The problem with being reliable, thought Joyce to herself, was that other people relied on you.

What she was pointedly not thinking about, as she mopped the floors of the Mystic Daycare, was how she was the only one of the staff who hadn’t had a date that night. Well, she had had a date, but the man had let her know that he had to run off for his granny's funeral. She would have been more sympathetic if she hadn’t gotten the distinct feeling that he’d taken off for at least three grandmother’s funerals that year.

She knew she was being unfair, but she also had no intention to do anything else. Sometimes, a bit of rage was necessary to get you through the rest of the working day. So, in a state of unearned fury, as was her habit, Joyce Henderson ignored the creaks of the old building, mopped the floors, emptied the diaper pails, changed the linen over in the laundry, folded the dry sheets, dusted the baseboards, emptied the trash cans, took a brief lavatory break, realized the bathroom needed attention, forgot to use the bathroom herself in the process of giving it attention, made a mental note to talk to Melody about doing her fair share come Monday morning, restocked the toilet paper, scrubbed the toilet, and finally started to make her way out the door.

Her progress was interrupted by the door not functioning as a door, and in fact, functioning as a wall. Her hand jiggled the knob. It did not budge beneath her hand. She inspected the door. That is to say, she would have inspected the door, but having a complete and utter lack of knowledge about doors and how they’re supposed to function, she looked at it. She was fairly certain that the door’s hinges should be on the inside of the building, but she couldn’t see any sign of them. She took a longer look, and it seemed like the door was one piece. Like a bit of molded plastic that was part of a plastic wall.

“Melody?” She called out, “Sam? Is this a prank? This isn’t funny!”

Being a responsible person, and lacking any sort of narrative awareness, she went into the manager’s office to use the phone. Predictably, as is the case with all 90s horror (and badly written 00s horror) she was treated to a busy signal. She sighed in frustration, and heard a cackle echo the halls. It was like something out of an ABC Weekend Special, and she reacted accordingly

“Cut it out, guys!” She yelled.

The only reply in turn, was the sound of the Jack in the Box. She became enraged at the sound of that.

She knew the only possible thing that could have been making that particular noise was Mrs. Smith’s porcelain jester. Joyce personally thought the thing was ugly as sin, but it was Mrs. Smith’s pride and joy. A keepsake of some sort that she had always refused to elaborate on, but smiled at fondly often. It was never allowed out to the children, and had been given a home in the manager’s office on an old salvaged oak shelf.

A quick glance at the wall confirmed that it was missing, and all horror left her body.

“You dipshits!” She stomped out of the office and out the hall, following the sound of porcelain jester to the playroom. “It’s my ass, MY ass, on the line if you break that stupid thing. Of all the irresponsible-”

She stopped yelling when she opened the door. Sure enough, the jack in the box was in the playroom, music emanating from it. It was not the only toy out. Toy soldiers made regiments around the thing, and they were marching. Marching in step. A rocking horse moved to the same cadence the toy soldiers did.

Her eyes darted, looking around for any evidence of a human being in the room with the toys. There was none. And with a creak, the toys looked at her. She fell down, and scooted backwards as they marched towards her. The box hopped in unison with them. She scooted to the back wall, and raised her hands over her face.

The Jester sprung outward. It had never been a particularly handsome toy, and age had done it no favors, but here and now it was the stuff of nightmares. Paint flecked away from it’s crackled lips and the eyes had become mismatched. The hair was in clumps, and the clothes were moth eaten. The stench of ages emanated from fingerless gloves that reached for her.

She wet herself.

A hot stream poured out of her, soaking her underwear, pooling out beneath her shoes, and extending outwards.

“Enough.” A voice stated.

The toys retreated back into the playroom, shoulders -the toys that had shoulders- slumped. Joyce looked up. The voice hadn’t sounded like anyone she knew. No one she knew sounded like the embodiment of smoker’s cough. Near the ceiling, not five feet from her, eyes shone in the darkness.

“Oh, goodness,” said the figure, “It appears we’ve a mess to take care of.”

“Who are you?” Joyce asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Shush, child,” the figure instructed, “What are you doing in my nursery after hours?”

“Your- Your nursery?” Joyce tried to shout, but her voice failed her.

“Where are your parents?” It looked around in the dark.

“I’m an adult!” Joyce yelled, and then stopped herself. Her thoughts rose back up in her, and she began asking herself questions. Questions like, why am I explaining myself to this woman, why is she here in my daycare, and what is happening.

“No,” said the figure, “Lie again and I’ll give you a whipping, after hours or no.”

“You can’t treat me like this!” was what Joyce wanted to yell. She didn’t however, because her eyes had finally sent a message to her brain that had been so unbelievable that she hadn’t wanted to think on it. The ceiling was eight feet high. The figure’s eyeshine was near the top of the ceiling, and what she could make of the silhouette indicated the figure was hunched.

