There is no playhouse. There are no kids.

* * * * * * * * * *

Come upon a children's hideaway, and see what is inside.

* * * * * * * * * *

Open the wooden door decorated with finger-painted hand prints; it is a fun house. It is as if you can hear the laughter of the little boys and girls who used to find refuge in this place. They are happy. They are safe.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hear the beating of their euphoric hearts.

Listen to their games.

Cadence, Angela, Bailey, Cole.

Watch them carve their names.

They are happy.

They are pure.

Imagine them to

Take your lure.

Four youthful children.

Searing with health.

Enter the fun house.

And see for yourself...

* * * * * * * * * *

Cadence, a pretty, little blonde with glassy eyes, open forever. She wears tears of blood and a mouth always screaming. Her hair is matted with gore, her scalp is a gaping hole. You see this little thing in the fun house, only her body is nowhere to be found.

* * * * * * * * * *

Strangled by her own intestines, Angela is hanging just above Cadence. The steady dripping of her blood is like the raindrops that the playhouse always protected the children from. Angela is sweet and cute, if you could only identify her face, torn; the flesh peeled away.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bailey is only seven years old and the youngest of the band. She is choked by her plastic wrist beads, wrapped in thick locks of her own dark hair. Her earrings are stuck up in her eyes and she is in a corner, dressed in her Sunday best. Across her chest, smears a smiling face in her friends' and her blood. It looks as if it is crying.

* * * * * * * * * *

Cole, the only boy in the club, has his teeth replaced by his and the girls' toes. He is grinning, wide and true like one should in a fun house, each nail stained and glimmering. His legs and arms are strewn around, and he is engulfed in chicken wire, suspended from a ceiling beam. He does look happy.

* * * * * * * * * *

There is no screaming.

There is no sobbing.

There is no gurgling.

There is no crying.

There is no madness.

There is no terror.

There is no fear.

There is no time.

There is no Cadence.

There is no Angela.

There is no Bailey.

There is no Cole.

There is nothing.

* * * * * * * * * *

Let's close this door, the blood is like a river, flowing over our feet. The parents will soon come, and we must go.

* * * * * * * * * *

There is no playhouse. There are no kids.

* * * * * * * * * *

There is a soft breeze, on this lovely day...