Her name was Rosanne. She was about six years old, and was the cutest girl in the world. When the foster home got her, the other workers and I couldn't stop marveling at her beauty. But she wouldn't speak. No matter what we tried, she was silent. She even looked that way in her profile, silent and wise. But her files were even sadder.
We already knew that her parents were dead, because she was in the foster care center. But the other workers and I didn't realize her big sister had hung herself, and that she watched her puppy get its head shot off by a neighbor. We all looked at each other, then back at Rosanne. She was just standing there patiently, looking at the other children playing in the yard. I was the first one to kneel down and try to talk to her.
"Rosanne, everything is going to be just fine, okay?" I said sweetly. She nodded slowly then continued looking at the other children.
"Go ahead, you can play," I told her. She walked away without hesitation, her brown hair bouncing as she went. I smiled, watching her. Thinking to myself now, I laugh at the fact that she could have ever looked so innocent.
A couple of days after she arrived, she began following me around like a baby chick follows her mother. Every time I would turn around, she would be standing there, and when I would stop suddenly her little head would hit my back. But she still never said a word. Finally, she tugged on my shirt one day and mumbled "Rosie." I just stared at her.
"Momma called me Rosie," she mumbled louder, and stared at me with big blue eyes.
"Ok, then I'll call you Rosie," I said. She smiled, and left.
After that she never followed me, but I did always call her Rosie. But she still wouldn't speak to the other workers, or the kids. When they would all get their time outside, she wouldn't swing, or talk, or play tag. She would sit calmly on the grass and stare at them. But I didn't suspect anything until about a month later, when she started telling me strange things like, "Gretel is waiting in the closet," and, "Heffa wants me to be shot, too."
It really started to creep me out, and she would say it with such a monotone voice, I would shudder a bit each time that she would whisper in my ear. That's when I started to think that all the deaths in her short little life time had made an effect on her young mind. And she was slowly getting worse and worse.
Within six months she was singing songs at midnight about dead bunnies and other innocent animals, and then singing them to me. Then one day I walked into her room and she had a very small paint brush, and was slowly painting her walls black. Somehow she knew I was there and without turning around, or stopping her painting, she said very clearly in a voice that gave me a dark feeling inside: "Rosie loves darkness."
That's when I told the other workers what I had been seeing, but they just brushed it off, saying I was misunderstanding. "I am not! There is something seriously wrong with that girl!" I said in a quiet voice. They didn't listen. Then Caroline went missing. Just out of nowhere, she disappeared, leaving no trace. So did a boy named Colten. We looked and looked for them, and never found them. I went to ask Rosie if she had seen Caroline or Colten, when I saw it. In her room, there was a list on her wall painted in white.
It was a list of children from the foster care, and I almost screamed. I slowly backed out of the room and picked up the phone. But the wire was cut, and when I looked down Rosie was there, holding scissors. "Rosie doesn't like trespassers," she said, looking up at me. I put the phone down.
"Rosie, where are Caroline and Colten? Do y-you know?" I stammered.
She simply tugged me back into her room. "You can't tell," she whispered. "Rosie hates tattlers." She slowly bent under her bed and pulled out two pieces of paper. On them, written in blood, was "R.I.P Colten" and "R.I.P Caroline."
I covered my mouth to avoid throwing up, but then she reached back under her bed. "They made fun of me," she whispered eerily. She pulled out two red, moving objects. "They don't have good hearts. Rosie doesn't like people like that," she said. The objects in her hands where children hearts, still trying to beat.
"Shhhh," she said. "No telling." I nodded and raced from the room, throwing up when I finally reached the playground. Luckily no kids where outside. Then the day was over for me and I could go home.
When I got there my husband wasn't home yet, so I picked up the phone and went to my room. "911," I whispered, then dialed. "Hello, this is 911, what is yo-" the man was cut off, and the phone went flying from my hand.
I turned around, and in my house, my room, my bed was Rosie. She sat on the part of the bed behind me and whispered. "Why did you break your promise?" I didn't know what to say. "H-how did you get in m-my house? I locked the door!" I yelled, terrified. She pointed at an open window in the living room.
"Rosie can climb," she said. "W-what are you going to do to me?" I trembled in fear as I said the words.
She smiled for the first time and said, "Free the world from your bad doings." She took crafting scissors out of her little boot, and her pink dress with the little red bow bounced a little as she got closer to my face.
"Tattletale," she whispered in a whisper that could make you scream for hours on end. Then she plunged the scissors into my stomach, giggling a sweet little giggle. I remember it all so vividly. The blood splashing up onto her dress, her brown hair getting little drops of blood in it. Then I passed out. But I lived.
My husband came home and she ran. He called the hospital just in time for them to save me. The police are still looking for Rosie, so be good boys and girls.
Rosie hates bad people.