The Real Helen Hayes

Content warnings: Child murder, domestic violence, suicide.

“Old hag!”

TINK

One.

“Leave town, witch!”

TINK

Two

“Murderer!”

That’s peculiar. Three insults, but just two rocks were thrown today…

THRASH

The glistening of tiny shards of glass made a blanket across the living room floor, surrounding a lone brick with a message etched in black ink:

KILL YOURSELF

Helen rose from her rocking chair, shaking as she struggled to hold up her own weight and looked out the hole that used to be a window. She made eye contact with Mr. Wittakor across the way, who witnessed the whole thing while weeding his lawn. Helen could have sworn she saw him shaking his head in disapproval, but the moment their eyes met, he dropped his head and pretended everything was normal.

Except what was happening to Helen was anything but normal. Every morning she would be awoken by the sounds of schoolchildren throwing rocks at her windows as they walked to school, although the brick was a new touch. Then, at lunchtime, the high schoolers who had off-campus privileges would throw food at her while she tended to her garden. Then, at 3:45 sharp, when school let out, they took turns ringing her doorbell and running away.

Helen collected the brick, her old, brittle hands struggling to grip it. She expected today to be worse than normal with the pranks and trespassing. Every Halloween, the town’s kids dare one another to sneak into the house, and Helen doubted tonight would be any different. The first few years she would call the police and beg them to help, but it always fell on deaf ears. Once she realized no one was coming, she started having fun with it.

Helen had always loved Halloween; her husband would drive her to the next state over to get top of the line decorations that her little town never offered. Once he passed and the kids started causing trouble, she had no choice but to keep her decorations in storage. That is until the police would not help her keep the street youths from trying to break in.

The plan was straightforward. Since they liked to call her a witch and told ghost stories about her eating children, she decided to play the role they assigned her.

Helen started her descent into the house’s basement. Taking her time down the old, creaky staircase, cautious not to miss a step. The lights sputtered and coughed, struggling to remain illuminated. Boxes of memories lined the walls, collecting dust as if it were rent. Helen lost her footing and tripped over a box labeled FRANK and the items inside scattered in front of her.

The air was heavy with the memory of her late husband, and Helen felt surrounded by grief. Frank Hayes was a beloved town member; he had been the ice cream truck driver since he got his driver's license. All the kids knew him and sang out when they saw him,

“Friendly Frank!”

“Friendly Frank!”

Those words forever haunt Helen.

Her mature limbs moved to gather items, as Helen fought to put them away before another wave of emotion hit. A lone newspaper clipping caught her attention.

Halloween Plans Halted, 4 Children Still Missing

Not wanting to acknowledge the painful anniversary, Helen tore the clipping to shreds and tossed it into her boiler. She was tired of living in the past and longed to move forward, but knowing her neighbors, that would never happen. Helen shook her head, pushed the box of dread aside, and went to her decorations.

The decorations were each returned to their original boxes, all in near-perfect condition. Helen had everything:

Animatronic ghosts ✓

Speaker systems ✓

Fog machines ✓

Self-lighting candles✓

Motor-operated rocking chair ✓

Helen wasted no time putting everything in the exact same spots as in the years before. Every decoration had a purpose and had to be perfect. As she laid out her traps and turned her house into a horror movie, she couldn’t help but think of the children from the news article. She stooped on her back porch, admiring the rose bushes she planted in their honor.

Red for Matthew.

Pink for Sarah.

White for Jenny.

Yellow for Parker.

This year was historically warm, and the frost hadn’t taken them over, leaving leftover flowers lingering.

They must want to watch the show this year, so they stuck around for an extra season.

Helen chuckled to herself as she ran her hands across the silky rose tops, her paper-thin skin becoming victim to the thorns. Blood stained the white flowers as she lifted her wound to assess the damage.

Decorating will have to wait; first, I need to find that darn first-aid kit.

Her attention switching from the annual task, Helen made her way back to her front room, almost forgetting she had never cleaned the window off the floor. She bandaged her hand and got to work.

It’s times like this that I miss having that bastard, Frank, around. His one true skill was his knack for cleaning.

She hated even thinking about Frank. Despite being reminded of his demise daily when the children shout insults, she hasn’t thought of him in ages. The insults were just background noise at this point; they never fazed Helen. Busting out her windows, on the other hand, enraged her. It wasn’t always like this.

Helen pushed the broom around as she daydreamed about the life she had before. Like the first time she met Frank, and he got so nervous talking to her that he covered her in milk that shot out his nose, or their wedding that they had when they were way too young. Everyone constantly asked the couple about having children, but it never seemed to happen. Knowing what she knew now, Helen was thankful for that. Frank loved his job being the local ice cream man, and the town loved him back. Helen could almost smell the barbecue dinners people had invited her to, and she fondly remembered her old friends.

Those were the days! If only my asshat husband died sooner.

Knowing that she couldn’t move on with her day without fully addressing the painful memories, Helen set the broom down and made her way back to the basement. She pulled up an old dining room chair she meant to donate to charity and sorted through the box she had previously shoved to the side. The bold lettering once again facing her:

FRANK

With a deep inhale, she opened the box. A harsh exhale followed as she lifted the old soda jerk cap with her husband’s name embroidered on the side. Four small buttons sewn to the other side.

One red.

One yellow.

One pink.

One white.

Tucked inside were four Polaroids, each of one of the missing children eating an ice cream cone in the back of the ice cream truck.

The search for answers by family members prevented Helen from destroying everything, even though she should have done so earlier. Helen realized that if she turned them in now, it would only result in more problems for her. Gathering dust in the basement, they sat in silence, waiting for Helen’s death to bring them to light.

