Artwork: Dead Dolly Running by Will Jacques

Eternal Home
Michael Warnes

It was dark blue, the night, as Wilhemina walked through the woods. The twisted trees and toothy thorns snagging at her skirt and sleeves. She held a torch in front of her, its light like a dewdrop in comparison to that provided by the silvery moon.

The path she walked was clear though it seemed as if she was the first to have walked it in years, small bones crunching underfoot with as much frequency as the gravel. Bramble bushes near-animalistic in the reflection of the moonlight, the reflection coming from a cursed mirror turning things from one to the other, flora to fauna.

Eventually, the torchlight waning, Wilhemina came across a sight that chilled her more than the night air. A gate. In fact, a gate to a graveyard, grey and crumbling, with patches of dead grass on the small spots without stone.

At the back of the graveyard was a mausoleum, large, dark, and foreboding, standing tall above the graves, like a butcher standing over his finished work. It had a second level, and Wilhemina wondered morbidly how many were expected to die to fill its walls.

As Wilhemina padded through the graveyard, as quietly as she could so as not to disturb the, dare she say, deathly silence that smothered the place, she found herself drawing closer and closer to the grim mausoleum, her breath turning to frost on her lips.

With a closer look at the building, it seemed less like a resting place for the dead and more like a morbid imitation of a house, with a cold iron knocker on the door, moth-eaten and shaped like a wreath, ragged curtains visible through cracked windows.

Maybe twenty paces from the door, that is, if you don’t include the steps, Wilhemina suddenly stopped. Her forward trek to the not-mausoleum halted by her noticing how cold it had gotten, the constant hot-cold on her face from her breath and the frost being seemingly the only things; dry, brown grass together clumping around the stones – altogether unfitting for a late summer’s night.

Despite the lack of movement in her hair and skirts, Wilhemina felt as if there were a strong wind pushing her forwards. The forcefulness of the wind that was not, combined with the cold that felt like her bones were freezing in place through her flesh, was what finally made her move forwards into the maybe-house.

It was dark in the house.

Because now that she was inside, Wilhemina knew it was a house. With the door closed behind her there was a coat rack to her left, next to a closed door, a kitchen to her right – visible thanks to a wide archway, seemingly the only thing holding the wall up, and in front of her was a staircase with steps she could not guess the state of, covered by a carpet whose original colour was hidden by the years of dust trodden into it.

Of her three options, Wilhemina chose the fourth. She turned around to open the front door, even though she never closed it. But, even with all her might, it wouldn’t move a millimetre.

Her face paled as she turned back around. Although she couldn’t see any changes to the house around her, something in the air had changed, and Wilhemina had the sudden petrifying feeling that she wasn’t alone.

“H-hello?” she asked the air. “ Is anyone there?” The first words she had spoken since she said goodbye to her dear friend, Lucy, before she went for her walk in the forest, were answered by what could have been an amused hum, or, more hopefully, the floorboards creaking under her shuffling feet.

The near-tangible fear emanating from her formed an amalgamation of misty figures from the shadows, and, as she unstuck herself and tore up the stairs, icy hands grasping but never being able to catch her, driven by memories of a large window on the second floor, Wilhemina heard voices.

“Hello there. Good Evening. We’ll give you a nice grave. You’re so warm. It’ll all be over soon. What’s your name? You look how I used to! I wish I still had my knife. Hey! Look at me! No, at me! I bet you’re not as pretty on the inside. My hair was that colour too. It’s actually evening, don’t listen to him. The nicest grave ever!”

Overlapping and merging, a cacophony of screaming noise followed Wilhemina up the stairs and across the hall to the window that, yes, was large enough! And the translucent curtain in front of it was already torn; she could just jump through.

The night air was cold as it rushed into Wilhemina through the cuts the glass had left. Clawing at the thin cloth around her neck, it was stronger than she thought. Her lungs were burning as her vision dimmed – the voices were louder now.

And as a gasping sound rattled its way past her lips, the last sounds Wilhemina heard as she looked at the slowly falling moon were welcomes, coming out through the window.

***************************************************************************

Birdcage
Michael Warnes

You hear beeping. That’s the first thing you hear anyway. There’s what sounds like some type of fan moving, and some bubbling from somewhere you think is to your left. But mostly the beeping. There are a few types of beeps coming from around you as you lie, cold to cold, on a bed? One beeping stands out to you, though. It’s rhythmic as the beeps happen and fall, and, as you pay more attention to them, they speed up.

Suddenly a rustle of fabric accompanied by hurried footfall comes from beside you. You try to open your eyes, but they seem stuck together. The smell of disinfectant reminds you of a hospital. You pry your eyes open, and it feels like tearing off a plaster – you wish you hadn’t. above you an orange-red rectangle sits broken up by a few lines across it. It’s framed by a blinding white. The second after you open your eyes, you have to close them again.

You attempt to cry out in pain but only a whimper escapes your throat; it’s tight, too tight, all your skin is too tight, and you can hear your pulse rushing in your ears as the beeping speeds up, but it’s not right; it’s too fast; it’s wrong!

Your head and shoulders are lifted by a strong arm and an ice chip is slipped past your lips. It’s cold and soothing and you’re grateful for it, and the gentle murmurs that you recognise but you can’t make out; is the voice familiar? The ice was easier to think about though your heart feels icier in comparison.

You open your eyes and blink a few times as you tilt your head trying to take in the person’s face. You gasp. It’s… no, no, no, no, this is wrong, it can’t be them. It can’t be her because saw them – you – die.

But that’s not you. You remember what happened to them clearly, though. Running away because it was all too much for them. She loved them, but if any of their friends came too close while they were holding her hand, her grip would get too tight – like how your skin was right now – and how their whole life felt too tight, and how none of their friends understood because she had never hurt them, and she loved them so!

You understood then. Why she was holding you gently and saying sweet things. Now they were saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe this time, Little Bird, you’ll never get hurt again.”

But, oh, how your skin burned at her touch, now you know what she did to them – not you – whose memories you have recalled. You can feel their head hit the ground. Your eyes burn too, tears streaming down your face. She brushes them away with her thumb. “Oh you recognise me. I was worried it wouldn’t work.”

Unfortunately for her, it didn’t.

You do recognise her. You can also make a pretty good guess that ‘it’ was a successful resurrection of them. You stopped clawing at your skin once you knew it wouldn’t free you. Little Bird. As apt a nickname for you as it was for them, for you were trapped in the same cage. It was a failure because she brought back nothing but memories and forced them into your body. Your anger makes the tears stop and you have to stop yourself from screaming as she speaks again.

“That’s it… it’s okay. Everything’s all right now. Welcome back, Robin, my Little Bird.”

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