The neighbour asked if I could look after her children, but something was clearly wrong with them.
Susan Parkers kids are strange, the concierge whispered, wiping the glass panel.
Theyre very quiet, the caretaker agreed, like little mice. Only their eyes dart around.
Id moved into the new flat a month ago and the boxes in the corners were still unopened. My job ate up all my time when you sit at a computer at home, the night slips by unnoticed. The only room I managed to make comfortable was the kitchen; cooking was the one thing that helped me unwind after a long shift.
I barely knew my neighbours. We exchanged occasional nods in the stairwell. So when a nervous woman knocked on my door, I didnt immediately recognise who she was.
Emily, sorry to bother you Im Susan, your neighbour. I have a problem she stammered, constantly glancing over her shoulders at the two children frozen behind her like sparrows. The boy was thin, with sharp eyes, and the girl, a little younger, wore braids so tight they seemed ready to snap.
I have to leave urgently, just for a couple of hours. Could you?
Look after the children? I finished her sentence. The idea didnt appeal to me I cherished my solitude but refusing felt rude.
Of course! Ill be there in a flash, both ways.
The children slipped into the flat as silently as if they werent there at all. Susan whispered something hurriedly in their ears and vanished.
Alright, loves, what are your names? I tried to smile as warmly as possible.
James, the boy answered softly.
Emily, the girl echoed.
Would you like something to drink? I asked, heading for the kitchen.
James exchanged a glance with his sister and whispered, Um may I?
His tone made me pause. The request sounded as if asking for water were a forbidden act.
Certainly! I have juice, water, tea
While I fetched the glasses, I saw Emily stealing a glance at a vase of biscuits. The moment I turned, she looked away quickly.
Help yourself to the biscuits; I baked them myself, I said, moving the vase closer.
Really, may I? she whispered again, that same odd tone.
To ease the tension, I began talking about my collection of cookbooks, pulling out the most beautiful one, filled with photographs of elaborate cakes. The children edged closer, yet they flinched at every loud sound a sudden slam of the window or a car alarm outside.
Susan returned after about four hours, storming in like a gale.
James! Emily! Back to the flat, quickly!
The kids sprang up as if on command. Emily brushed a vase with her sleeve, sending it wobbling. She froze, horrified.
Its alright, dont worry, I soothed, noticing she was rubbing her wrist and tugging at her sweater. A faint bruise showed on her pale skin, as if from a strong grip.
Thanks, Susan said, pushing the children into the hallway before disappearing.
I stood in the entrance, watching the door close. Something was off. Very off.
***
Do you ever have a nagging thought that refuses to let go? Thats how the childrens eyes haunted me frightened, on edge, like wounded animals.
A week later I noticed a pattern: Susans flat always had heavy curtains drawn, even on sunny days. I never heard the children laughing or playing. Occasionally a harsh shout from their mother and the slam of a door pierced the silence.
Shes strict, raising them properly, a neighbour on the ground floor remarked when I asked timidly. Unlike todays youth they get away with everything.
That Thursday I met James in a supermarket. He stood at the cereal aisle, frantically counting coins in his palm.
Hey, James!
The boy flinched, spilling the coins onto the floor. We gathered them together, and I saw his fingers trembling.
Please dont tell mum you saw me, he whispered, clutching a packet of the cheapest oatmeal.
Why?
He bolted, nearly colliding with other shoppers.
That evening Susan knocked again.
Nina, I need a favour. I have to be away all day. Ill pay whatever you ask.
I declined the money. Something told me I needed to watch the children longer.
The day passed differently. The kids began to warm up. I turned on an old cartoon, *Postman Pat*, and Emily giggled softly when Pats cat chased the postmans bag. Later we baked biscuits together.
Mom never smells like this, James said thoughtfully while cutting out cookie shapes.
What does your mum smell like? I asked.
Cigarettes. And he stopped when Emily tugged his sleeve.
A sudden clatter of a dropped kitchen lid made them both raise their hands to protect their faces. Something inside me snapped at that reflex.
Mum scolds us when were noisy, Emily whispered, lowering her arms. And when we eat at the wrong time. And when
Emily! James snapped at her.
I pretended to be absorbed in icing the cookies, but from the corner of my eye I saw a reddish line on Emilys neck, peeking from under her collar. She caught my gaze and hurriedly adjusted her shirt.
We have to be good so mum doesnt get angry, James muttered, carefully drawing a pattern with frosting. Then everything will be fine.
Fine I stared at the children, bright and clever yet clearly traumatised, and realised there was nothing normal in their lives. Nothing at all.
That evening, as I handed the children back to Susan, I smelled alcohol. She didnt ask how the day went; she simply grabbed their hands and hurried them away.
I lingered by the window, watching the darkened flats across the corridor. Something had to be done. But what? I needed to involve the authorities.
***
Will you do nothing? I asked the local police officer after a long conversation.
What else could we do? No evidence. The mothers papers are in order. Maybe you imagined it?
Sleep evaded me for several nights. After the police call, Susan stared at me with a challenging, almost threatening look. The childrens eyes never met mine again, as if I had betrayed them. How had she known? Perhaps someone called her.
