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." His mouth said this, his eyes didn't.
 

I had been flipping through books on the bookshelf when it caught my eye.

In an attempt to find something interesting to read on the shelves, I stumbled across a small, blue album with a fake leather
cover. A quick flip through revealed it to be Chris's baby book, complete with arbitrary photos of first birthdays (of somewhat poor quality -- the cameraman somehow managed to get "devil-eyes" on Chris every single time), small pieces of blanket and the other sorts of nostalgic rubbish usually found in them.

Looking at the family tree, however, something caught my eye.  About three generations back from Chris, the name "Clayer" appeared.  The odd thing was that I was sure I'd heard that name before.

I took the book to Mike, who was sitting in his room and staring at his reflection in the mirror over his dresser. "Hey Mike, does this name sound familiar to, like a celebrity or something? I'm sure I've seen it before," I asked him.

Because of his general apathetic look at the time, I was slightly surprised that he responded to me at all, albeit very slowly. He took the book from me and asked, "Which one?" in a voice that could be described as the opposite of lively and still be understated.

"That one. Chris's great-grandfather, I think. Isn't that familiar?" In comparison to Mike, my normal tone of voice sounded
positively ecstatic.

Mike looked. Suddenly, he straightened up, stiff as a corpse and just as pale. "Oh, shit!"

"What? What's wrong, Mike?" I asked anxiously. Obviously, the man was more famous (or infamous) than I had originally thought.

"Don't you see it? Edward Clayer!" he shouted with a frightening mixture of glee and panic in his voice.

"Yeah? What about him?"

"Don't you get it?! Don't you remember all those documentaries about that guy who went around skinning tall, blond-haired boys in their late teens as a token of his affection?!" The last word was said in a strangled squeak.

Something chilled inside of me. I had reached Mike's point even before he told me himself.

"Chris's great-grandfather was Clayer the Flayer!"
 

I remembered hearing about the case.  Shortly after the end of the Great War, Britain had been in a general state of celebration over her victory. The entire country felt as though they had been chosen by God, that they could defeat anybody.  In short, they felt invincible.

Then came the Flayer killings.

As I recall, there had been seven deaths in all, every single victim completely stripped of their skin. The man behind the killings
had claimed in a journal he kept that the victims had asked for it, had pleaded with him to "help them cast away the restraining feel of their skins." I t was clearly the ravings of a lunatic of course: that much was easy to figure out. What wasn't easy was how to catch him -- it took nearly seven months before they were able to corner him. He didn't go down easily however -- two officers, including the man heading the investigation, were killed.

So, for that matter, was Clayer.

More to the point, however, Clayer was famous for targeting men who, as Mike said, were blond, tall, and in their late teens.

Just like Mike.

It was a pretty silly train of thought, of course. Killing was hardly a hereditary trait. And ghosts were just a figment of the
imagination. For a few moments, however, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"You see? You see?! I told you there was something about this place and there's the proof, staring right at you!" he shouted with a look of hysterical triumph on his face.

I shook out of it. "This isn't proof of anything, Mike. Just because Chris's great-grandfather has the same name as a famous serial killer --"

"Is a famous serial killer."

"I don't care if he's the actor who played the Flayer in the movie! All I'm saying is that I'm not going to think of Chris as some
sort of psychopathic killer based on his having one nutter in his family tree! He's just a little boy!" I shouted fiercely.

"But can't you see the links?! The rabbit, the family tree -- he even looks the same, what with those freaky eyes and --"

"Shut up, Mike, just shut up! You've become hysterical! Ghosts don't even exist! Even you should know killing is not passed down from generation to generation! USE A LITTLE COMMON SENSE!" I shouted fiercely. Why can't some people be sensible about things?

"Oh, common sense this, common sense that! Is that all you can think about? Hasn't it ever occurred to that narrow little brain of yours that some things are just beyond rationali --"

"Excuse me."

We both looked towards the new voice. Chris stood at the doorway, clutching as always his blanket. Although he was basically staring at both of us, the piercing effect was just as strong as ever.

"Is there something wrong?"

We glanced at each other. "Of course there's nothing wrong,

Chris. In fact, I was just suggesting to Mike that he play with you!"  I said cheerfully.

"Now wait just a second, Todd! I never --"

I pulled Mike aside. "Look, Mike," I whispered, "what better opportunity is there to prove to you that Chris is just an ordinary
little boy? Besides, you're supposed to be the baby-sitter, not me!"

"But what about--"

"He's an ordinary little boy, Mike," I said steady and carefully.

"Easy for you to say. You're not the Flayer's main victim of choice," he muttered under his breath. He turned reluctantly towards Chris.

The smile on Chris's face was not entirely pleasant.
 

I was beginning to wonder exactly who was baby-sitting whom around here.

By the time I had all but collapsed on the bed in the guest bedroom, I had had to prevent Mike from sneaking away from the house twice. Thankfully, even he wouldn't want to leave the house -- the storm outside was enough to tempt anyone to build an ark and start herding up the animals.

It was hard to believe, but at one point I actually caught him rifling through Chris's family's files.

On my way to my room, I'd caught the sound of papers rustling from the family's office on the first floor.
Please let that be Chris, I had wished fervently as I'd slammed open the door.

Of course, if wishes were horses, we'd all be riding.

Mike had been sitting amongst a pile of papers, looking very startled.

"What the -- What on earth do you think you're doing, Mike?!" I had shouted, well and truly peeved.

"Finding the only kind of proof you're going to believe," he'd said, burrowing through the mess.

"Who gave you the right to go through somebody else's papers?!  Jesus, man, I thought you had a little more sense than that!" I'd ranted. If it were humanly possible, steam would have been coming out of my ears.

"I figured there might be a psychiatric report or something," he'd said, eerily calm.

