Chapter Text
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Aisling Graham is born, not quite beloved, or wanted, but cared for all the same.
Her mother is young. Not so young as to draw raised eyebrows, and whispers in the church pews of ‘irresponsible youths’, but young all the same. Too young to be already shackled to a babe. She is though. And Marie has always made the best of a situation, even if the situation is an unwanted, and unexpected hanger-on in the form of a baby.
Aisling is cared for. She is not lauded over. Her achievements never grace the front of the fridge door, her good grades earn no rewards. But she is cared for all the same. When she is young, gentle hands cradle her and rock her to sleep. She is fed warm food, given stuffed toys and her own bed. She is in all ways cared for. Her mother is distant, a smile here or there, eyes that never linger too long, a hand briefly brushing curls off her forehead.
Aisling can’t ask for more. She has never really tried. Deep down she knows she’s lucky, Marie Lynch could have just as easily left her to fend for herself. She could be resentful and cruel, instead she is simply distant. Aisling was not part of her plans for life, and yet… Marie makes the best of it. Aisling can’t complain. What would she even complain about? There’s always warm food on the table, a soft comfy bed. She gets gifts on her birthday and Christmas, has an Easter basket every year, new clothes that fit and look nice. In all ways Aisling is cared for. So what if it’s not love? Aisling knows deep down, it could be so much worse. So she shuts her mouth and stays quiet.
…
She grows from a quiet babe, to a strange and still toddler, and from there to a strange and silent small child.
No-one says it aloud, but everyone knows something is wrong with Aisling Graham. It can’t be because of her poor, young, mother who has done her very best. Who’s so successful despite Aisling’s unexpected, draining, presence.
No, the blame must lie, with her no-good deadbeat father. Who no-one’s ever met, or even seen. If Aisling got her oddness from anyone it has to be her bastard father who gave her little else but her curls and last name.
Only the worst parts of himself, they whisper in the church pews.
Aisling learns to tune them out.
There are darker whispers though, whispers that Aisling is devil-touched. That she’s some-sort of changeling child. One that replaced the real, perfect, child that young Marie Lynch brought into the world. Whether she replaced that little baby because her no-good, bastard, deadbeat, father made a deal because he wanted nothing to do with her young mother or her when he’d learned about the pregnancy, or because everyone knows she was not baptised when she should’ve been because she grew suddenly and quickly ill after her birth, they cannot agree. Whatever the reason they settle upon, those who agree and echo such rumors and theories, keep a close and skeptical eye on her.
Thomas Smith is one such person who believes those tall tales.
…
He was her cousin, half by blood, and twice over by marriage and choice.
His mother had once believed him to be a devil-child too. She had him ‘exorcised’ by an unordained ‘priest’. A man who was little more than a power-drunk charlatan. He’d very nearly drowned little Thomas Smith. He would have succeeded, but one of the sisters from the local church had come over to drop off some things for Thomas and his mother, and found him performing his so-called exorcism. She had screamed and attacked the man, Thomas’ mother ran and when the man saw there was no way out so did he. Leaving poor, sweet, near-dead Thomas behind.
He was dead, they say, for four minutes and nineteen seconds. When he took his first breath after those, too-long four minutes, the gathered people, who were neighbors who’d heard the commotion, the EMTs, and the sister, gave thanks to the good Lord. It was declared an act of God. A miracle. Little Thomas was blessed and beloved by God, himself.
He’d made a swift recovery, and whatever oddness lingered after the whole ordeal, could be brushed away as lingering trauma. Finally giving an excuse to his strangeness, so the community could wipe the slate clean. Brushing away any lingering doubts. Thomas was embraced by the church and community, and given grace over and over. In a way Aisling never would be.
He and her had never gotten along. She was uneasy around him. Didn’t like the way he watched her. He felt off, in a way she’d tried only once to articulate. Aunt Bríd had reamed her out for that, going on to tell Marie and the whole congregation. She’d had lectures from random church-goers, about judging one's fellow man, and the splinter in her eye, and how envy was sin, for weeks. Marie simply let the things be said, and told her next time to be kinder to her cousin.
Aisling didn’t bother to try again after that, just tried to avoid him whenever possible. It was harder than it might’ve otherwise been if they were not related, as Aunt Bríd babysat her whenever Marie was busy. And Marie was often busy. Aisling was too young to be left alone, Marie said, and so it was that she stayed with Aunt Bríd and cousin Tommy every Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
If Aisling had spent less time with them, maybe she never would’ve let her guard down. If she’d known about the fact that Thomas believed the rumors of her being a changeling, or that there’d been a string of drownings in the area near where he lived, maybe she would’ve been able to avoid her fate. As it was, Aisling knew none of this, and with familiarity now bred and borne, too came comfort.
