Sugar and Cyanide
She came to care. She stayed to kill.
They found her through a glossy ad.
"Sweetheart Nannies — Where love lives."
A smiling woman. Tidy bun. Apron.
Hired in a week. Background check clear.
Too clear.
Like it had been scrubbed.
Her name was Miss Elara.
She smelled like lavender and old books.
She spoke softly, like her throat held secrets.
The kids adored her.
She sang lullabies in a language no one recognized.
She never blinked too long.
She never slept too much.
The parents didn’t notice the strange things at first. The baby monitor would turn itself on.
The family cat refused to go near her.
Their daughter, Lily, stopped drawing flowers.
She drew eyes. Rows of them.
Always watching.
Always red.
One night, Mom woke up and found Elara standing at the foot of the bed.
Smiling.
Whispering.
"Just making sure you're still breathing."
Then the accidents started.
Knives left on low counters.
Hot kettles tipped near toddlers.
Small, subtle things.
Excused as carelessness.
But Dad noticed the mirror.
You see, when Elara walked past,
her reflection stayed behind. Smiling.
Tilting its head.
Lily said it first:
“She’s not a nanny. She’s a collector.”
They asked what she meant.
“She takes people’s kindness. Then she takes their hearts.”
One night, the parents planned to fire her.
But Elara was already sitting at the table.
Waiting.
Teacups ready.
Poison is already dissolving in the sugar.
Mom reached for her phone.
“No need to call 911. I already did. For you.” Said Elara
Smile widening.
Eyes empty.
Voice honey-sweet.
They were found days later.
Smiling.
Eyes wide.
Hearts missing.
Elara is gone.
Ad re-posted.
