Post date: November 2, 2022

By Meghan Calderon

The Bardot’s lived in a sizable wooden log, their nearest neighbor residing a mere five miles away. They were a couple that had long retired and isolated themselves from civilization. Though considered “average” by most, the great loss of their lives had been the disappearance of their first and only daughter, 15 years ago. Search parties and investigations were conducted, but no remains or a body have ever been found. Due to this, Mrs. Bardot never lost hope that her daughter was still out there and alive somewhere, or so says the press. It is believed that the disappearance of Morgana Bardot is what caused Mrs. Bardot to lose her final marble, directing Mr. Bardot to move the family into an isolated and safe location.

The Bardot’s had just finished eating their meatloaf dinner, seated on pulpy cushions beside the fireplace.

“She would have been 20 today,” Mrs. Bardot stated.

“Yeah,” Mr. Bardot let out with a sigh.

The couple sat in silence, a silence that was alarmingly broken by the sound of the home phone ringing. The two looked at each other in disorientation, not having received many calls in the past few years. Mr. Bardot swiftly moved across the room to pick up the incoming call.

“Hello?” he said, puzzled. 26 seconds of tranquility were suddenly broken by a voice on the other end.

“Dad!” shouted the voice on the other end. Mr. Bardot let go of the phone, the cord tangling in the air and falling to his feet.

Mrs. Bardot watched the paralyzed man and yelled, “Well, who is it?”

In a trance, Mr. Bardot gathered himself to collect the phone again and placed it against his face. “Don’t ever call here again,” he warned before he slammed the phone back in place.

“Who was it,” Mrs. Bardot begged again.

“It was just a sick joke. Don’t worry about it.” They ate in silence.

The wintry days passed and the couple hadn’t received another phone call. They presumed their daily activities, performed surrounded by the bliss of nature and silence. On a Sunday afternoon, right before the sun could set, Mr. Bardot marched through the snow to shovel and clear the path. He’d been at it for almost an hour when he heard the high-pitched screech from the inside, one that he instantly recognized as his wife’s. He broke into a sprint, crushing the leaves and sticks, and mashing the snow beneath his boots. Slamming the creaky door open, he didn’t see Mrs. Bardot anywhere in sight. He frantically opened the doors of the cabin, the bathroom, the office, and the bedrooms. The only place left to look was the guest room. Slowly turning the knob, he spotted Mrs. Bardot’s bare feet on the rug. The door made a loud, slamming noise as he let it go to rush to Mrs. Bardot, crying frantically on her knees.

Before he would get a word in she said in between gasps for air, “It was her wasn’t it,” she looked at him with dilated eyes, “she was the one who called.”

“No, no. That’s not possible Margaret. Our daughter is dead.”

She yelled, "We don't know that! How could you be so sure?"

"It's been fifteen years!" Mr. Bardot exclaimed. At that moment, Mr. Bardot looked away from her eyes and down to her hands. Her ghost-like, slim fingers were in possession of fiery red locks that appeared to have been chopped off of somebody's head. The shade and texture were so alike to that of Morgana. Mr. Bardot got up, eyes wide in disbelief. He looked down at Mrs. Bardot on her knees, her eyelids crimson and puffy from tears. He thought to himself that this couldn’t be. It could never be. Because he had strangled that five-year-old with his bare hands, fifteen years ago.