“Can’t you do anything right? Try harder or you’ll be worth nothing to me, Rita.”

“I’m sorry, mother.”

“Your grandfather is waiting. Go to him.”

A worn cotton dress with a dull gray pattern rumpled slightly as the child with the golden hair performed a quick curtsy. Spinning on the heels of tiny patent leather shoes, she tiptoed across the gleaming tile and rounded the corner of the ornate, cream-hued doorframe.

“Such a useless child,” the tall, elegant woman in the kitchen mused aloud, thin hands resting on shapely hips in disgust.

As the small girl disappeared around the corner, she blinked back a delicate tear and pretended not to hear.

In the brightly lit living area perched Charles A. Whittier, an unseemly spot in the tastefully decorated room, with his curved pipe and gleaming cufflinks. As the first strand of silken blonde hair peeped out from behind the flowered couch, his sharp eyes focused on the quiet child that entered. The pipe came out of his mouth and his jaw shut with a snap, his thin lips curling into a tight line.

“So it’s you. I see she’s kept you around, even though I told her you were worthless.”

The child clasped her hands behind her back and looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I expected as much,” he grunted, blowing a clever smoke ring and watching it lift to the high ceiling in wispy strands of gray and white. “Tell your daughter to do one thing, and she does another.” He seemed to be addressing the ceiling. “As for you, you’re just lucky your mother is as stubborn as she is, aren’t you?”

There came no response. The heavy-set man on the couch squinted.

“Look me in the eye when I’m speaking to you.”

A pair of pale, cloudy eyes were raised slowly upon his command.

“Good lord! You’re a demon child!” He drew back with distaste, wrinkling his bulbous nose as if an unpleasant smell had penetrated his senses. “The rumors were right. You can’t possibly belong to her. You…” he fixed her with his most terrible glare, “You’re his abomination, aren’t you?”

The child did not appear to be affected, and her calculating calm left an eerie chill floating through the room.

“Rita!” Anne had emerged from around the bend, balancing a silver tray laden with tea and enticing, flaky deserts. “Answer your grandfather when he speaks to you!”

“He isn’t my grandfather, mother,” came the cool, soft response.

“Don’t be silly, you foolish child,” she berated, smiling falsely as she attempted to keep her rising temper under control. “I’m sorry, father,” she said as she turned to the impatient man who was waiting. “Please do stay for tea, at the least.”

The elder man ignored her request, his eyes yet locked on the demure child at his daughter’s knees.

“I knew I was right,” he muttered around the stem of his pipe. “You should have gotten rid of her long ago, that demonic thing.”

“Now father,” Anne responded curtly, “You know that wouldn’t be right. Rita is very useful to me, isn’t that right, my dear?” She turned to the silent girl and waited for a response.

“Mother.”

Anne blinked as she became entrapped in her child’s dead stare. “Y-yes?”

“He’s not my grandfather.”

The eyes of both Charles and Anne widened simultaneously, and Anne began to tremble with nervousness.

“She’s already said that once,” observed Charles with surprise.

“I know that,” snapped Anne before she could stop herself.

The child was staring at them both, her tiny, pale arms hanging loosely at her sides. A strand of unearthly golden hair floated down to rest in a neat wisp across her light, exotic eyes.

“N-now then, Anne,” began Charles with a slight shift, “Send the child to her room. Her irrational behavior is quite inappropriate.”

“Rita,” Anne began, wringing her hands with anxiety, “Leave us. We’ve no further need of you.”

There followed a long moment of tension, which was broken only when the tiny girl spoke. “Very well, mother.”

The two elder members seemed to sag with relief. They watched until the last visions of rumpled cotton dress had faded from sight.

“What a terrible creature,” Charles whispered.

“Be quiet, father.” Anne’s face was set as hard as plaster.

The old man blinked before fixing his daughter with a disapproving glare. “But you see I was correct. You ought to have torn it to shreds and scattered its cursed body the moment it was born.” He watched as the woman in front of him grimaced, the tea long forgotten.

