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bookishwenchWritten for plumedy, Yuletide Madness 2020
Once Upon a Time
Most neighborhoods have at least one vacant house, devoid of light, its windows staring sightlessly onto the road, watching the passers-by with the cold, hard, inhuman gleam of darkened glass. They are always slightly unnerving, dwellings with no owner. Normal life within their walls has stopped, and they seem cold, frozen even in the warmth of summer. Waiting for the next pieces of flesh and blood to arrive, they remain motionless and silent, tombs too large for mere mortals, filled with the scent of dust and desertion. Eventually, people come, and the house is safe again, filled with sounds and movement. It belongs to humans rather than sitting alone, and its eyes close behind curtains and blinds, looking inward, its gaze politely averted from the rest of the world.
The exception, of course, is the house that is never occupied again and tumbles into ruin. Things do live there. Rats, spiders, creatures from the woods that seek out the shelter of the tattered remains of life, they claim it. Occasionally, a human with no other choice might enter. If they are lucky, they leave again. If not, they remain, for one reason or another, none of them happy.
I am not like either of these. Yes, my windows watch, but no one seems to mind. After all, I’m charming. Every detail is designed to delight, from my mullioned windows to my prettily painted wooden beams. Very rarely, someone will quicken their pace on the curved cobblestone path that meanders beside the road near my doorstep. Some of them retain the instincts of prey and know when they are threatened, even if they can’t pinpoint why. But those are few.
Mostly, people don’t notice how far I am from the town, how the trees behind and beside blot out the world and leave nothing around but emptiness, the sky, the press of deep shadow. If a house could smile, I would, calming their fears, lulling them into heedless vulnerability. I have been here for many long years, and I will be here many more. Forever, possibly, if such a thing exists. My roots go deeper than the cellar where a cage of willow twigs still swings in the fetid air, a pile of chicken bones long since turned to dust beneath it.
Every midnight, as soft gray tendrils of smoke waft into the air, the fire blazes forth from the oven again, filling my icing-glass windows with searing light and the air within me with the jagged echoes of my ancient screams. Sometimes, if I have been particularly appealing, newer screams join the chorus.
I still remember the smell of gingerbread.
Most neighborhoods have at least one vacant house, devoid of light, its windows staring sightlessly onto the road, watching the passers-by with the cold, hard, inhuman gleam of darkened glass. They are always slightly unnerving, dwellings with no owner. Normal life within their walls has stopped, and they seem cold, frozen even in the warmth of summer. Waiting for the next pieces of flesh and blood to arrive, they remain motionless and silent, tombs too large for mere mortals, filled with the scent of dust and desertion. Eventually, people come, and the house is safe again, filled with sounds and movement. It belongs to humans rather than sitting alone, and its eyes close behind curtains and blinds, looking inward, its gaze politely averted from the rest of the world.
The exception, of course, is the house that is never occupied again and tumbles into ruin. Things do live there. Rats, spiders, creatures from the woods that seek out the shelter of the tattered remains of life, they claim it. Occasionally, a human with no other choice might enter. If they are lucky, they leave again. If not, they remain, for one reason or another, none of them happy.
I am not like either of these. Yes, my windows watch, but no one seems to mind. After all, I’m charming. Every detail is designed to delight, from my mullioned windows to my prettily painted wooden beams. Very rarely, someone will quicken their pace on the curved cobblestone path that meanders beside the road near my doorstep. Some of them retain the instincts of prey and know when they are threatened, even if they can’t pinpoint why. But those are few.
Mostly, people don’t notice how far I am from the town, how the trees behind and beside blot out the world and leave nothing around but emptiness, the sky, the press of deep shadow. If a house could smile, I would, calming their fears, lulling them into heedless vulnerability. I have been here for many long years, and I will be here many more. Forever, possibly, if such a thing exists. My roots go deeper than the cellar where a cage of willow twigs still swings in the fetid air, a pile of chicken bones long since turned to dust beneath it.
Every midnight, as soft gray tendrils of smoke waft into the air, the fire blazes forth from the oven again, filling my icing-glass windows with searing light and the air within me with the jagged echoes of my ancient screams. Sometimes, if I have been particularly appealing, newer screams join the chorus.
I still remember the smell of gingerbread.
