Very Short Story - The Spectre Cometh

 This was written for the story prompts Horror and Spectre for a long ago internet writing challenge. Being my usual contrary self, I did something a little different with it. ;)

The Spectre Cometh 

She couldn’t remember the last time that she had been so deeply, utterly afraid.

They were coming. They were coming for her.

There was nowhere to run. And what good would running do? There was no escape, not ever, not for her, not for anyone who had trodden the path she had chosen, who’d taken the responsibility she had willingly accepted for she had always known that with the children would come Them. It was the price that must be paid for those happy little faces she watched over day after day, for the privilege, not the right, of watching them learn and grow and change, of keeping them warm and safe and happy until the day came when she was forced to bite her lip and wave them through the gates into the dark austere arms of the grim and tatty monstrosity that towered over the simple stone building in which she worked like a harbinger of terror. All knew the next level that awaited them. All knew what it would bring. But what else could she do but send them on? She could not keep them small and safe and innocent forever. But still… it was hard.

That place… The creatures that inhabited it…

The creatures her children became…

She saw them sometimes, after they’d been sent, lurking by corners around that awful building, stretched and greasy, her little angels changed beyond all recognition, dressed like savages, speaking in grunts and obscenities and licking fire, screaming, fighting, scratching, laughing not with joy but cold, malicious cruelty as they rounded upon each other like animals of the pack. But sometimes, they would see her and just for a moment, deep inside, she would catch a glimpse of a precious little face she had once loved. And the once-child would smile.

She liked that she had given them that.

There were days when she wondered if what she did was worthwhile, worth facing Them and the struggles of everyday life in her little sanctuary. But if she could instil into her young charges the memory of a few bright, happy years to carry through with them all their lives, perhaps, someday, they would remember enough to fight the horror that would face them when they matured.

And to keep that hope alive, she had to face Them.

The Spectres.

One of the children had given them the name, popping from the lips of a bright-eyed, curly blonde little girl after an overheard exchange and quickly taken up excitedly by the others. The Spectres are coming, they whispered, the Spectres are coming! But how were they to know how hollow the mere mention of the name made her feel, the fluttering of her heart, the pounding of her blood, the pains that rippled through her head and body when one of Them entered her precious sanctuary and filled it with fear. They were so out of place in this world of colour and laughter, with their grey, severe clothing, those piercing eyes, sharp little implements twitching in harsh fingers as they prowled the room soullessly, watching the children, assessing, observing, learning all the could of their capabilities, their progress, searching for flaws, hunting for weakness. And if they found them, she knew with a certainty that froze her blood in her veins that they would turn on her.

And with one twitch of their fingers, one cross marked in vivid, glowing scarlet, they could destroy everything that mattered to her in the world.

They expected perfection. It was impossible, of course, every sensible person knew it, but yet they expected it all the same and punished its absence as though it was the easiest thing in the world. They wanted little automatons trained to work until they dropped but she wanted them to have fun and laughter, a bright spark in an ever darkening world before the pull of the next level dragged them down in a sea of conflicting emotions that turned them from angels to creatures that smashed and indiscriminately destroyed for no other reason than that they could. She hated the Spectres for everything they represented, the theft of imagination, the transformation of little lives into facts and figures, dictates to be followed and targets to be met.

But she could never say so. For she knew that if she did, it would be the end. She would be cast out from her warm sanctuary into a vicious, cold world of rejection and humiliation and her children, her precious little ones would fall into the charge of one the Spectres found to be more to their liking.

She could only imagine the horror. For that at least she was grateful.

So far.

It was the laughter that drew her back from her horrified musings into the room with its warm, painted walls decorated with splashes of light and colour woven by the children themselves, a mucky sheet of glass holding out the splatter of unpleasant rain as it dashed against the window, fortunately concealing the grey, cold monster of the next level that lay just beyond the gates without. She stared down at her children gathered below in a patient circle as they laughed and played and giggled, awaiting only her word or command to bring them back to some kind of order. But how could she give it? Nothing was natural when the Spectres came. Nothing could be. But how could she steal the joy from their faces and the laughter from their lips to create the dull little creatures the Spectres would expect to see? She knew she would have to, would need to line them up neatly like well behaved sacrifices to be mulled over and inspected like lambs to the slaughter.

And she had to do so now. For They were coming.

She could hear the footsteps slow and steady in the corridor outside as they approached, almost drowned by the sudden frantic thudding of her heartbeat. Her blood seared through her veins, burning like acid as she hushed the children, hurried them into place and fought to swallow her rising horror as the door knob rattled, creaked and slowly, painfully swung open.

It was a female. And alone. Dressed in tight grey, her head smooth and shiny as her locks were gathered harshly into a tight restraint, eyes shining, grim and searching, her fingers long and crowned by red talons, one locked over a black box lined with animal skin, the other extended as though to reach out and claw her down. She could only stare in horror as the vivid red lips parted…

“Miss Bartlett?” The voice was crisp and clean. “Ruth Collins, school inspector. I’m here to look over St Mary’s Primary School for the next few days and your class is the first on my list. I believe you were expecting me?”

And then, from beneath the rain-splashed window that looked out over the grim industrial town towards the failing high school just over the road, the little but piecing voice of blonde, bubbly Alice Curtis echoed clearly and concisely out over the junior classroom.

“That’s funny,” she proclaimed. “She don’t look much like a ‘spectre to me…”