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Wandering in the Night

A family's secret can't be revealed to the world

By Ayra MirzaPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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“Happy birthday Scarlet.” says Aunt Clara, as I slice the chocolate cake in front of me.

“Thank you,” I reply, showing no sign of excitement, as there was nothing that has changed compared to previous years, except my age.

“Look what I got for you,” aunt says as she brings her hand forward from behind her back, and places out a small, light purple, velvet box in front of me on the dining table.

I stare at her, examining her expression. Her eyes have a playful spark which I’m not familiar with. Confused, I reach for the box and open it with care. The box carries an exquisite, sparkling diamond ring. My eyes go wide as I have never received such a gift before.

“This ring is absolutely gorgeous!” I gasp, truly admiring the gem from my heart.

“Yes, it is. It was your mother’s that she had left behind, and I thought of giving it to you today, thinking you might like to have it, as you always say you have nothing of hers to remember her by, except pictures.”

“This means a lot, Aunt Clara.” I convince, closing the box and holding it close to my chest.

“You’re welcome dear.”

Analyzing the warm smile on aunt’s face, I’m hesitant to ask her the question I've been wondering if she had changed her answer to.

“So... Aunt Clara...I was wondering if…” I trail off, scared of the reaction I might get.

“What is it Scarlet?” Aunt Clara keeps a comforting tone.

“I was wondering if, now that I’ve turned sixteen, I would be old enough...and responsible enough to be able to go to the...garden,” I suggest, and begin to see her expression change as she’s trying to process what she just heard.

“No! Absolutely not! Scarlet...there is no specific age for you to go into that garden, you just aren’t allowed, no matter how old you get. And that doesn’t only go for you.”

“But-”

“Enough! I am done discussing this with you repeatedly!” Aunt Clara’s eyes are filled with rage. She dismisses herself from the room without properly finishing the conversation, and leaving me alone in curiosity, stuck with my thoughts.

My father had passed away because of an accident when I was six years old. Aunt Clara had told me that I was a year and a half, when my mother passed away, so of course I don’t know or remember her, except seeing her in some pictures. Looking at her pictures, I get amazed by how beautiful she was, with her long, straight, brown hair which she usually styled into a French braid. She had side bangs that would hover over one of her ocean blue eyes.

I barely look like my mother. Everyone tells me that I look more like my father, and I agree. Just like him, I have green eyes, curly blond hair, and a Greek nose.

After the death of my parents, the only person I had with me, was my aunt Clara. Aunt has always been there for me, hasn’t ever given me a reason to complain... except one.

Ever since I was younger, I was always told not to go to the garden behind our house. Anytime I even tried to sneak in, my aunt would always catch me before I could even get close to the garden’s gate.

“That’s it!” I say to myself out loud. “Aunt Clara is just being over-protective and exaggerating about everything. It’s just a garden, what’s so dangerous about that?”

Finally, fed up with the restriction, I decide to visit the garden tonight.

I go into my room and wait there for the clock to strike 1 a.m., which is when I know she would peacefully be asleep in her room. While waiting, I think about changing into something more comfortable, so I change into my long blue nightgown. It’s nighttime and nobody is going to be outside to judge the way I’m dressed, so why not? I sit down on my bed and open the small box containing my mother’s ring. I take the ring out and place it on my finger.

“Wow.” I thought as I examined my whole hand, seeing how it contrasts with the ring.

An hour passes by, I look at the clock as it struck 12:59 a.m., then got off my bed, slowly and quietly stepping out of my room, making sure my aunt wasn't around. Leaving at this time was a pretty good idea since she wouldn’t expect me to step out of the house during this hour of the night.

I tip-toe to the back door of the house. Holding the doorknob with a firm grip, I turn it gently, and the door makes a loud creaking noise as I open it slowly. Luckily the noise isn’t loud enough to wake anyone up. I then step out into the cold, breezy air, on to the grassy, green ground, and start making my way to the entrance of the garden.

After two minutes of walking, I approach the entrance. The gate is tall, black, and is covered with vines of flowers tied around it. Looking at it, I notice that it is slightly open, which was kind of odd because every time I came here it was always closed. As I take another step, my foot lands onto something hard.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” I cry in pain. “What is that?” I try to focus on the object in the dark. I pick it up and hold it close enough in front of my eyes, to be able to tell what it is.

“It’s a lock,” I discovered. “What’s a lock doing here?”

Finding a lock by the gate has me puzzled. I know aunt always kept the gate closed, but never locked. Deciding to ignore all this, I throw the lock back on the ground and continue to walk through the gate, into the garden.

In front of me was a long pathway. I couldn’t really see much up ahead because it was dark, but I continued to walk. Beside me on both sides were just big bushes and tall trees. I felt like I was in a forest.

“I don’t understand why aunt didn’t want me to come here. It is just like any other garden, but just more beautiful.” I think.

It’s so quiet and peaceful, and a lovely environment. But that’s only until I suddenly start to hear slow footsteps approach behind me, and someone breathing very loudly. I start to feel very uneasy; my stomach feels like all the organs have turned upside down. I stop breathing and hold my breath even as I turn around to see who else was in the garden other than me.

When I turn around, I see a dark figure standing a car length away from me, in the shadows. The figure doesn’t move. Just like me, it stands there, staring back. My heart starts to beat faster, causing my breathing to catch up to its speed too. But I built up a little courage to speak.

“I-I’m really sorry aunt Clara, I-I really am. I didn’t mean to break in like this, but I was just curious. Please forgive me.” I plead as I stumble over my words.

The figure still stands there, motionless and not speaking. I try to get my vision to focus on the figure, try to make out the face. As I look more closely, I see that the figure has long hair, tied in like a braid, but a very messy one.

“Scarlet.” The figure called out my name in an odd tone as to stating something.

She doesn’t sound like Aunt Clara.

“Who are you?” I question.

The woman steps a little closer towards me and stops where the light reflecting from the moon hits the ground, so I could see her face clearly.

“Mother?” I recognize, remembering her from the pictures. I become speechless as several thoughts race through my mind and I’m not able to comprehend what's true and what’s not.

She still doesn’t say a thing, but instead kept on staring at my hand. I looked at my hand and remembered that I was wearing her ring. Before I’m able to say anything else, I suddenly see the ring start to glow. The ring glows, a very bright red in colour. Unexpectedly, my finger starts to burn. I gasp and hurriedly snatch the ring off my finger and throw it on the ground in front of me. It fell right beside the woman’s foot, who rather was my mother, or someone I’m mistaking to be her.

She picks up the ring from the ground slowly, and places it on her finger. I stare at her, confused as to why her finger wasn’t burning from the ring.

“Run.” She whispers, loud enough for me to be able to hear it.

“What? Why do you want-” I’m not able to complete my sentence.

As I talk, the woman’s eyes turn fully black, her hands turn into claws as her skin starts to peel.

Standing in one spot frozen, unable to move, I hear a creak, and looking straight ahead, behind the “creature”. I see the gate close, then hear something slide against the door, then click. It was the sound of the gate being locked...

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About the Creator

Ayra Mirza

Short story writer

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