PresidentMystery

"Little Joey"
It was 1883, December 18 or 6th. We’re not quite sure. It was a boy’s birthday. But the day was over, and he was in bed. Not a problem at all. Joseph–not “Joey,” like everyone called him–wasn’t afraid of the dark. No. Not at all. Yet he trembled under his covers. He kept his head ducked below the blanket, the ultimate shield against demons of the night. His feet weren’t left out either. But the air was growing hot and dry. And nothing was out there. He knew that. Monsters weren’t real. But he still had a deep-seated sense of terror about what he’d see if he looked out over his blankets.

 At last, he could stand it no more. He would confront the horror, find it a fantasy of his, and be able to sleep. He peeked his head above the cover. His door was opened into the lit hallway, just as his parents had left it–he had no night light, this was before those times–but not all the light from the hallway made it in. Because there was someone standing silhouetted in the doorway. Joey couldn’t scream.

 The floor moaned deep-felt anguish with each step the stranger took, until at last the shadowy man sat down at the end of Joey’s twin-size bed.

 “Hi, little Joey,” said a deep, monotone voice that echoed a thousand times within his own throat, before he let the quiet, roaring sound slip out from between his lips, like a puff of thunderous smoke.

 Joey was mute.

 “I have a story to tell you,” purred that strange, strange voice. “You’ve heard stories before. But this one is special. It’s about you. And it hasn’t happened yet,” the voice whispered.

 “Did you know that smallpox will ravage your face, that you stare at in the mirror so often? You’ll be left scarred for life.”

 Joey began to cry.

 “One of those little arms, tucked under your covers so tightly, will be hideously deformed in a carriage accident.”

 Joey was sobbing now. He wanted the stranger gone, but couldn’t move.

 “But that’s the tip of the iceberg that sinks the Titanic, it’s the good idea that ushers in the bad one. I have a lot to tell you, about what happens. One day, you’ll rule Russia, become known as one of the few evils to rival Hitler, yes, little Stalin, you commit genocide. You’ve got quite a ride before you. And every year, on this night, you’ll remember my little visit, and wonder why you couldn’t change the future.” And the stranger began a very long tale.

 Josef Vissarionovich Djhugashvili–called “Joseph” for your convenience–is a monster of history. And a funny fact, he changed his birthdate.