She felt nails brush past her skin as it picked her up one handed and rested her on its hip. It walked her down the hallway and into the nursery. She did not struggle. She wasn’t sure she should. It carried her into the nursery, and rested her on the changing table. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness. It was still a silhouette. It was however, now a silhouette holding her panties.

“I don’t think leaving you in these would be very… responsible,” It said, and shredded the plain cotton underwear into nothing with a finger snap and a tap of her claws.

Joyce heard a rustle and a crinkle. She felt her heart drop. Not this, she thought to herself as memories of her past were rekindled. Phrases like, “well, she’ll have to grow out if it eventually” and “at least it’s only at night” passed through her mind.

“Please! Don’t!” She begged.

The figure didn’t so much swat her bottom as beat right through to the bone. It held her ankles in one clawed hand, and delivered a whallop that echoed throughout the building. Joyce couldn’t even cry from the pain, but instead a high pitched but low volume wail exited her lungs, like gas escaping a leaky valve. What felt like centuries passed as the figure raised its hand again and looked at Joyce with a tilt of the head. Joyce shook her head. The figure smiled, but all Joyce could see was its sharp teeth.

The figure laid the diaper beneath her. It was much, much too small. It couldn’t get the tapes over the side of her hips. But before Joyce could feel any relief, it waved its gnarled hands over the diaper, and Joyce instantly felt engulfed by it. She could tell that she hadn’t shrunk because everything else had remained the same size, but she still felt very small. A onesie received the same treatment, and the thing forced Joyce into it.

She had considered struggling, but apparently it sensed the defiance in her, and raised a hand threateningly. Joyce backed down immediately. It picked her back up and set her on its hip.

This time, as it walked through the hall, Joyce paid close attention, and as they passed under the window, she saw it. Its skin was pale, even considering the only source of light was the moon, with a slight green tint. The mess of greasy thin hair was pulled back into a harsh bun. Wrinkles dug trenches down its face and neck. Its teeth were yellowed and its gums were red and inflamed. The eyes were completely black, sclera and all. Its eyelids and the area meeting between them were deep purple, like a singular bruise.

“What are you?” Joyce asked, “What are you?”

“You may call me,” the creature paused - actually paused, Joyce noted in rage- for dramatic effect, “Nanny Noc.”

It carried her into the playroom, and set her down on the rocking horse, and set itself down into the rocking chair. Joyce tried to raise up from the toy, the massive toy now that she thought about it, and straps formed from the air out of ribbons of smoke. With a raise of Nanny Noc’s eyebrow, they pulled her down against the horse. Further straps formed around the footrests and handholds, and pulled her tighter.

“Stop!” Joyce yelled, and sobbed.

She would have continued sobbing, but straps formed around her head, and deftly held a pacifier in place.

“No worries, little one,” Nanny Noc soothed with just a hint of malice. “You’ll just be here until someone comes for you.

Melody arrived at the daycare early. It wasn’t bright and early. Bright and early was something invented for people who had nice offices away from New England to think about. She didn’t normally open the daycare, but had agreed to take care of it in return for Joyce covering her closing shift. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure it was worth it, but she had gotten some needs taken care of, and that had to count for something.

But when she opened the door, she was able to hear a muffled sobbing sound. Melody, either being much more genre savvy than Joyce or simply being a bit of a coward, waited for someone else to get there before investigating. Several persons in fact, as the rest of the morning shift arrived at about the same time.

Melody took the lead though, and her and two other girls, and one boy (they thought he was odd, but Presley did his work and was patient with the kids) made their way towards the noise. As they got closer, they all heard the muffled sobs as well as the creaking noise. They armed themselves with mops and brooms, and opened the door to the playroom.

Joyce was there, in the center of the room, strapped to an enormous rocking horse, gagged. Tears streamed down her face, and down her legs streamed, well, Melody tried not to think about that, but she could tell it wasn’t just urine. The poor girl was clearly in a diaper and onesie, and suffering from a blowout. Melody had seen blowouts before, just not on an adult. Joyce looked at them with pleading eyes.

They rushed over to her, unstrapped her from the horse, and ungagged her. Drool passed through her lips and trickled down her chin. She fell back into their arms as they helped her down, and action not helped by everyone pointedly not trying to touch her legs.

“Joyce, who did this to you?” Melody asked, “What happened?”

“Bad lady,” said Joyce.

“Did you get a name?”

“Nanny Noc.”

“Who?” Melody demanded, “Who the fuck is that?”

Joyce looked to one side and then back at her coworkers.

“Hag.” She said.