Nails to the Head

 Nails to the Head

Bancroft the Assassin raised his pistol over the railings of the crib. The baby inside threw his blanket aside, rolled over, almost cried, and then went back to sleep. He cocked the hammer back before noticing a glimmer in the moonlight. He brushed the boy's fuzzy head with the soft end of his glove, then pressed his open palm onto the baby’s head. He squeezed hard enough to feel the blood vessels pump against the leather. With two tense fingers, he pinched a hair and plucked it from his head. He held a tiny hair to the window. It was red. 

“The wrong one.” 

That’s when two weary adults entered. A man and a woman. The very same couple of newlyweds hung on the front of the main hall. He rested baseball bat over his shoulder. Bancroft took one look at him, wirey, squinted eye lids- probably couldn’t even see in the dark, and holding the bat all wrong. His fingers reached for the light switch but Bancroft had already stuck duct tape over it. 

Bancroft stood one step back into teh shadow of the curtains. He held his breath and watched them struggle to find the light, and that’s when he reached across teh room and ripped the bat out of the man’s hands. They watched in the dark, pale as ghosts, as Bancroft lifted the bat in front of them and snapped it in half with his bare hands. The door behind them slammed shut and they screamed from the otherside. 

The assassin slid out without them noticing, and then took their decorations down and used them to block the door. He held his gun to the hard wood, and listened to the allocations of their beating and pounding. The knob twisted , so he put teh weapon low, in the middle, close to the edge, but he noticed a tear in his sleeve he probably got from crawling in through the basement window. He withdrew the weapon.The baby began to cry. He moved to the bathroom. He found bandaids in their cabinet and use them to seal the small cut under his armpit. Then he straightened his mask, opened his kit and began sewing the tear shut. After examining his suit, he came back to the nursery. 

Bancroft tapped on the door. The barging had gone quiet. He didn’t even hear the baby cry. 

Bancroft tapped on the door. The barging had gone quiet. He didn't even hear the baby cry.

He waited.

Nothing.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open with the barrel of his pistol. The couple were gone. The decorations were still piled against the door. The room was exactly as he had left it. No blood. No broken furniture. No footprints. Only the crib.

The baby was awake. Bancroft slowly lowered his pistol. The child stared at him. He stepped closer and examined the baby's head. He remembered the tiny red hair between his fingers. Now there was nothing red. The baby's hair was black. Bancroft reached into his pocket and removed the hair he had pulled from the child's head.

It was still red.

He looked from the hair to the baby.

Then the child smiled. Bancroft stopped breathing. Somewhere behind him, the front door opened. He spun around. The couple stood in the hallway. Their eyes were completely black. Neither of them moved. Bancroft raised his pistol. The woman pointed toward the nursery.

"That's not the one," she whispered.

Bancroft looked back at the crib. The baby was gone. Something scratched beneath the floorboards. He slowly lowered his weapon.

For the first time in his career, Bancroft did not know where his target was.

Then something whispered directly beside his ear.

"Neither do you."

The lights came on. The room was empty. Except for a tiny red hair lying in the center of the floor. Bancroft stared at it. Then he heard a baby crying somewhere underneath the house.