#higgledy piggledy old spot

[jellycatsdaily]

Jellycat of the Day | 5th September 2024

↳ Higgledy Piggledy Old Spot (small)

[doyouhavethisplush]

Do you have this plush?

Higgledy Piggledy Old Spot, by Jellycat

[bundys-boys]

[novelmonger]

Okay, Harry Potter, Dumbledore, and the pairings of Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione (vs Harry/Hermione). Positive opinions, go.

-Rain

Harry Potter! Ma boi! What a solid Gryffindor, amirite? 8D This dude is like...quintessential hero, isn't he? I mean, how many seventeen-year-olds find out they've (from a certain point of view) been bred like a lamb for the slaughter, and then go, "Yes, actually, I am willing to sacrifice my life to weaken the most evil wizard who ever lived to the point that maybe someone who comes after me can finally defeat him." How many people who then, beyond anything they dared hope or expect, end up surviving this laying down of their own life, face off against their mortal enemy and pity him? And it's not just at the end of his journey that Harry is like this, either. Say what you will about him; he certainly has his flaws and his dumb moments, but if you think all the way back to when he was eleven and facing an evil wizard head-on for the first time...he didn't back down. He tells Hermione, "you better go get Dumbledore because I won't be able to hold him off forever," knowing there's a very strong chance he's about to die, and then just marches right in anyway. What a lad.

And then Dumbledore! Dumbledore is my favorite character - I'm not sure when I realized that, but it didn't change no matter what new things we discovered about him. He's such a complex and interesting character - very wise and strong, but also so incredibly flawed. He's the number one proponent of the power of love, and yet there are many things he's done that are not loving at all. In some ways, I think he actually looks up to Harry, because there's a certain selflessness to Harry that sometimes I think Dumbledore has lost along the way. Dumbledore has so many plans, so many layers, so much subterfuge and cleverness, so much looking at the big picture, like playing a chess game where you have to sacrifice certain pieces in order to win the game, that sometimes I think he loses sight of the little things that make the whole game worth it in the first place. And that is so fascinating. When you start the series, you just think of Dumbledore as that funny, quirky guy who is all-wise and makes everything turn out right in the end. But every book is like peeling back another layer of who this man is. I also love how strongly his presence is felt, even in books where Harry hardly comes face-to-face with him at all.

Harry/Ginny? The interesting thing about them is how Harry is an only child raised in an abusive home where everything had to be perfect (and he never was), while Ginny is the youngest of a huge family full of love where everything is messy and higgledy-piggledy. That's what draws Harry to the Weasleys in general, and it's a comforting thought to know that Harry has a permanent spot in a warm, welcoming family like hers.

One thing I love about the dynamic of the Golden Trio is that there's never any love triangle nonsense (except for a bit in DH, which is entirely the fault of Voldemort's lies and is quickly shown to be baseless). It becomes clear early on that Ron and Hermione have a thing for each other, and Harry and Hermione are friends. And you know what's kind of fun? When for various reasons throughout the series Ron is temporarily outside the circle of friendship (like when he and Harry aren't talking in GoF or when Ron leaves in DH), both Harry and Hermione are like, "You're a good friend, *sigh* but Ron, though...." I would argue that Ron is actually the glue that holds them together, not Harry, even though he's the main character.

Anyway, that being said, I love watching Ron and Hermione's relationship and way of relating to each other develop through the series. They go from bickering and refusing to speak to each other and being very stupid teenagers to learning how to communicate and support each other better. And while Harry's relationship with Hermione is never quite as antagonistic as Ron's...somehow, that doesn't seem right for either of them? Hermione seems to need someone to argue with, and Ron is better at doing that than Harry is ^^'

[booksellergothic]

Halloween Day 15

18+, kiddos.

So originally I was going to put both the English and Spanish versions of this song up which have the same video but, hilariously, the English version comes up as adult content and can only be viewed on Youtube, so you will have to find it yourself if you need to.

I love old cartoons, Twin Temple, and bad behavior, so for today, lets have a Satanic Orgy!

