Chapter Text
RECORDS OF DR. ANNA BLACKMORE
PRIVATE
I don’t even know what to say.
I’m a licensed child-therapist. I have an office in Maybrook. I’ve traveled to other towns for some screwed-up kids - childhood schizophrenia, kids who tortured animals, kids who just came out of abusive homes.
Just a couple years ago, I had a very big influx of new clients. Siblings, cousins, otherwise family members and friends of the 17 children in Mrs. Justine Gandy’s class, who, one horrible night, ran out of the house for seemingly no reason and never returned. So many kids asking where their friends and siblings had gone, if I thought they were dead, if they were kidnapped, did I think they’d ever be okay? I used to go home and cry.
Those kids didn’t return for weeks. Next thing anyone knew - or at least, next thing I knew, the kids were back. They’d chased some old woman all around town before literally tearing her to shreds and I swear I remember hearing that a couple of them partially ate bits of her.
Also there was something about a witch making them catatonic. Or something along those lines. I don’t know. My life is nonsense. So’s theirs apparently.
Those poor kids - something had clearly happened. They didn’t talk at first. They could move a bit, and they reacted to some sounds and their names, and their heartbeats and breathing and stuff were fine, but they just walked around aimlessly and occasionally some of them cried.
I got 17 new clients. The one kid who didn’t go missing left Maybrook. Can’t say I blame him.
It was a lot. I made up a coping mantra - 'even if they can't talk, they can still smile.' They could, with some effort. They learned to point to things when they wanted them - they couldn't ask.
Anyway. It’s been some time since then. The kids are moving better, although only a few are saying more sentences. But even if some of them don’t learn to talk again (dear fucking lord I hope they do) they’re all healing.
We do some group therapy sometimes. I set out toys and some paper and pens and pencils and crayons and supervise the kids in a room, and they play as best they can. Sometimes they just stare at things. (It breaks my goddamn heart.)
One time two girls just spent the entire time sitting in a corner hugging each other.
I decided to keep a copy of these letters. It’s an activity I made them do recently - write a letter to someone else, talking about what happened. Those who couldn’t write, typed these letters. It’s just pressing buttons after all - it took a long time for some of them, but damn it it was worth it.
A lot of the letters mention a witch too. I suppose that’s how they’ve chosen to see it.
The letters are all here. I read them sometimes.
The shortest of them are 3 words long.