Momma

I can’t wait to see Momma again. It’s been ever so long, she left when I was young. That’s what Papa said anyway, I don’t believe him. As he says children should be seen but never heard. But even then, we are not always seen, we are small creatures and we fit in the most ridiculous places. My favourite place was always the top stair at the lake house, Momma showed me it and said I could go there whenever I felt strange. I never understood her till Christmas last year, Papa came home in a rush, saying Aunt Mattie was coming over (our Aunt Matilda, but we were to never call her that).

I’d never seen Papa in such a state and then Momma too.

It was strange, the air felt different, it felt cold and unloving. The wind ruffled my hair when the shadow appeared. It was cold and prickly, reaching across the hallway to my step, like spindly tentacles reaching, grappling for the life around it, sparing not even the roses Papa had gotten Momma. The beautiful crimson red slowly fading to nothing, brown veins of death climbing the petals as they glide down, like a reflection in the lake they hit the water and it ripples… once… twice… it stopped.

Everything stopped. I cannot remember. My brain seemed to have stopped. Hysteria is what the doctor had spoken of.

But today was finally my day to reunite with her, I had planned it, I was certain. I was to ride to the lake house with Papa, I was sure she would be there. I could feel it.

I knew it was Aunt Mattie, the head of the family and the ghost of who I am to become when I am of age. She always said I was to carry the mantle; little did I know it was to come so soon.

Riding past the silver veil of clarity that covers the reef of beauty, I look out towards the lake. Nothing could be said against this beauty… except the hollow logs around the shore bring an edge to me. I did not think anything had changed in a year, but it seems darker now. The rotten, black ooze from a nearby tree reaches for me as I stare. I feel its cold caress as it falls on my cloak, Momma’s cloak.

Looking out again I find something. It starts its careful descent down a tower of broken trees. Staring back with unnatural ease.

I feel strange…

I cannot breathe…

Momma help me… please…

It’s coming towards me, the spindly arms are reaching, its cold… too cold… Momma… MOMMA.

Why will it not halt?

PAPA, are you there?

I cannot see… it stopped.

It stopped, standing on the now tar like water, staring. Slowly it tilts its head, the thing of nightmares stares at me. Stop please. Leave me be.

I try to speak, but I cannot.

My mouth is bound, a rag of frozen silver stops me from speaking. A frozen beat of my heart prevents me from calling out.

My eyes flicker… How did it move, its here, in front of me, help me please, I cannot move, I’m stuck? I flicker, I see it now… she is standing there. A puppeteer with her strings. She is moving them, telling it what to do. Aunt Mattie is there too, she is stuck, stopped, frozen. Mouth aghast, skin pearled, Veins of black running through her deathly pale skin. Oh Goodness it was never her, Aunt Mattie… I had never thought her capable and now I see why…

It was always you pulling the strings… Momma