Lost Boys of London [EN]

Chapter 2 - Mrs. Darling

"There never was a simpler, happier family
until the coming of Peter Pan."

-Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie-

Mrs. Darling sat in an old armchair that had been mended several times before. She was darning a pair of her son Michael's trousers. The fire crackled in the tiny fireplace made of blackened bricks and illuminated the small room with a comforting light.

Irritated, the young woman lowered her needle and fabric and listened to the noises of the house when suddenly, a soft creaking noise reached her ears. The wind whistled somewhere through cracks and leaks in the walls and windows.

Then it resounded anew: A soft creaking and groaning, like wood under too much pressure.

"Michael? You should be asleep. It's late." Mrs. Darling placed the fabric over the back of the chair and put her needle and thimble aside to investigate the sound. The wooden floorboards squeaked softly under her feet as she stepped into the corridor that led to the other rooms.

The mother frowned. The lantern's flames on the sideboard had extinguished, and the hallway lay in gloomy sombreness. No sound was heard except a renewed, wooden groan from the nursery. The door creaked, and a breeze caused it to swing open and shut a little.

It was out of character for her boy to prowl around at this time of night. An uneasy feeling crawled up the back of her neck, sending goosebumps down her arms and legs and making her heart beat more unsteadily.

"Michael?" she asked softly into the darkness, crossing the distance to the door of paled wood. A cold breeze forced its way through the narrow gap in the doorframe, driving a sharp spike of rising terror into her chest. Her thoughts suddenly rolled and stumbled over each other while the mother stayed in place, petrified, for a few seconds. 

"Michael." The mother's voice grew louder but broke at the lump wedged in her throat. Her chest tightened as she thought of the Daily Post headlines:

THE CHILD MURDERER OF LONDON

She remembered the chatter of the other washerwomen at the factory. About how they told her that they never allowed their children out of their sight and how she believed it to be exaggerated behavior. How she had rolled her eyes and turned back to her work.

Such a thing would not happen. 

Not to THEM.

Her fingers tightened around the doorknob and clenched on the cold, tarnished brass of the handle. Her heart pounded like the carriage of a horse-drawn cab as she slowly pushed the door open. Mrs. Darling blinked, straining thoroughly into the darkness. The young mother's gaze fell on her son's bed, and her breath faltered. It was empty, the sheets were tangled, and the blanket was turned down.

"Michael!" A jerk went through her body as she pushed the door fully open and took a step into the dark room.