This is Not Jess

Don't look at me like that, I can see you doing it; looking at me from under your eyelashes like a child hiding from the boogeyman.

I am not a monster.

Look at the sky, do you see blood raining from the heavens? Hear trumpets sounding the crumbling of civilization? No.

Clear blue and righteous in every direction, and this - this thing in the mud is not worth your tears. Don't let her fool you. She's not real... Do you understand? I know you can see her here, at my feet, I know the blood is red. I know, ok. I know. But she's not real. This is not Jess, and I can prove it.

But I have to take you back to the beginning.

Do you want some water before we start? No?

Fine, suit yourself.

There's no easy way to admit that you lost something precious and that's what started it all. One regret that toppled every thing like dominoes, leading to the exact same regret. That's what caused all of this.

We moved in on a sharp morning in November, and she was already in a huff. A right royal strop with all the panache and flair that only an eleven year old can muster.

"I don't like it, I want to go home," if she whined that once, she did it a hundred times and every time I had to explain, once again, that this was home now. If you're thinking I'm an idiot, don't; hindsight is 20/20 and I didn't know what was in the woods behind the house when we bought it. I couldn't have and that run down little cottage in the country was hardly a hidden gem.

Coated in grime, dusty, sweaty and irritable, laden with boxes like a pack mule and still sporting a black eye, her fathers parting gift, I was in no shape to be a mother. I never have been, really. That's the cruel thing about parenthood; you love your children like they're a part of you... but you never really get to find out if you're up to the job until after its too late to back out,

"Jess, just pick a fucking bedroom," I snapped at her, I remember it. I remember every time I let her down. The guilt wells up a second too late, like blood from a shallow cut. By the time I was ready to apologise she had stormed up the narrow stairs to throw her duffel bag into the first room she could find... and it rained. God it rained the first few days. We were caged together like tigers in the day time, tripping over each other, trampling each others nerves and patience in a bid to just find space to breathe, huddling together for heat and comfort at night when the wind sounded like an approaching car... so when the rain stopped and the cloud parted I didn't bother to rein her in.

I had iron grates to pry from windows and dusty rooms to air and floors to scrub with bleach... and apparently no time to wonder why even the upper floor windows had iron grates covering them, no time to wonder why the window sills smelled salty when I scrubbed them,

"Mum can we play?"

"Mum I want to go out."

"Mum, I want cola."

"Mum I want-." "Mum I need-"

"Mum"

"Mum"

"Mum"

That word was branded onto the inside of my eyelids by noon so I packed her sandwiches and juice and turfed her towards the forest,

"Go find something interesting," I said with forced cheer, trying not to scream when her face went sullen,

"Like what?" Jess had asked, eyeing me like I had offered her crap in a bag rather than cheese and ham sandwiches and apple juice,

"Christ I don't know, an interesting stone or flowers or a bloody frog, whatever you like, that's what I did when I was a kid," I said, elbow deep in scrubbing, aching and tired already,

"That was like a hundred years ago, most of my friends have phones," she said, popping her hip slightly in an affectation of maturity that I knew came from one of her friends older sisters, "if I had a phone I could call my friends." She added. And there it was, the bone of contention; the bloody phone. The fucking screen she practically glued her eyeballs to.

That fucking phone her father gave her and installed that goddamn tracking app on. She didn't understand why I got rid of it.

She was too young. She didn't understand that I couldn't fucking trust her to not post every part of our move online which would defeat the purpose.

"Aye and if I had a phone I could talk to mine," I said slowly,

"Its not the same, you're old you don't have any friends anyway, I need a phone," she said it like it was a fact, all the words tumbling out without grace or consideration. As if hurting me was a small price to get what she wanted. Just like her dad. That's what I thought, that's what I remember thinking and I know it wasn't fair. You don't need to tell me that an eleven year olds tantrum lacks the malice and intent of a forty year old mans fist.

I know that.

"Well you'll get a new one when I can afford it," I managed to grind out, white knuckling it all,

"Dad would get me a new one now!" She actually stamped her foot, I think that's what broke me.

"Aye, well he's not here," I shouted back, already ashamed of myself, too angry to rein it in,

"I hate you!"

There are three things that happen when your child shouts that; one, you're hurt, two, you get angry, and three, you react. They all happen in a few seconds. I should have taken it on the chin. I should have had a quiet word with her. Instead I lashed out.

"And I don't like you right now either, so go fucking play out of my sight. Now!" That's what I said, shouted actually, and she did. She stormed out, snatching up her digital camera on the way and disappeared into the back garden.

"Stay in the bloody garden, don't go into the woods," I shouted after her, but I should gone after her. I should have checked on her before dinner time.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda, right?

Look, if you're going to stay for the story, you could at least help. Grab some logs for the bonfire; these things need to be burned. They're sneaky like that. Fire. Fire, salt, and iron... those are the only things that can really hurt them. Really kill them.

Don't start crying. You don't have to be here; I'm not keeping you here. You asked for my help, remember?

You wanted to know what happened to your boy? Well, here's the answer and the solution all in one. God willing you'll be in my shoes soon because at least that will be an answer. At least you'll know. Think about all those poor people who never find their children.

Or the people who don't realize they didn't; the ones who raise the cuckoo chick until it turns. Do you want that? No?

Then stack logs and listen.

Not like that; you need to leave room for the air; it has to burn hot.

Night fell like a curtain. It was getting dark at four and suddenly the house was so quiet and so gloomy and the kitchen was only half clean and my belly was rumbling and...

And you know where this is going.

I'm a terrible mother, ok? I know it. I know its true because I didn't notice how quiet the garden was until my belly rumbled and I raised my head to think about dinner. Jess had sandwiches in her bag but she'd want dinner, surely and so I went to get her, ready to hug and make up and the garden was empty. Painted in shades of grey and black with the trees behind it and not a sound but the creak of the shed door that hung open.