Thus Aisling never saw her death coming.
****
There was a pond.
Near enough to where Aunt Bríd and cousin Tommy lived, that Aisling was allowed to wander there by herself. She’d always been drawn to bodies of water. It called to something inside her, everything in her head would grow quiet when she sat next to the water. It was as close to peace as Aisling could come to. If she’d been a good girl, that peace would’ve come from sitting in the pews and listening to sermons, it would come from her nightly prayers, or from reading her worn bible. Or so said Aunt Bríd.
Aisling was not a good girl though, and so her peace came from the pond, and she told herself viscously, she didn’t care that it made her a bad girl, she was already not-good like her father. Everyone said so, and so that meant that Aisling didn’t have to worry like the other children about such things, since she would never see the kingdom of heaven anyways. Sister Daniels had told her that she was going to burn in hell with her ungodly, deadbeat of a father, and that meant that Aisling didn’t need to worry about such things.
If she was already damned then she would find her peace wherever she could.
She wandered down to the edge, taking her shoes off. They were her good pair, shiny and black, with buckles on the sides. Church shoes, Aunt Bríd called them, even though Aisling had worn them other places. Next came her socks, sure to be grass-stained after this, Aunt Bríd would be unhappy, so would Marie. But, Aisling told herself she did not care, and threw them on the grass next to her shoes anyway. She wiggled her bare feet in the mud, and gave a happy hum. She got closer to the water, the pond was deep, at least where she’d chosen to sit today was. There were spots that were shallower, and less muddy.
But Aisling was upset today.
Marie had told her that she might go to live with Aunt Bríd and cousin Tommy full time. Not just Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday anymore. Aisling would have to go to Mass every morning, she would have give up a lot of her toys, she would have to share a room with Aunt Bríd. Aisling didn’t want any of those things to come to pass, she cried and screamed and begged. Marie had firmly said it might be for the best, and Aunt Bríd had backed her.
Apparently Marie had a fiancè, one who was not willing to deal with Aisling. It was selfish of Aisling to want Marie to keep her, even when she could be happy now. When Marie could finally sort out her life to plan. But, Aisling loved Marie, even if Marie did not love her, and she hated staying with Aunt Bríd and creepy cousin Tommy. She didn’t want to not live at her house, with her big window in her purple-painted bedroom, with her froggy bedsheets, and her butterfly box.
So Aisling was mad, and to make both Marie and Aunt Bríd feel how mad she was at them, she was going to ruin her ‘church’ clothes. She plopped down on the muddy bank, and dangled her feet into the cold water. She sat there humming and singing to herself, watching the tadpoles and little fish dart in and out of view between the algae and lily-pads. The sun would be setting soon, but Aisling stayed stubbornly put.
She shouldn’t have. Aisling knew that Aunt Bríd would send Tommy for her. And Aisling tried to make sure that her and Tommy were never alone. Because there might be something wrong about Aisling, but Tommy– Tommy had something broken in him.
Aisling could see it, there was a rabid fox that sat behind Tommy’s eyes. Waiting. Aisling never wanted to find out what exactly Tommy was waiting for. She knew, somehow, deep down where all her odd things came from, that whatever it was Tommy wanted, whatever he was looking for, waiting for was dangerous.
She shouldn’t have stayed there as the sun grew more, and more tired, and the moon began to wake from her slumber.
She did, however, and she never even heard him coming.
…
One minute she was sitting on the edge, the next she was in the water. She’d been pushed from behind. Her fancy dress drug her down, sodden with water, growing heavier and heavier as she struggled. She paddled and grasped, gasping and gurgling. She tried to scream, tried to get back to the surface. Her head broke through, and on the bank she saw Tommy.
He was watching, eyes alight with a cruel sort of curiosity. Head tilted like a cat’s when it watched a downed bird. His eyes met hers, and he smiled softly, mouthing the words, ‘It’s gonna be okay.’
Her head dipped back down below the cold, clammy water.
She hit the muddy, sandy bottom, and tried to remember her swimming lessons from the summer before. The memories seemed so distant now, her mind panicking and screaming nearly as loud as her lungs. She pushed off from the bottom, reaching towards the dim-wavering light. Her head broke the surface again, more water rushed in with the air she desperately tried to gulp down, she shrieked, “TOMMY! TOMMY! PLEASE HELP ME!”
