playground (Photo credit: MademoiselleChaos)

The playground is full of children this afternoon. The sun is bright. The constant odor of stale smoke hangs in the air. The kids are running, and playing tag. The swings are creaking, with each forward, and backward movement. The rusty chains need to be oiled. The children don’t seem to mind. Their shrieks of laughter puts a smile on my face. Laying on the ground, under the six leg swing set, are long stem black roses. One for each child.

I visit the playground daily, sit on an old red, dry-rotted bench. The color is faded, and the wood is moist with green fungus, but it’s my favorite spot. I am the one who can see, and hear them. This is the only place the children are alive.

Sit beside me. My name is Penelope. I am going to tell you the tale of the nameless children.

Many years ago, a serial killer lived in our neighborhood. His victims were innocent children. He snatched them on their way to, or from this playground. He tortured them. They met their demise from being burned alive; or drowned.

The children that were burned, have charred bodies. Fingernails, and tiny pieces of skin, that resemble burnt newspaper, drop off their little bodies. I know you can’t see them, but you can smell them.

Oh my! Time has gotten away from me. I must go now. Meet me here tomorrow, so I can finish the tale of the nameless children.

To be continued………..