Earlier this year, my Maine Coon kitten, "Willow", had been murdered: someone intentionally broke her neck, snapping her spinal cord.  I had found her on my bed, stone-cold dead. When I asked my brother Todd or my baby sister, Sarah, if they knew anything about it, both denied any wrongdoing.  I knew Todd wouldn't have done it, but Sarah: she didn't realize the consequences of her actions: she was only two, practically a baby.

I knew mom wouldn't have harmed "Willow", though I knew for certain that she hated cats (but not to the point of intentionally harming them). So that left mom out as a suspect.

For a while (at least over the summer, anyway), nothing more happened.  I still had my three Cabbage Patch dolls that my dumb aunt Eunice had gotten me for my birthday, but all they did was sit on my bed, looking at me with those beady eyes of theirs, looking like three little chubby cherubs.

I knew they couldn't have harmed my cat: they were only mere toys.  Toys didn't come to life unless they were battery-operated, and the doll trio definitely weren't.

In addition, I had heard a child's voice, whispering: "We're gonna get 'cha, Piper.  We're gonna get 'cha", but I dismissed it as spending too much time participating in extracurricular or sporting activities.  Maybe a lot more sleep was just what I needed.

It seemed to work ... but then, last night, those eerie children's voices started up again.  Insistent.  Demanding.  Altogether annoying.

I hardly got any sleep. 

This morning, I woke up to mom's bloodcurdling scream.  She had apparently found Sarah lying on the floor.  When she cried out her name or tried to rouse her, there was nothing.  Sarah was unconscious.

She had me call for an ambulance.

I don't know what was going on, but things were definitely getting weirder and weirder.  Why wuold anyone harm an innocent little child?  I started crying as I waited for the ambulance.  Maybe the paramedics could help her, I remember thinking. 

~To be continued.~