"And was there?"

"Not that I've found yet--"

"Then get out of here! God, Mike, this is too much!"

He had then gotten up and looked at me.

That, I think, was when it finally occurred to me exactly how serious Mike was about the whole thing.

What I mean is that, although I knew that he had been taking it seriously, I had merely put it aside as Mike's typical habit of
overreacting. But when I saw that angry glint in his eyes, sunken within his emaciated face, it registered to me that to Mike, I had essentially betrayed him.

Which I hadn't, of course. I was merely trying to help him see reason, to bring him back from whatever pit he was sinking into. At a,glance, however, he'd silenced me, and had continued to glare at me as he'd left the room.

I'd watched him for a moment as he went down the stairs. I hoped for his sake he was just getting a snack. He's sped up near Chris's door, behind which Chris was sleeping peacefully. At least, I think he was asleep -- he wasn't making a sound.

I'd gathered up the papers Mike had spread about and placed them back in a folder which was marked, "Family Health." As I placed it back in the file cabinet, a small slip of paper fell out. I'd picked it up and glanced at it as I'd placed it in the folder.

Then I'd glanced at it again.

It was a prescription sheet. On it, a medication for Chris was filled out.

I recognized it. It had been on the BBC a year or so ago -- a tranquilizer used on sociopaths to help them curb their homicidal
tendencies.

And it had been prescribed one week after the fiftieth anniversary of the death of the Flayer.
 

I was looking at that scrap of paper now, as I lay on the guest cot Mike had set out. The paper disturbed me for a couple of reasons.

One, it proved that Chris had had problems in the past.

Two, it was prescribed a week after the anniversary of that fateful day -- more than enough time to see a problem, go to a
specialist, and get a prescription.

Of course, it could be that Chris had hyper-active tendencies and needed a particularly strong medicine for the problem.

But it didn't seem right, not after what I had seen of Chris.  Something seemed to be gnawing away at me about this.
Was it fear?

No, of course not. It was probably just a mixture of several elements. The storm, the discovery of the family tree, the
prescriptions, Mike's portents...

What if Mike was right?

Shite. Mike's words must have been really digging in. His attitude lately hadn't been helping much. either. Sensible people
would not think like this. Sensible people would simply disregard these discoveries as coincidences.

But there had certainly been a lot of them lately.

The sound of a particularly loud thunderbolt startled me.

Suddenly, I didn't feel so tired anymore.

I walked over to my dresser and propped myself up, keeping one hand on either side of the counter top and staring down at the lace coverlet covering it -- which at the moment seemed to clash entirely with the mood.

This was silly.

I should know better than this. I should just shake it off like a sensible person and go to bed.

Currently, however, my senses were fighting a losing battle with my instincts. It was hard to explain, but suddenly everything looked ominous.

I shook my head.

Looked up.

Stepped back and screamed.

Behind my reflection, a skinned body stood limply, looking as if it wanted to say something -- a difficult task without lips. I quickly turned around, but there was nothing behind me. A quick glance at the mirror only confirmed this.

There's probably a logical explanation for this, I thought.  Bodies don't just appear and disappear. I must be hallucinating.

Only I've never hallucinated before in my life, and as far as I knew it wasn't a common occurrence among people in states of extreme anxiety.

A scream suddenly pierced my thoughts from downstairs. A blood-curdling scream. Mike's scream.

I dashed to the door and tried to open it. It wouldn't budge.

But the door had no lock, and it had been working perfectly before...

I rammed my shoulder into it as hard as I could, desperate to get it open. But nothing that I tried worked. And in the meantime, a scream which lasted for minutes seemed to go on for hours.

Suddenly, the scream faded and died.

The door suddenly burst open through my efforts, sending me sprawling into the hall. Hurriedly I stood up and ran downstairs to the living room. There, next to the fireplace, lay Mike.

Or what was left of him.

He had been completely flayed.

I stared in horror at the scene before me for a few minutes before it occurred to me that the sound of crying could be heard coming from my left.

Chris, his back turned towards me, was curled up in a ball and whimpering. Swallowing my disgust, I went over to comfort him, relieved in the fact that in this, at least, Mike had been wrong.

"Hey, mate, what are you doing up?" I asked in a voice that sounded fake even to my ears,

Chris turned towards me.

His blanket, completely soaked in blood, was wrapped around the handle of a blood-stained flaying knife. Scarlet splotches liberally dotted his pajamas. The fear on his face was evident.

There was something else, too.

Chris's eyes were now a color of crystal blue.
 

Lately, I've been keeping a cross over my bedroom door. I keep books on exorcism on my shelves. And I only let myself fall half asleep.

It's only common sense.
 

[1] A popular Australian soap opera shown on the BBC. The Brits LOVE their soap operas.
[2] Characters on a popular British soap opera. The British equivalent of the Cleavers.

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Author's Notes:

This was a story written for a GCSE English assignment. For all my fellow Yanks out there, the GCSEs are the standardized tests which British kids (about tenth grade level) are required to take and pass in order to graduate, not to mention have any hope for a really successful job in the future. The story netted an A.

Because I was writing for a British audience, however, there is a somewhat British flavor to the story. Not as successfully done
as by a native-born Brit, perhaps, but enough to get a general idea of where this was set. (And don't think "mate" is an Australian term -- the British use it about as much.)

This is, as of this moment, my only attempt at a horror story.  Knowing my dislike of horror, however, it will probably be my ONLY horror story. Something has been making me come back to this story lately.  I mean, it has holes in it the size of a truck and some rather contrived metaphors, but somehow for me the whole thing seems rather... creepy.

Oh, and you may notice I'm using my actual name for this. I've got BIG plans for this sucker... ^_^  Comments can be directed to bodger@homestead.com or, failing that, thebadgers@uswest.net.