In the Bag by Bill Francis

He reached out with his long slender arm and tried the sliding glass door. It was locked. A cool night breeze stirred and the tails of his black trench coat fluttered about his ankles like bats. Perhaps he would just go now, after all it had been a good night. As if to remind himself just how good tonight had really been he reached into his coat pocket and fondled the red velvet bag he kept there. The weight of its contents pleased him immensely and at just that moment he caught a moon lit glimpse of his reflection in the glass door. A smile stretched across his long thin face. For an instant he looked like a flesh and blood jack-o-lantern with his unnaturally wide grin and his downward sloping eyes. The thought made him grin all the more and he reached up and adjusted his sinister looking top hat ever so slightly. MY WORK IS DONE TONIGHT, he thought and turned to go back from where he came. Then he heard it once more.
Icy anticipation shot up his neck, all the way from his toes, and he thought his jaw might shatter from the jolt. The faint suckling sound, a sound that fell well below the decibel range necessary for the human ear to pick up on, now demanded his attention. It was the suckling sound that had drawn him to the house in the first place as he walked along the gravel country road minding his own business. It was always the sound that drew him. His smile twisted sickly with rage and something hard glinted in his eye. THEN AGAIN, THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE, he assured himself and patted the red velvet bag with his clammy hand. All thoughts of retiring for the night vanished and once again he began to survey the house for a means of possible entrance.
The double story house was old and its roof was steep. NEVER TOO STEEP, he reminded himself, but there was no chimney so there was really no point. No chimney, but he would find another way, he always did. VERY SOON he promised. The suckling sound was continuous now and this close to the source, it was nearly unbearable. Blood pumped through his veins at a maddening pace. SOON. He had already tried the front door, two windows in the front, and one on the second story. All locked. MUST HURRY, he told himself. Then he saw it right under his nose, and a wave of relief flushed over him. Though the sliding glass door was locked, in his haste he had over looked a doggie door installed in the glass on a free swinging hinge. The door was small, too small for a grown man to fit through, especially of his stature, but he had done it before and he would do it now. He removed his top hat from his head and pushed it through first. Then he followed. First an arm, then the other. His whole body seemed to lose its shape, becoming something long and oily and black. Then, just like that, he was on all fours inside the house, his knees pressing into the plushy blue carpet. He retrieved his hat and placed it back upon his head, once again standing up to his full seven foot height.
Reaching inside his coat pocket, he felt for the velvet bag. STILL THERE. Then he ran his hand down his silky white shirt to his waist line where he brushed the yellow tips of his fingers against the leather sheath that hung from his belt. Impossibly, his black trousers still had a perfect crease down each leg.
Now that he was inside, he could definitely determine the sound was coming from the second floor. As he proceeded towards the stairs he noticed the family dog, a heeler mix, sleeping soundly on the rug near the front door. PROBABLY A WATCH DOG, he thought with amusement. But the amusement didn't last. After all he had been doing this God knew how long and he had never woken a soul. Ever so quietly he padded up the stairs. He leaned against the banister when he reached the top; an old rickety banner that always creaked and groaned, except now it was silent. He knew the suckling sound came from the bedroom at the end of the hall and in an instant he stood there with his hand on the door knob. For an obscene moment he just savored the sound emanating from the other side of the door, then he opened it.
Megan lay asleep on the bed, her straight brown hair covering one side of her face. When he looked upon her, he knew her name was Megan, just like he knew she was four years old. He always knew things about them, though he didn't know how. It just came to him, in a white hot flash, as soon as he laid eyes upon them sleeping in their beds on their Sesame Street sheets. Megan's sheets had The Little Mermaid print on them, but they were all the same to him. He briefly scanned the room despising the large collection of toys Megan had, and the colorful trim carefully painted along the edge of the wall where it met the ceiling. Her father had done it himself. And that knowledge made him all the more eager to get on with his work. His eyes gazed upon her tiny feet, hidden away inside her pink pajamas with sewn in white booties. He let his eyes wander up her round little belly divided down the center by the pajama's white zipper. Finally he could stand it no longer and allowed his eyes to lock on her tiny face, thumb tucked away in her mouth. She was perfectly still except for the rise and fall of her chest, and the collapsing of her cheeks as she sucked away at her thumb. That succulent sound! It made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle with electricity.
He reached down to the sheath that hung from his belt and withdrew a large pair of polished brass shears. He gripped the handles one with each hand, and admired the razor sharp blades. He made a cutting motion with the scissors in the air and chuckled silently with pure giddiness. OH THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL, he said to himself. A WORK OF ART. BUT THEN I AM AN ARTIST. WHAT WAS VAN GOGH WITHOUT HIS PAINTBRUSH, OR MOZART WITHOUT HIS PIANO?
Megan didn't stir in her sleep. She was oblivious to the thing looming over her, so close now she could have touched him with her doll-like arms. The cartoon-like grin on his face stretched grotesquely from ear to ear. A minute bubble of spit formed on the corner of his mouth as he lost all control. One last time he opened the scissors as wide as the pivot would allow. Moonlight filtered through the window glinting off the razor blades sending flecks of light through the room. RAZOR SHARP, he thought. SHARP ENOUGH TO CUT THROUGH SKIN AND MUSCLE AND TENDONS AND CRACK HER TINY BONES IN ONE SWOOP! And then, without warning, Megan popped her saliva covered thumb out of her mouth, and rolled onto her belly.
Like a popsicle thrown in a frying pan the smile dripped off his face. Just this one time he wanted to do it anyway. But there were rules. And at times like this he always wanted to do it anyway. No he had to stick to the rules, after all the rules had always been there. Who was he to change them? Disappointed, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the velvet bag. The weight of its contents perked him up a little. He carefully undid the draw string and pushed his hand inside. Oh, he could feel them! Seven perfect little thumbs still slick with the spit of the tiny mouths he had snatched them from. He would just slip out the way he'd slipped in. No sense waiting around to see if she put it back in her mouth, there would be other nights.
As he walked back down the gravel road he found he was sleepy. He would go back where he came from now. SLEEP TIGHT MY LITTLE ONES, he whispered, and his words were carried by the howling wind and children everywhere whimpered in their sleep.