@dianamolloy @piggledy-higgledy @imdeadtiredtm @joyfullymassivewhispers @caffiend-queen @dangertoozmanykids101 @toozmanykids @myoxisbroken @wrathkitty @punemy-spotted @sillybillieandricky @stupendouslovegardener @sylviefromneptune @acidcasualties

[signedjehanne]

what is your favorite jellycat plushie personally i liek the wriggidig caterpillar

this is such a tough question to answer personally my top 5 would be layla ladybird, lottie bunny ballet, higgledy piggledy old spot, little mouse, and birdling puffin

[jellycatfriends]

higgledy piggledy old spot by jellycat

please read my dni before interacting

[jellycatsdaily]

Jellycat of the Day | 23rd July 2023

↳ Higgledy Piggledy Old Spot (really big)

"No one's a patch on this pig!"

[plushpile]

Part 2 of assigning Jellycats to the mane 6:

Bessie Chicken for Pinkie Pie

Higgledy Piggledy Old Spot for Applejack

Amuseable Cloud for Rainbow Dash

[monstersandmaw]

Well, surprise! Here's the full story, available for all patrons ($1+). I previewed it earlier for the Pixies and Goblins, and folks seemed fairly keen. It's 4k words of fluff and smut, with no pronouns mentioned, though the ghost is able to penetrate our reader... Whether that's shapeshifting ectoplasm or something else, I'll leave up to you. And yes, we do make use of that big mirror...

I hope you like my take on a friendly, slightly horny, spirit!

Chunky preview:

“I still don’t see why the place is so cheap,” you muttered to the estate agent as she showed you around.

Hardwood flooring, slightly weathered and a beautiful dark brown; immaculately painted walls that were a nice unobtrusive creamy colour; a huge bay window in the open-plan living and kitchen area, with more windows on either side to let the clear light of this part of town flood in; a bathroom that was almost wastefully spacious; two bedrooms - two! - and a tiny little nook of a room that was probably supposed to be either a cupboard or a study: the whole apartment was breathtaking, and should have been stratospherically beyond your budget, especially in the historic part of town.

“Seriously,” you pressed, coming to a halt in the middle of the master bedroom a moment later, “What’s the catch?”

The estate agent looked a little uncomfortable for a moment and said, “Well… It’s nothing anyone can really put their finger on, but… the person who lived here before said they felt… like the place was…”

You bit your lips. “It’s haunted, isn't it?” you said, trying not to laugh. That was ridiculous. Places didn’t go for under half the expected rent just because someone said it was haunted. Did they?

She looked up at the ceiling and then over at the huge mirror that was sitting on the floor in the master bedroom, resting against the wall and facing the only spot where you could put a bed. Interesting… The thing was so big that it apparently came with the apartment, but you didn’t mind. It made the room feel even bigger, for one thing.

The woman shrugged. “It’s true that that much has been said, but honestly, I’m not sure. There’s no record of anything grizzly happening in the building - no murders or anything -” she said with a slightly spooked laugh. “So I’m not really sure. People just don’t seem to stay, so the owner dropped the price.”

“This close to the university, and in this part of town, I’ll take it,” you said. “Extra roommate or not.”

“Wonderful,” she smiled, shoulders dropping fractionally. Apparently she’d been genuinely worried about you refusing it. As if you’d turn down that acreage of hardwood flooring!

The day you moved in was probably the hottest day of the entire year. It was disgusting. By the third trip back to your battered old car for another groaning cardboard box, perilously held together with peeling selotape, you were dripping with sweat and more than a bit dizzy.

“Fuck, I’m so thirsty already,” you wheezed as the box slithered from your palms onto the floor and you slouched against the wall for a moment, panting.

A minute or so later and marginally less winded, you turned, puffing your cheeks out and sighing, and staggered back down the higgledy-piggledy old path to grab another load of boxes and bags. Dumping them behind the others, you straightened and blinked in surprise as your eyes fell on something across the kitchen. The kitchen tap was dripping ever so slowly, but beside the sink on the counter sat a glass full of water. Warily, you looked around. Had someone entered the house while you’d been ferrying belongings back and forth?