Thomas was still stood on the bank, his hands behind his back watching. He didn’t try to help, he didn’t do anything but watch, smiling.
She went back under. Her mind was so loud, and so quiet at the same time. She fought to get her dress off. It was only dragging her back down, but she couldn’t reach the zipper. Her eyes stung, with silt and tears. She hit the bottom again, and pushed up. She was already slowing down, growing weaker. She breached the surface, just her head now, barely above the waves and met Tommy’s eyes again.
They were blue, blue as the water that had drowned him.
…
Tommy was an odd boy. Quiet and strange. He liked burning ants, and taking apart dead birds. He rarely spoke, and preferred sweets and red meat to any other sort of meal. All these things were normal for young boys, his mother was assured, just as she had been when Tommy started talking about things only he saw. All children have imaginary friends she’d been told.
But Cynthia knew better.
Whatever Thomas was, it wasn’t her son. Her sweet baby had been stolen away. She’d tried to tell people, tried to explain how Tommy flinched at iron and hated holy water. But no-one would listen. Not Father Micheal. Not Father Connor. Or Father David. Not her sister or her cousin. Not her so-called friends in the congregation, nor would the sisters of the church. They recommended space away from Thomas, time to herself. Therapy, as if something was wrong with her, not Tommy.
She was going to have to deal with it herself. Deal with this thing that was pretending to be her son.
—
The first time Tommy didn’t really mean to. Luke was being rude. And Tommy had told him to stop, over and over. Just like Auntie said he should. But, Luke wouldn’t stop. So Tommy pushed him. He didn’t mean to push him into the river, it had just happened. It wasn’t his fault Luke didn’t know how to swim either.
Luke drowned. Like Tommy had. He had pulled Luke back onto the shore, and tried to help him.
But Luke must not have been Blessed, in the way Tommy was. Maybe, just maybe, Luke was even a changeling, devil-touched.
Tommy had been both those things once. Before he drowned and God brought him back better. Luke had been weird too, he was rude and mean, and hated being told he was wrong. Even when everyone else knew he was. So maybe Luke had been like Tommy.
Only Luke didn’t get better. Luke was dead.
Tommy had tried to save him. Tommy had tried to make him better. But, God didn’t bless Luke like he had Tommy. God didn’t bring forth a miracle. So Luke must’ve been wrong, somehow. Not like Tommy. Who’d been made new, Auntie said, not wrong, like Luke was.
Maybe it was okay, maybe God wanted this to happen. Maybe this was why Tommy had been brought back better. To make sure those who were wrong in the way Luke was, were made better like Tommy, or were gone like Luke.
Yes. Tommy was sure that was it.
The first time was an accident.
After that time, however, Tommy knew his purpose. And he fulfilled it.
…
Aisling felt sick. Her tummy filled with water, and knowing. She could see now, the shape of the prey Tommy hunted. Because she knew now, that's what she was. That was what made her scared of him, Tommy was a predator looking for a meal, and she was the rabbit stupid enough to get close.
Her head sank beneath the water one last time, her eyes never leaving Tommy’s.
And Aisling Graham drowned.
***
He wakes up to the beeping of a heart monitor.
His limbs feel heavy, and there’s something on his face. It smells of plastic and chemicals. His face scrunches, as he tries to find the strength to open his eyes. There’s rustling and voices, but it all feels distant and strange. Muffled like he’s underwater. His lungs spasm at the thought and he feels panic building, as he begins to hack and cough.
The voices grow louder, hands grab him and there’s beeping and screeching and so much noise. His head pounds, he opens his eyes briefly to blurred shapes, and frightened voices. Someone is yelling, someone else is crying. He closes his eyes again and the world tips out of his grasp.
…
It takes a while before the world fades back in again. The sounds of voices and his own breathing are what trickle in first. He opens his eyes to a hospital room. He knows, somehow, why he’s here. He drowned. No. That's not right. Aisling drowned.
He’s not Aisling.
Is he? He’s not really sure. He thinks maybe he is Aisling, in a way. Or maybe was Aisling before. But not anymore.
Ailsing drowned. She drowned in the pond behind her aunt’s house. Her cousin pushed into the deep end and watched. And then Aisling died. She died in that pond. Died seeing her cousin for what he really was. A killer, with delusions of grandeur. Someone who thought himself blessed by god. He wasn’t both Aisling, and now him, know that. Tommy believed it though. It’s why he killed her. Why he let them drown. He and Aisling.
