Creepypasta (Collections)

Daycare

DAYCARE

I still can’t get what happened last week out of my head. I mean, it doesn’t fit together at all. I haven’t been able to get any rest for the past few days just thinking about it, so I figured I’d just write it down here and see if you guys had any better luck explaining it.

I work in daycare. It’s a pretty established place in a big city on the coast. That’s about all I can say. I still work there and I don’t want someone linking this post back to my employer. I’m not supposed to talk about anything that happens to the kids online.

We mostly cater to the professional crowd. Busy people in finance and internet startups, who don’t use the office daycare. Or don’t have any office daycare. It’s a common sight to see someone in a business suit drop of a baby with a large cup of Starbucks in the other hand. People who can afford to blow twenty five bucks a week on coffee. Go figure. One of the attractions was that we offered daycare for infants as well. A Godsend for the jet setting crowd in the city I suppose.

Lucy C. was my favourite baby. Lucy’s her real first name, which is all I’m prepared to share. We all have favourites, working in daycare. We’re not like parents, having to spread the love out equally. Anyway, when you’re faced with four screaming babies, you grow to like the quiet ones more than the others. Lucy C. was as close to a perfect baby as we’d ever cared for. Wasn’t much of a crier, unless her nappy was full. Went to sleep like clockwork. She had a crown of wispy blonde hair, which set off her piercing cornflower blue eyes.

Mr C., as far as I could gather, was a self made businessman. One of those internet start up companies. I never caught what he did, and the five minute handovers in the morning really didn’t make for startling revelations about his hopes and dreams. He was always dressed sharply. I’m not one for chasing fashion but some of the other girls here whispered designer labels that I’d only heard of in celebrity mags when they referred to his latest threads. He seemed genuinely pleasant, if a little distracted in the mornings.

I’d never seen a Mrs C. There was an Abigail C. on the emergency contact form all the parents had to leave with the centre but she was listed as his sister. I know some of the others joked about whether he was on the market, so to speak, when they saw his sports car pull up to drop little Lucy off in the mornings, but that was just our equivalent of locker room talk. He was awfully rich though, successful in an ecosystem which chewed up and spit out a hundred other young businessmen every year. Some kind of magic touch, the others said, coming out of nowhere and building something up like that. Young entrepreneur of the year award and all that jazz.

I try and think back to that morning last week. Did Mr C. look strange that morning when he dropped Lucy off? To be honest, I’ve been over those five minutes hundreds of times over the past few days. His suit was immaculate. He greeted me like he did with the rest of the staff, warm smile, a kiss for Lucy, a gentle request for us “to take good care of his girl”. Just about the same thing any of the other twenty or so parents that hour would have said. Maybe there really wasn’t anything wrong. I keep on thinking back because if things had gone differently, I might have been able to save Lucy. Shit, I don’t know why I wrote that. Lucy’s fine. Or she should be. I don’t know why I can’t get it out of my head that I made a terrible mistake. Why there’s this guilt I feel when I check in at work and look at her favourite toys on the playroom floor.

The children were taking their afternoon nap after their midday meal. The chime told me that someone was at the desk. The other staff were busy with cleanup, so I went to see who it was. We didn’t have any early pickups scheduled, so I thought it might be someone making enquiries.