“I would have if I’d only known. If I’d known that it was his child and not my own.”

“It’s half your child. Don’t be ridiculous, Anne. You must take some of the responsibility for this…this monstrosity.”

She collapsed into an easy chair and buried her hands in her face. “It walks this house like the spirit of some terrible slain one, quiet as death until it’s almost upon you.” Her thin frame shook. “It only speaks when spoken to, and even then, that calm…that horrifying calm! No matter what is said or done, it’s as if the beastly child is half-dead! No anger, or misery, or even happiness at all. Just that insufferable calm. And those awful eyes, pools of silver like the fog on that night…”

Charles was sitting entirely still, hardly daring to breathe. “You,” he accused in a hoarse whisper, “It’s your own fault. I came to tell you later on that day, but you’d already done it! Melted yourself into one with him, that horrible thing you called a man!”

“I’m sorry.”

Charles paused only for an instant. “It’s your sin to live with.”

Anne opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly there arose a clattering from the kitchen. The two adults sat frozen, watching in fright as a moment later, the tiny child slipped around the corner and into the living room with a glass of milk.

“I broke the first cup,” she said flatly, large eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. The sun had already begun to go down.

“W-what?”

“I broke the first cup. The glass I poured the milk in.”

Charles A. Whittier blinked. Anne stood up and ran her hands over the seams of her skirt. “Well, clean it up! What good are you if you can’t take care of a mess you made yourself?”

“I have.”

“You have what?”

“Cleaned it up. Go and see.”

The slender woman glanced first at her father, stiff and silent on the couch, before setting off toward the kitchen at a rather fast past. Charles tried hard to avoid the gaze of the emotionless child that he had been left with.

“What are you staring at?” he demanded, fiddling with his pipe absently.

“You aren’t my grandfather.”

“Damn right I’m not. I refuse to be the kin of you or any of your kind.” Without warning he stopped short and glared daggers at her. “What do you mean I’m not your grandfather? I’m you mother’s father, am I not? Dumb as a hamster, you are.”

“Say what you like.”

Charles was struck dumb. It had seemed the child had allowed a hint of a smile to creep its way onto her features. The corners of her pink lips quirked into sly curves.

“What do you mean?” he inquired, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

“Just that.”

Anne emerged from the kitchen, focusing her eyes slowly on the old man perched on the couch.

“Mother,” said Rita as the woman entered, “He still doesn’t know. Isn’t he funny?”

The pipe fell from the elder’s limp grasp, and he couldn’t seem to find the right muscles to bend down and pick it up again. Now both females were staring at him with slightly deadened eyes.

“You’re not my grandfather,” the golden-haired child grinned demonically, “Because she isn’t your daughter.” Her pearly white teeth glittered malevolently as the grin spread. “I killed your daughter.”

Charles had begun to turn a sickly shade of green. “Y-you monster! I knew it! It’s all because she decided to fall in love with him that this happened!”

“No,” the child said, voice like melted honey. “It’s because you hated me. She hated me. So I eliminated her, and now it’s your turn.” She glanced at the wraithlike image of her once mother.

“Go ahead, Mother,” she urged with a sibilant hiss, “Have your revenge. He never loved you. He never loved your husband. Don’t you want to hurt him for it?”

Blotted red wetness sullied the plush surface of the carpet, where mounds of bloodied innards lay strewn. A child with golden hair swiped a hand across her dripping lips, blinking back a delicate tear.

The tall, elegant woman by the door placed her hands on her hips and snorted aloud. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Gone,” sniffed the child, examining with rapture her stained hands, “Grandfather’s good parts are all gone.”

“Then eat something else.”

The dull gray pattern on her worn cotton dress was drenched in crimson. “There’s naught left but bones!”

With a sneer of disgust, the slender woman sighed. “Can’t you do anything right? Try harder or you’ll be worth nothing to me, Rita.”

“I’m sorry, mother.”