"Jess, what do you want for dinner?" I called it out full of confidence and rolled my eyes when there was no answer. I was sure she was hiding in the shed, sheltering from the wind, punishing me for snapping, but she wasn't of course and that's where the dread crept in.

"Jess?"

Panic, real panic, starts like ice in your belly accompanied by a sense of sinking, or maybe cold water rising around you. That's what I felt. Cold and heavy and sweaty as the vastness of the forest loomed over me like it wanted to remind me just how small Jess was.

It's a wonderful strange thing, panic; all other fear melts in the face of it somehow. I grabbed that big old torch from the shed, smacked it until it worked and chased the growing shadows into the woods, screaming like a madwoman until, finally, a shaky little cry came back.

If you look out there, towards the rising sun... no, that's south. Fucking city people, you don't even know which way is up. That way.

Right. That's where it is. That's where they come from; that's where she was. Stuck at the bottom of a hole in the forest floor sobbing like a baby. She dropped her camera, you see. That's what she said. She dropped her camera and it was the last thing she had from her grandma, my mum, and so instead of coming to get me she tried to get it back and fell in head first.

And it was deep. Not cavernous, but deep and steep enough that I couldn't reach her and I knew I couldn't climb back up with her if I jumped down.

"Jess, listen baby, stop crying, it's ok," I called, full of confidence because a hole in the ground was something manageable,

"I hurt my arm," she sobbed and God I wasn't angry anymore. My poor baby,

"It's ok, look I need to get rope but I'll get you out," I said, already seeing the rope in the shed in my minds eye,

"No, there's a monster," the scream was piercing, but who listens to a child saying there are monsters in the dark? You?

I don't think so,

"Jess, be a big girl, I'll be back in five minutes," I said, I even held the fingers up to show her, "and then we'll get you out and check your arm, ok?"

Here's the bit that shames me; I didn't even wait to hear what she said next. I just turned and ran. I was more scared of losing the light and not being able to get her out than anything else.

I should have listened.

Now I wonder what the last words my baby girl said were. That I'll never know.

I got back in five minutes, just like I promised. Red and sweating and panting, the rope over one shoulder, too focussed to notice the silence of the night hunting creatures. Too panicked to hear anything but my own heart; I lifted her out safe. Or so I thought.

She was docile as a lamb, quiet, pale faced, not a sign of the tears from before, the cracked camera clutched in one grimy hand as I checked her for injuries,

"Don't ever do that again, never, do you understand? Its just a bloody camera, I can get you another one" I recited the words like a prayer,

"I understand." Jess had said, and the words felt... wrong. But who would think it was anything but a mother's exhaustion thinking that?

"Good."

That word was the first nail in the coffin because I scooped her up and brought her home, and on the way the wind hit the trees just so. Made a sound almost like a scream. Distant, muffled like it was coming from behind a wall. Or under the earth.

The salt is important. You have to coat the body in it while you do the rest. Nothing but fire really kills them, Calum down the pub told me that and he's been here longer than most of the houses. Fill the mouth with salt and sew it shut, that's what he said about how his grandmother dealt with the changeling that crept into their family... so that's what I did. Sure enough, it hasn't moved since. Not a peep.

Don't bother. I don't want to hear your shit; I'm showing you this as a courtesy. When you find your boy, I hope he's different. I hope, and you can hope, but don't ask me to undo what I've done. I won't risk it, not to calm your squeamish heart.

You stuff the mouth with salt - look at me.

Stuff the mouth with salt and sew it shut with steel wire. Put nettles in its hands and bind them with iron chain, just like this. Then do what we're doing now; build a bonfire. Call it a funeral pyre if it makes you feel better, but build it. Add more wood now. It's nearly done.

It crept up like a predator, that sense that something was wrong. She let me bathe her like a baby that first night and slept beside me, which I expected, but then she kept doing it. My independent girl wouldn't leave my side. At night she slept with her hand on my throat, and sometimes I woke up with her eyes drilling into the side of my head.

Then it was the food. She had always been picky, you know? The kind of child that would refuse a whole dinner if the peas touched the meat on the plate. But she ate and ate and ate after that night. Anything, everything; she ate until I was sure she would be sick. She picked her nails and ate the skin that came away and no matter how often I washed her she smelled... wrong.

Not dirty, you understand, not sweaty or grimy just... earthy. And those eyes; they just followed me everywhere, digging into me like she could pry something out of my head. She didn't speak much, it, didn't speak, for the first week...not unless it was a few words. Three or four in a string at most and not often. That's how they are; they don't have minds of their own. They eat, they consume to make themselves... more. But it takes a lot.

That was the next sign. No matter how much it ate it was always hungry, and it spoke too slowly. I can't say when I started to think of it as 'it', but I knew my daughter was gone when I found it in the back garden digging up insects in the middle of the night, shoving them into its mouth with dirt and sod. Always hungry. When it turned and saw me, I felt the animal part of me shift.

Not mine.

That's what it said. Do you understand?

Not mine, not Jess... not human.

The rest is between me, the dirt, and that thing. I asked it where she was, repeatedly, and got no answer. It can speak, but I don't think it understands. It's an empty jug, you feel me? You can fill it, but it can't make anything of its own.

So this is what's left.

Take its shoulders, help me lift it; it needs to be in the centre when the fire starts... and I need to be gone by dusk. These things, they don't take kindly to trespasses, they don't forget and I doubt they'll forgive. In the centre now, and put the rushes on top.

You should go too; maybe you still have time to find your son. I hope so, I do, but remember this in case the worst happens. Salt, or iron, and fire, then be away before the sun sets. Let the Fair Folk come to collect what's left of their spy. Just don't let them catch you when they do.