The Generous Neighbour

O friend, heed my warning.

Do not follow the winding lane down the hill to the house at its end. In there lies only misery.

Do not stop at the painted fence, to marvel at how the gloss shifts, iridescent in the sunlight and silver under clouds. And jet black like the devil's heart at night.

Do not step under the woven archway of living myrtle. White myrtle that smells like lavender. Do not pass through the garden, with its silent crickets and shrieking butterflies. And most of all, do not talk to the woman of the house.

She will be in the window, or tending her garden, cutting thyme that smells like rosewater. Thick, syrupy, rosewater. The sap from the stems of her thyme will ooze with thick effluence, rich and fast, too much for the humble herbs, coating her hands in iridescent treacle. And she will laugh, and look you in the eyes with a smile. But the eyes will be frozen, as will her smile, as she'll say,

"My my neighbour, fancy you catching me at such a time. Won't you stay awhile and chat?"

And it would be so easy to do so, as you feel as though she is an old friend, even though you've never stopped to talk to her before.

That woman in the window. In the garden. That ageless, smiling woman, cutting herbs that bleed treacle and humming a tune, old, familiar, and unsung before.

Why did you do it? Why did you laugh off my warning? Why did you stay awhile and talk? I don't care how familiar her voice is, or who you saw in her walk! That woman is a danger! Perhaps a witch or something worse, something not quite human at all... friend, heed my warning. Promise me this. Promise me you will not return to her once more?

No. No, no, no.

Once more I am betrayed. I am sorry, I did not mean to rage but I am afraid for you at a level deeper than you know. I cannot know what the price of this woman's friendship is, but it is higher than mortality of that I'm sure. It does not matter how kind her voice was when she beckoned you to her window, or how little time you spent in conversation, in spite of the cloying, heavenly smells from within. There is, however, one thing I am glad of. That you did not take up her offer of tea and a slice of chocolate cake. (Is it not strange that she would have such luxuries in our little town? Do you not see? Alas... you will be the death of me.)

My dear friend, make me a promise once more. Speak to the woman, step beyond her door if you must, but never eat from her table. You must stopper your tongue. You must refuse her generosity. Can you promise me that, please?

O my dear, stupid, fool.

Why wouldn't you listen? Why did you return, walking back under the myrtle that smells like lavender, to the woman with hands dripping in tar from her sticky-sweet herb garden, and greet her with a smile? Why did you talk until the sun dipped under the hill and the way back up was dark, so she ushered you inside? Into her warm, inviting cottage, where a fire crackled, and hops that smelled like lemon drops from the ceiling dried? Of course, now that you're inside, you can see the vast, ebullient, chocolate cake, heavy on hearthstone plate, still steaming from the oven, drowning in a thick chocolate cream... your stomach rumbled. Of course you would accept a slice.

Was the first bite as rapturous as you'd dreamed? Was it worth everything you'd forfeit to taste such a thing? When did you realise that its taste was no longer chocolate, but stale, metallic... that substance that clots. When did you realise that what it dripped with was not cream? Could you stop eating then, or was it too late? Was it the snap of a door or a jaw behind you that alerted you to the rancid truth? Was there a difference in that place...?

There is one thing I was so deeply wrong about. The woman of the house. She is not the reason why it coats itself in sticky-sweet lures, I know that now. I've known that since I dreamt of you waking up in that cottage down the winding lane at the bottom of the hill. In that house that smells so very sweet as it rots. The place where you caught your reflection in the mirror, and saw. It does not matter who you were, for now you are the woman of the house, ageless, smiling, cutting your herbs that bleed treacle and humming a tune; that old, damned, unsung tune.

I know now why her face has always been frozen, why her smile never meets her eyes. Because there is always someone behind them screaming to be free, but you will never be heard, and instead your lips will say,

"Hello, friend. I've missed you. Won't you stay awhile and talk?"

I know not what is making you do this. The cottage, the herbs, or something other. But I do know now why you could not stay away. Who was she to you, when she called to you over her rosewater garden, bedecked in shrieking butterflies?

I pray for strength. I pray for resolve. I pray for insight. I know that I cannot save you. I know that she is not you, not in any way that matters. But I don't know how long I can resist the sweet words of an old friend.