"Lullaby" by Anabel Burns

Anabel is a third year English Education major at Marian. A fan of all thing's mystery, the inspiration for this piece came from a class assignment to write a short story based off Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House. Drawing from Scooby Doo, paranormal investigation shows, and the often macabre nature of nursey rhymes, this piece was born.

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Before the tires screech to a complete stop on the gravel driveway, Theodora swings the side door of the eccentrically painted van open. 

“Hello my lovely guys, gals, and ghouls! Thank you so much for tuning in,” she delivers her signature line directly into the camera she’s holding up to her face, her voice soft and laced with a heightened degree of mystique. “Today the gang and I will be investigating the Crane family manor, said to be haunted by patriarch Hugh Crane’s late wife, Helen Crane, who died whilst giving birth to their daughter.” Still crouched in the van, Theo turns the camera to face the mansion looming before them, boarded up and abandoned. From the northwestern corner of the house, a single stone spire juts out, encircled by elegant —if not a touch garish—stained glass windows that demand the eye’s attention; Theo finds her target, pointing the lens toward the tower. “The locals say that in the dead of night, you can hear Helen singing lullabies to her babe from beyond the grave, her figure standing at the nursery window, longing for her little girl.” 

Abruptly, Theo flicks the camera lens shut, dropping her arm to her side. “Ugh, I’m so pale I look like a damn ghost myself on camera. Luke, be a dear and grab the tripod for me. And the spirit box. I want to set up base in the nursery.” When the camera drops, so does all of Theodora’s soft allure. In all actuality, being in her presence is not unlike the sensation of dragging naked skin across the freeway at speeds only the reckless Luke Sanderson would dare to drive— more to the point, abrasive. 

As Eleanor watches Luke scramble to grab the supplies from the back of his van, she supposes it all comes down to beauty. Because Theo is a great many things, and beautiful is one. All effortless dark curls and clad in bright colors, the captivating Theodora was the natural choice for front woman of their little ragtag, ghost hunting team, for Theo is someone you cannot help but want to follow. A phenomenon more paranormal than anything they had ever investigated. 

“Theo, wait up!” Luke calls, carrying two boxes of equipment up the rickety front porch and into the house after Theodora. 

Eleanor unfastens her seat belt and clambers out of the back of the van, ready to trail behind when an untraceable chill radiates up her spine, leaving her feet frozen to the unpaved walkway. Not a breeze, the chill had been internal, like the contraction of the heart or the expanding of the lungs. Internal, but in response to what? 

“Eleanor?” Doc comes into her peripheral vision with his too long gray hair and brown leather messenger bag slung over his button-down shirt. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine, I’m fine.” 

“Well, okay then. After you,” and he extends his arm, gesturing toward the open front door where wooden boards now hung uselessly, pried loose by Theo and Luke. 

And that is how Eleanor enters the home of Helen Crane, following behind her friends. 

The splendid craftsmanship of intricately carved banisters and high ceiling does not take her breath away; on the contrary, it is like the first gasping inhalation of a newborn baby. 

“Doc, do you have any spare batteries?” Theo’s voice carries from upstairs. “Luke forgot to charge the ring light, and we can’t film in the dark!” 

“Well, I’m sorry, Princess. But I don’t understand why I have to be responsible for all the-”

“You’re literally the tech guy, that’s your job!” 

Luke and Theo’s squabbling gets drowned out by the sound of Doc’s booming footsteps ascending the creaking staircase. And now, Eleanor’s alone in the dark foyer. Nowhere to go but to follow them up. 

“Nellies,” an unfamiliar female voice cries, aloft in the stagnant air of the house. 

“Who’s there?” No one has called her Nellies since— “Mother?” 

“Baby girl. My baby girl.” 

“Where are you?” Eleanor stumbles out of the foyer, away from the main staircase, deeper into the house. “Helen, is that you?” 

“I want my baby girl,” the voice weeps, tangible melancholia as present in the air as oxygen. Softly, it begins to sing. A lullaby. “Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop.” 

Eleanor’s in the back of the house now in what appears to have once been the master bedroom, a dusty linen sheet entombing a wrought iron bed. “Theo, Luke! Doc, anybody, please!” 

They can’t hear her, too busy setting up to film yet another stupid episode of a stupid show Eleanor never wanted to be a part of. They never encounter anything real; really, it’s all dark empty hallways and Theodora’s theatrics, Doc’s rehearsed intelligence, Luke shaky camera work. But it’s all fake. 

“When the wind blows the cradle will rock.” 

Eleanor feels dizzy, feet struggling to stay upright. Leaning unsteadily against the bedpost, she calls, “Theo! Are you there!”

“When the bough breaks the cradle will fall.” 

Louder, the voice is louder.

“Mom!” Eleanor is crying now, sobs tearing through her newly filled lungs. 

“And down will come baby.” 

In a horrible, perpetual second, the floorboards splinter. A crack giving way to a chasm. Eleanor watches it happen, the ground beneath her feet give way in a lost battle against the elements. She watches it happen as she falls, 20, 25 feet. Into the crawlspace, the cement foundation of the house. She watches it until her eyes can see no more, until her lungs can breathe no more. 

“Cradle and all.”