Foster

You know the Fosters. Everyone does. From the beautiful Victorian on the bend. A stone’s throw from the canal. Damon was a policeman, back in the day. Discharged on pension. Went on to become a cardiologist—best one within a reasonable drive. I hear they pay him a fortune.

Sasha is Sasha. Quiet. Beautiful. Flaming red hair. Skin the colour of bleached parchment. A tall one, she is. The ladies at the church told me she works reception at the hospital. Same one as her father, I think. Women like that do not have much direction. I mean, they have the looks to not need it. They will find a husband. A decent one. Marry into some money. Have a few babes. She was a Ward of Court, staying at a care home just on the edge of town. Not many people went there. The edge of town, that is. Until Damon did. And one day, Sasha crawled out of that luxury four-by-four of his. Waddled up to the door of the Victorian on the bend.

Their life seemed perfect. I suppose I was wrong. In any case, the Fosters were inseparable—even when she got older. They would waltz around town laughing; sit at cafes looking like someone ought to be photographing them for a perfume campaign. And it stayed that way for a while, mind you. Until Chloe climbed out from a Taxi—and this I saw through my kitchen window.

There was a deep evil in that woman. You could see it when you looked at her. And there is only one thing I will say and that is that hell is empty and all the devils here—though I lie, may the Lord forgive me, because I will say too that some children need a mother, and others need an exorcist. I fear we are too late to save Chloe.