Page 77 of Grave Beginnings

“Mrs. Thayerson.” I greeted as her husband passed her to enter the apartment. “Thank you for your time.”

She clutched the door as though it held her up, face pale, and lips thin with stress. She looked like she hadn’t been sleeping well. Maybe Jonah was experiencing nightmares from the events at the daycare?

“Come in. Sorry. It’s been a trying few weeks.”

“I totally understand,” I told her as we entered the apartment. As expected, it was high-end sterile. Did a kid live here at all? There was no sign of toys, or anything a child might like; paint, dolls, snacks, nothing.

“Jonah’s in his room,” Mrs. Thayerson said.

“Can we sit?” Angel asked, speaking for the first time since meeting the pair. He waved his hand at the massive white sectional. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he added. “Clarify some things.”

“Sure,” Mr. Thayerson said, heading toward the couch and dragging his wife with. “We’d like all of this to go away. Jonah has already had a difficult childhood.”

“He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Thayerson said. “We’d do anything for him. Brought him to all sorts of doctors. The daycare was supposed to specialize in care he needed.”

“We’re suing them of course,” Mr. Thayerson said.

“Can you tell me about that?” Angel asked. “What sort of things they offered? Your perception of the business?”

I walked around the open space, glancing out the wide windows to the city below, thinking the view would have been nice at night and waiting for the pair to protest my perusal. Neither did.

“Can I talk to Jonah?” I asked in a short lull as Angel flipped through his notebook for more questions while making notes.

Mrs. Thayerson pursed her lips but finally nodded. “He’s in his room.” She indicated toward a far door.

I gave her a smile and headed that way, studying the place as Ipassed. Everything was clean and set like a showroom, with a handful of books on a massive set of shelves—all self-help from the looks of them—pristine furniture, and high-end artwork on the walls. I wondered what made them want a kid at all. The pair seemed more about the aesthetics of wealth than family, not unlike my parents. But I let the question go as I found Jonah’s open door and headed into his room.

The chaos of the space completely unwove the calm of the rest of the apartment. Toys littered every inch of the floor. The walls were covered in crayon art, the bed unmade, clothes strewn about as though the kid had thrown every outfit out of their dresser before deciding on one—and in the middle of the mess was Jonah. I hesitated in the doorway; waiting, watching, and looking for any sign of the creepy face I’d seen in the video.

In person, Jonah seemed normal enough, if “normal” was the blank focus of a child lost in his own world. His small hands gripped a crayon, the muted scrape of its tip against the oversized sheet of paper the only sound in the room. His face betrayed nothing, but the set of his shoulders and the unusual stillness in the way he moved felt off, unnatural even. My gaze drifted to the walls, plastered with chaotic scrawls and strange shapes. Most of it was meaningless, but there was an unease to the patterns.

“Hi, Jonah,” I said. No reaction, not even the slightest flicker of acknowledgment. The air hung heavy, the kind of stillness that preceded a storm. I picked my way through the scattered maze of toys, each step careful as though disturbing them would wake something slumbering. I perched on the tiny chair across from him, feeling absurdly out of place.

“My name is Jude,” I said. This time, he glanced up, not with recognition, but as if I were an unwelcome presence in his space. His dark eyes felt too old for his face, something hollow and deep swimming just beneath the surface. I swallowed hard as I studied him, waiting for that terrifying metamorphosis to happen in real life. He refocused on his drawing, ignoring me again.

The paper in front of him was a mess of overlapping swirls and jagged lines; a chaos that drew my eye the longer I looked. Beneath the scribbles was a crude image, unmistakable once seen. Figures. Bodies. Disjointed limbs tangled in a web of crimson streaks.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

“Death,” Jonah replied, his voice so soft I almost missed it.

My breath hitched. My mind scrambled to rationalize. He was non-verbal, wasn’t he? I must have misheard. But when I looked up, his gaze had locked onto mine, and I saw it. His eyes weren’t just dark, they were swirling; alive with a shadowy void that twisted and moved like oil rippling in water.

I froze, fear rising through my veins. Was this my power manifesting again? Or was there something profoundly wrong with the child?

“What death?” I asked, refusing to run. My throat felt dry, and my heartbeat echoed loudly in my ears.

“She had to die,” he said, his focus drifting back to his drawing. My eyes darted to the paper. The jagged lines and thick swirls of red took on a darker meaning. They weren’t just scribbles. They were a scene—a grotesque, childlike rendition of dismembered bodies, perhaps even ones mutilated by zombies.

“Why?”

“Everyone dies,” he said.

“Did she… hurt you?” I asked, trying to make sense of this. “The daycare worker… was she mean to you? Why did she have to die?”

“She saw me,” Jonah said.

The words cut through me like a blade.