He half-remembers it. The life before. When Aisling was. Now she’s gone, and it’s just him. Maybe it always was him, but not like this.
He breathes in and out, steady and desperate all at once. Some part of him drowned in the pond. Aisling drowned in the pond. And now, it’s all he can do to relearn how to breathe.
He stares at the white ceiling. He was in his twenties, before Aisling. He was so happy. He’d just finished paying off his student loans, and had landed a well paying editing gig. He had just adopted a cat. And then–
Nothing. He doesn’t remember. He must’ve died. He knows, somehow, deep down, he had to have died. He’s not sure how, or when. But he did. He must’ve.
And then, he was Aisling. Or at least part of her. That part that knew things. The part of her that remembered things that she’d never lived. Her lizard brain, her instinct. It was him. In a way. He wasn’t quite awake, when he was Aisling, is he still Aisling? He didn’t really feel, not like he does now. He knew things. He saw what others couldn’t, or wouldn’t, and he Aisling knew it was that that made them odd. He was content. So long as they were safe, he was content. He was Aisling and Aisling was him, and maybe he could’ve lived like that forever.
But then– Aisling was murdered. Drowned by her cousin in the one place she felt safe, and peaceful.
Now there’s only him. He still has her memories, still has her likes, her fears. But, he’s not Aisling. Not anymore.
He closes his eyes and focuses. He can’t panic yet. Can’t grieve.
Aisling is dead. And it’s Tommy’s fault. It’s Aunt Bríd’s fault. It’s mommy’s Marie’s fault. No-one else is going to give Aisling justice. Only him. He’s the only one that cares. So he puts it all in a box. Like the one Aisling stored her butterflies and beetles in. Wooden with a lid that locks on. Thick, sturdy and easy to hide. He puts it all in there.
The helplessness, the grief, the panic, the ȑ̴̞̖̓ą̵̝̺̫̹̽͘͠g̶̨͈̖͚̞͈̣̼̪̱̠̦͚̍̊̿̆́̊̑̂̕͜e̴̛͔̘͓͇̩͙̫̯̘͈͖̯͂̏͂͗̓́̓͑̇͌̅͂̋̏͘͜͝.
He put it all in the box, and then pushed it down, down, deep inside where the knowing lay, and hid it under that.
He opens his eyes, feeling the costume slip on, soft and unassuming.
Then Rían begins to cry, soft whimpers and wails. Doctors and nurses rush in, police follow.
Deep down, in the box where the real Rían lay, vengeful plans begin to take shape. They won’t get away with it.
H̴͔́͌̅͑͒̈́͂͒̒̑̄̄e̶̡̺̖̲̯̭̯̰̘̗͔̬̟̜͂͋̓̀̋̓͂̓͌̋̕̚͜ ̶̯͎̆͛̾̀̐̾̋̚͜͠w̴̭͈̙̱̳̜̗̳̙̰̌̾͆̿̄̎̆͑̈́̄͝ơ̷̹͆͑̎̽̋̒̒͌͗̄̾͂̓̈́͝n̶̪̓̍̈́̋̊̒͒'̷̡̨̟͙̫̳̟̟͎̞̠̤͔̥̉͐̈̈́̑͋̈̓̎̏̈́́̅̐̿̎t̶̡̢̗͚͕̯̹̞̩̲̝͔̊͊͐̍͛̍͠͠͝͠ ̸̪̪͓̟͙̳̲̲̍́̏̉̇̇̽̀̇̂̈̈̂͋l̸̥͇̦̘͎̱͓̮̣̲̮͚̠͖̉ͅê̴͇̯̭̼̮͊̚t̷̢̟̤̩̭̮̞͈̝̭͎̼̎͗̒̈̏̃̂̇̽͐̄̚ ̵̠̟͚̳͈̹̭̾̀͘t̷̪̫͖͇̲̭̹́̐͋̉̏̆̌͜͠ḩ̸̨̗̮͇̼̮̗̟̔͒̍̎̇͒͋̽̓̅̕͜e̵̡̠̱̻͍̠̜͍̩̩̝͙̲͒̀́̀̊̚̕͝ṁ̷̧̢̢͓̜̙̻̫̮̳̞͉̝͂̃̇͌̋̉̈́͑́͘͜͝ͅ.̴̡̟̳͙̼̗̞̞͓̰͔͍̜͊͊̆̋̂͛͋͊̕
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