I tried speaking with neighbours. In every flat I hit a wall of indifference.
Why do you care so much? a woman on the third floor scoffed. Shes just raising a few kids, doesnt drink well, almost doesnt drink.
The shopkeeper, a kindhearted woman named Mary, broke the silence.
I see those kids a lot. The boy always counts his pennies, buys the cheapest stuff. Their mother she comes in buying pricey whisky, not the cheap kind.
Do the children live with her long? I asked.
Who knows. They showed up about two years ago. They dont look like her at all, not a bit.
That night everything changed. I was at my laptop when I heard muffled cries that grew louder, then the sound of breaking glass and a childs sobbing.
I called the police again.
Everythings fine, Susan said cheerfully as she opened the door, the TV was just loud, sorry.
The officers exchanged glances. One stepped into the flat.
Where are the kids?
Theyre asleep, Susan replied. Its late.
Lets check.
The children lay in their beds, unnervingly still. Emily turned her head slightly, revealing a fresh bruise on her cheek.
She fell, Susan said quickly. Shes a bit clumsy.
The police left, and I was left with my helplessness and anger.
***
Two days later a soft knock sounded at my door. James stood there, pale, lips chapped.
Here, he handed me a crumpled note. Its from Emily.
The note read simply: Help us. Please.
Its not our mother, James blurted, covering his mouth, eyes darting to the stairwell. We dont remember how we got here. We only remember another house another He fled before finishing.
On the back of the paper, trembling childhandwriting added: She says shell punish us if we tell anyone.
I lay awake that night, and at dawn I began to act.
***
You realise youre meddling in someone elses affairs? Susan hissed, pressing me against the stairwell wall, reeking of brandy. Think Im the sweet old lady? I know who called the police. I called the social services myself.
I met her stare calmly.
What I think is this: those children arent yours.
She recoiled as if slapped. Fear flickered in her eyes.
Nonsense! I have papers!
Theyre forged, Im sure.
The night before, Id spent hours on the phone contacting child services, charities, even a private detective, filing reports everywhere.
Youll regret this, Susan spat.
Later that evening the social services called.
Ms. Andrews? Weve checked. Five years ago in Manchester two siblings disappeared a brother and sister, ages matching yours. Their description matches James and Emily.
My hands trembled.
What now?
Were involving the police. Be ready to give a statement.
Susan seemed to sense something. I heard her rattling cabinets, jingling keys. I called the officer immediately.
Within an hour the stairwell was packed with officers, social workers, detectives. Susan scrambled, slamming doors and windows.
You have no right! she shouted. These are my children!
Then explain why their appearances match the missing siblings Kieran and Vera Sampson from five years ago, the detective asked calmly.
James now Kieran clutched his sisters hand tightly. They stood in the corner, pressed together.
The woman shes not the boy began.
Silence! Susan screamed, lunging at them.
The officers moved swiftly, handcuffs clicking.
Susan Parker, you are under arrest on suspicion of kidnapping minors.
I watched her being led away and felt a hollow emptiness. All those weeks of tension, fear, and uncertainty dissolved in an instant.
Natasha! Vera formerly Emily ran to me, hugging me tightly. You saved us!
Tears flooded my face.
***
Two days later the children were placed in a temporary care centre, but I visited them daily. Slowly they began to smile again, to speak in full sentences.
When their real parents arrived, I couldnt hold back tears. A slender woman with silverstreaked hair, Anna Mitchell, stood trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her husband, a tall man with gentle eyes, embraced the kids tightly.
We never gave up hope, he said. Never.
Susans story turned out far darker than anyone imagined. A mental breakdown after losing her own children in a car crash, then kidnapping strangers to fill the void, moving them to another city, threatening them into silence.
Natasha, Anna said, holding my hands, you didnt just rescue the children; you rescued an entire family, our whole life.
The kids started recalling their past. Kieran had once been a chess prodigy, winning local tournaments. Vera loved drawing.
Look, this is you, she showed me a sketch of an angel. Youre our guardian.
I often think back to that first night when something felt wrong. How easy it would have been to walk past, to pretend it didnt concern me. How many people choose that path?
Six months later I received a letter. The children wrote that theyd started at a new school, that Kierans father took him to chess club, and Vera had enrolled in an art class. They no longer feared loud noises or darkness. Theyd learned to trust people again.
Enclosed was another drawing bright, sunny, a family picnic, all smiling. In the corner, a caption read: Thank you for teaching us to be brave enough to be happy.
I hung that picture on my wall. Every time I look at it, I remember that sometimes great kindness begins with a small, simple act of caring. You just have to notice, you just have to help.
And as I visited them recently, watching Vera swing high on the playground, laughing loudly, Kieran animatedly recounting a chess move to his dad, and Anna watching them with a content smile, Vera shouted, Natasha! Were moving closer next week! Well see each other more!
I realised then that life does mend for them, for me, for all of us. Because even in the darkest stories there can be a light at the end, if only we gather the courage to take that first step.