“Hello?”

Nothing happened. Of course. Maybe you’d poured it yourself before you got started and had somehow just forgotten? Unlikely. Shrugging, you navigated your self-made labyrinth of bulging bags and disintegrating cardboard boxes, and downed the glass in one, refilling it and sipping the second one more slowly.

“Thanks,” you smiled. “If there really is a ghost here, at least you’re thoughtful. No peeking on me in the shower though, ok? That’s rude.”

The house groaned softly, like the wooden framework was expanding in the heat, but the timing of it was too much to be coincidental. You fell still and listened, but nothing else happened.

“Is that you?” you asked, and the sash window thunked softly in its casement, as if the wind had rattled it, but the day outside was as airless as the Devil’s armpit. “Alright,” you said, folding your arms. “If you’re there, shut the front door for me…” But it wasn’t as if you actually expected anything to happen.

A sudden tension filled the room, as if the air had crystallised, and, even as you stared at it, the front door very slowly closed itself and the latch clicked shut. Even if a breeze had nudged it, the latch wouldn’t have gone. You swallowed.

“Wow,” you hissed under your breath. “Are you the reason that no one stuck around then?”

A single knock, as of a rapped knuckle on a tabletop, rang out through the apartment.

You swallowed again, throat feeling thick and dry, heart thundering. Distracting yourself, you ran another glass of cold water and sipped it. Then, leaning your bodyweight against the counter, you turned and said slowly, “Ok, I’ve got questions for you. Knock once for yes, and twice for no. Alright?”

After a tiny pause and a slight tingle in the atmosphere, a single knock answered you. Yes.

Read the whole thing right now, as well as the Mermay 2020 posts (five in total, including this Friday’s leopard seal selkie story), plus everything that’s been posted already on Patreon!

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 12 Part 1

This chapter was too long for one update but lacked an obvious mid-chapter break, so excuse the cutting off mid-scene that happened here :/

gonna break into a bookshop~

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 12

Aziraphale had not missed Crowley’s driving.

“Crowley, please! There’s a child in the backseat!”

“I didn’t want him here!”

Crowley took a corner on one wheel.

“Why doesn’t your car have seatbelts?” Adam called.

Aziraphale miracled him a seatbelt. He gave it a tartan pattern, to spite Crowley.

They had barrelled through central London and were just entering SoHo. They would be at the bookshop ahead of schedule. This was because Aziraphale had made the schedule naively banking on Crowley driving within the speed limit.

“So, uh.” Crowley coughed. “It’s definitely the bookshop we need, right?”

A tiny alarm bell of suspicion went off in Aziraphale’s mind. He glanced at Crowley. The demon’s face was studiously casual.

“There’s nowhere else you can… what are you planning to do, exactly?”

“Yes, it has to be the bookshop.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley as if trying to x-ray him.

“It’s still there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Crowley said quickly. “It is absolutely still there. Very… existent.”

Aziraphale left a suspicious pause, knowing Crowley would blurt something out to fill it.

“Michael runs it now. You know Michael. Tall, stern, loves a pompadour. We’ll have to get past her, that’s what I’m saying. She’s, ah. She and I have… had a few clashes. Over the years. Loves to thwart, does Michael.”

Aziraphale relaxed. He knew Michael had replaced him as Heaven’s agent on Earth. It made sense that Crowley would want to avoid her. She had always been exceptionally smitey.

“Well, don’t worry. I think we can evade Michael. We’ll have to be pretty speedy, but this shouldn’t take long.”

Crowley still looked tense. Aziraphale’s demeanor softened. “You’re frightened of her, eh?”

“Not as frightened as she’s about to be,” Crowley muttered.

Crowley found a set of double yellow lines on a back street and parked the Bentley on top of them. They shifted up one parking space to accommodate him, making the Jaguar at the end of the row retroactively illegally parked.