Helen continued her sorrowful journey through memories by arranging newspaper clippings, missing person flyers, and a single envelope before her. She took the time to read every sentence and every line.

MATTHEW BATES: MISSING

JULY 13, 1988

The red button appeared a few days later. Frank told Helen he had a small hole and found a button in the tip jar. She didn’t have a second thought. Matthew was a genuinely kind kid, always ready to help out the elder neighbors by shoveling their driveways. Unable to bear the sorrow of his absence, his mother ultimately succumbed to her grief.

SARAH LYLARD: MISSING

AUGUST 13, 1989

Same as Matthew, Sarah’s button appeared not long after she disappeared. She was from a bad home, and her parents never even noticed she wasn’t around. It was her older brother who reported it to the police. The poor boy was never really the same after that.

JENNY SALAZAR: MISSING

SEPTEMBER 13, 1990

Sweet little Jenny, she had just turned 6 a few days before. She had a clown at her party and everyone on the block went. Frank pulled the ice cream truck up to their backyard and let each kid pick out a treat. Her button appeared the same day she went missing.

PARKER WITTAKOR: MISSING

OCTOBER 13, 1991

Steve and Birdy’s only child was Parker Wittakor. Their journey was marked by years of deep emotional strain as they tried to start a family. Their life savings were gone, invested with a doctor who vowed to give them a child, and then Parker became the absolute center of Steve and Birdy’s universe. The grief from losing him created a rift between the two. Steve continued to reside in the house that had been in his family for generations.

Parker had a favorite raincoat; Helen vividly remembered the blue plastic fabric with little yellow buttons.

Helen shut her eyes hard, trying to force the memory of Parker’s red, wispy hair and sweet little freckles dusted across his nose out of her mind. Once she noticed the pattern, she confronted Frank, praying she was wrong.

Frank thought he was being careful, and clearly he was, since Helen was the only one who ever put the pieces together. Helen remembered the night she confronted him. It was a week into the investigation, but Helen had been building up the courage to bring up her suspicions for days. The smell of a freshly made stew filled the air; Frank’s favorite meal ironically becoming his last. Helen waited until he was full and drunk on whiskey to say anything.

“I know you killed those kids.”

Frank took a long sip of his whiskey, never breaking eye contact with his wife.

“And what makes you think anyone would believe you?”

Helen moved towards the landline on the wall beside her, but Frank was faster. Grabbing her by the arm, he threw her against the wall, wrapping the phone cord around her neck.

To this day she doesn’t remember what it was that made him let go; maybe he thought he killed her, or maybe he decided she didn’t fit his motive. Helen was halfway conscious when she saw Frank pull an envelope out of a bag he must have packed just in case he got caught, and he dropped it on the floor next to her limp body before rushing off in his Honda Civic.

Helen opened the envelope, ready to read the words she had only been able to stomach to read once before:

If you are reading this, that means I’ve been caught.

You can find my body off Route 50. Sorry for the trouble.

-Frank

No explanation. No real remorse, just a cowardly exit that cost Helen her life instead of just his. Once word got out that Frank had disappeared, the rumors started like wildfire. Helen’s lack of mourning for the man she supposedly loved for decades made her the target. The rumors started out simple but grew to be outlandish over the years:

1991: Helen is the only suspect in Frank’s disappearance. They found his car off the highway, with nothing but a note covered in bloody handprints. The only words supposedly visible: Helen. Killed. Children.

Helen knew she should have told the police everything when they first started questioning her, but no one would listen. Frank was right; no one believed her.

2001: No more children went missing. Someone’s cousin said they saw Helen with one of the kids before she went missing through the window. Frank must have gotten too close to the truth, so she got rid of him.

2011: Old Lady Hayes is a child-eating witch who sacrificed her husband to maintain her innocence.

2021: If you get close enough to the witch’s house, you can hear the cries of the children she’s eaten. Some even say you can hear her slain husband whispering your name, warning you to run before it’s too late.

SQUEEEEEK—

THUD

Helen snapped back to reality. Someone was in the house.

Realizing she never made it back to her decorating, Helen grabbed a dusty witch hat and broom off an old animatronic and made her way towards the footsteps approaching the basement.

It’s showtime.

Helen opened the door and was instantly toe to toe with…

Steve Wittakor?

The plastic broom fell down the stairs as fast as Helen’s heart dropped to her stomach.

“I-I’m sorry if I scared you. I noticed you hadn’t boarded up the windows yet and—”

Steve paused, and Helen recognized a flash of grief take over him before he continued speaking. He cleared his throat and spoke more confidently:

“And I noticed there was a trail of blood. I figured the neighborly thing to do would be to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Helen’s voice shook after years of not speaking to another person.

“Alright. I’ll get out of your way then.”

As Steve turned away, Helen grabbed his arm softly.

“Before you go, I have some things you might want.”

Helen stayed at the Wittakor house for the rest of the evening, her words painting a vivid, chilling picture with every detail she shared. The table disappeared under the contents of the box that once housed decades of tragedy. Together, Helen and Steve contacted the police, making the first step toward healing a wound that consumed both of their lives.

“I’m so sorry I never said anything sooner.”

Steve’s arms wrapped around Helen as he pulled her into a heartfelt embrace. The press of arms against her ribs was a welcome ache, a phantom limb of comfort she hadn’t realized was missing. Steve pulled back tears rushing down his face.

“I always found it hard to believe you did it. Truth be told, I never understood how you got blamed. I’m sorry I never shut down the rumors.”

Steve nailed boards to the hole in the window, promising to come by the next day to install them properly and to get to know the real Helen Hayes.