Petunia Scottons stood on her neighbour’s doorstep, the catatonic body of her youngest son in her arms. A fine drizzle had plastered wisps of ginger frizz to her forehead, and her lips were white as she spoke. “Oi tell you, Mrs De Villiers, he asn’t moved a peep since we found ‘im.” She examined her motionless son, his hair as ginger as his mother’s, his eyes staring blankly. “Took his brothers near two hours to find him there, down by your well, and I wants to know what happened here.”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” started Mrs De Villiers, her eyes wide, voice quavering. “Lila, darling,” she addressed her daughter, “What happened when you were playing with Billy this afternoon?”
The young girl didn’t flinch as she turned to Mrs Scottons. “He took Miss Molly,” she said in the slight lisp of most five-year-olds, and gestured to a grossly misshapen doll. “He took her down to the well, when I told him I wouldn’t hunt toads with ‘im. I told ‘im not to go down there, but he didn’t listen.”
“They never listen, do they, Miss Molly?” she said more softly to the doll.
She continued, matter-of-factly. “If you go down to the well without an invite, the monster gets so angry. I told Billy not to go, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t listen, so the monster put him to sleep, and said he’d never wake up.”
Mrs Scottons shuddered a deep shudder, and cradled her son closer.
