My little son, Jake, scratched at the door again. Three weeks dead, yet he returned nightly.
I prayed he wouldn't wake Lydia; she couldn't handle the horror.
That night, Jake wouldn't leave. I stepped outside. My heart broke, but I had to protect Lydia's sanity. I hurled a heavy stone. It struck his skull, which split like overripe fruit. Desperate, I doused his limp form in gasoline and struck a match.
The next night, Lydia’s voice woke me, joyful yet chilling. “Look who’s home!”
The charred, nearly unrecognisable mass she cradled in her arms wiggled and softly made "Da da!"
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