Words

“Are you sure this is okay, Miss?” “Of course it is. Get that lock open.” Doll’s fingers, long and fine as needles, dip inside the keyhole once again. She fancies that she can hear the house shudder as she massages its pins, and it’s hardly a moment before the door clicks open. Behind her she feels her witch’s smile: a vast gash cut into the night’s fabric, teeth dripping with the moon’s pale blood. Its empty eyes gaze hungrily past her from the sleepy suburban street’s every shadow, and Doll thanks her lucky stars that no one’s awake to see it. ...

This story has content warnings for: gore, corruption, sex with a chair, probably rape, not that gross but also sort of gross. Please take care. Contamination begins gently. A pinprick hole in the hazmat suit’s thick composite where she stumbles and falls against a forest of needles growing from one of the site’s walls. Most break. One finds the perfect angle. She doesn’t feel its touch on her sweaty skin. ...

She always felt like part of her was missing. An ache in her heart, an absence in the air around her—skin wrapped too tight around her bones, blood beating in time with a rhythm unlike her body. She always felt like something was wrong. Always, until she met them. The first time was nothing special. Their strong hands fumbling beneath her skirt, tearing her stockings; the hunger in their eyes tempered by furtive glances towards the office door. Her stammered protests, the blank animal fear curling around her mind as they fucked her— ...

The call’s coming from beneath her skin. It’s not yet ready to be dead, not ready to be buried and forgotten, grave bell ringing with wild abandon. Louder with each heartbeat, louder with each breath, an electric shriek filling the too-still air—!

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I never wanted you to know that side of me. I wanted,” a drop of blood slides down her perfect teeth, “I wanted to keep you safe.” This isn’t when the doll found her in the woods, covered in stolen blood. This is some time after. She’s cleaned up, mostly, freshly showered. Her still-wet mane looks faintly depressed with so much of its volume gone. It smells good, though, like a tropical vacation that she’s never had the money to have. ...

(this is the fifth part of Claire’s story. It is not an end. The rest may be found here) “You have the most fascinating eyes, little sprout. I think I’ll take them with me.” Claire wakes with a start into an emptiness more profound than any darkness she has ever known, a void utterly unlike her bedroom’s greyscale night. For a moment she thinks that she’s tangled her blankets around her head—that the silver-eyed darkness has forced its way into her parents’ house—that she’s fallen under the bed. But she feels nothing against her cheeks, nothing but clean air on her face and blankets on her body. ...

(this is the fourth part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) The forest floor is cool against Claire’s cheek, sun-warmed ground no match for the fearful heat radiating from every inch of her body. Her wounds burn, sharp and dripping; her eyes brim with tears and her unwise fingers still clutch the flower. Yellow and gold rise around her like a buzzing tide, each little bee-body blazing like a jewel in the sun’s bright light—a mob nerving itself for the first strike, eagerly awaiting the violence that will follow as soon as some brave soul gives the rest permission— ...

(this is the third part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) That was a mistake. What was she thinking? She hasn’t yet brought herself to drop the flower—could she even if she wanted to? Its broken stem oozes with something that’s not honey, sticky and warm against her sweaty fingers, gripping tight— Claire’s heart pounds in her ears, beating in tune with her frantic footfalls, each step crushing insects and leaves alike beneath her filthy shoes; she’s making noise, so much noise, enough to scare off all the forest’s creatures and quiet their sounds— ...

(this is the second part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) Breakfast is icy. There’s something wrong with the house, something beyond the crushed lawn and torn siding outside. Claire struggles to swallow half-frozen scrambled eggs and too-chunky orange juice; her parents don’t fair much better. Finally, finally, she reaches the end of her mandatory presence (denoted by her father getting up to do the dishes, and her mother receding into her morning emails). Neither of them notice when she leaves. They never do. ...

(This is the start of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) Bonk. Claire pulls her blankets tighter, burrows a bit deeper into her bed’s comforting warmth. Bonk. She pointedly turns her back on the window. Bonk. Her patience breaks. “Will you stop already?! I’m trying to sleep here!” The glare she directs at the darkness outside her window could power her entire town, if it were ever properly harnessed. It is her most powerful weapon, and it frustrates her to no end that the darkness appears to be immune to it (as are her teachers, classmates, and parents). ...