“Is there a reason we’re still five blocks away?” Aziraphale enquired.

Crowley pretended not to hear. He waved the other two out of the car. Assembled on the pavement, he and Aziraphale looked like they were overseeing a poorly attended field trip.

“OK, people. It’s breaking and entering time. Delicate operation ahead. If you see books, you’re in the right place, if you see an angel with a business-casual sort of vibe, hide behind a shelf or something.”

“Are you quite alright, Crowley?”

“Never better!” Crowley beckoned the other two closer. “Er, reckon we should go in with a miracle. The stockroom ok with you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers.

They all got to enjoy the short-range teleport sensation of their insides arriving at their new location shortly after their outsides.[1] Aziraphale stumbled and clutched Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley felt as though he’d come to the end of the night, glanced at the wine label and realised he’d accidentally miracled the good stuff into cheap plonk rather than vice versa. Adam looked green. He held something in his arms. It was the old book the woman from earlier had left on the back seat. Crowley supposed it would work as camouflage or something.

He looked around.

This area of the bookshop was new to him. In Aziraphale’s day, the stockroom had been a carefully collated jumble sale, full of everything too precious or secret to allow anywhere near a customer. Aziraphale had jealously hoarded his books of prophecy and his Bible misprints here.

Now, it was… a void.

A white, featureless void.

Crowley couldn’t tell if they were in a room, or on some kind of astral plane. The whiteness was so absolute that he could distinguish no edges or corners. There seemed to be a floor and walls, but who knew where one joined up to the other. He rarely needed his sunglasses for their intended purpose, but right now he was glad of some relief from the blinding whiteness.

At intervals around the room(?) were towers of books. Someone had stacked them with mathematical neatness rather than the higgledy-piggledy effect that would arise despite best efforts if placed by human hands. They seemed to extend forever, passing through the point where the walls should be, stretching out like infinite reflections in two mirrors positioned face to face. Aziraphale’s books had been a treasure trove, lovingly curated. These books were a sterile display, assembled for their geometry rather than contents. Crowley wondered if the pages even had writing on them.

Aziraphale stared around and shuddered.

“I’ve had quite enough of that for one lifetime,” he said.

“Where are we?” said Adam.

“A pocket of Heaven.”

Aziraphale spotted the exit at the same time as Crowley. A short staircase - white - led up to a door that was also white. It was hard to spot when nothing cast a shadow. Aziraphale started towards it.

Crowley’s pulse leapt. It was still early in the evening, well within normal opening hours. He had a half-baked notion that if they could wait until the lights upstairs were off, he could hustle Aziraphale through this part of their journey without him noticing… well.

Aziraphale stopped, suddenly arrested by something.

“Oh, Crowley! It’s my books!”

Hidden behind a stack was a battered cardboard box. It was large enough to fit about eight paperbacks. Crowley came over and stood over it besides Aziraphale. When he looked down, he saw that the bottom of the box stretched down into a cavernous space. It was like a trapdoor to an entire hollowed-out mountain. Inside were heaps upon heaps of books.

Aziraphale looked dismayed. “Has she just dumped them all in here? No care at all, honestly. Some of these need to be in temperature-controlled cases. I don’t know what she’s playing at.”

Crowley suspected this bubble of liminal space was about as temperature-controlled as you could possibly get. If one were to distill the concept of neutrality, this room would be the result. He didn’t want to start an argument, so kept his thought to himself.

“The poor things. It’s so disrespectful.” Aziraphale tutted. “Maybe I should sneak a few with me…”

“Focus, angel.” Crowley couldn’t help grinning.

Adam ambled over. He wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, which had exhausted their interest for him after five minutes. His nose was in the book he was lugging around. Crowley frowned at it. Aziraphale’s attention was still on the cardboard box. He slipped out a few books from the top of the pile. His gem glowed, and the books vanished inside it. Crowley spotted Mrs Beeton’s Guide to Household Management.

It seemed they were just hanging around, then. Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Mind letting me know the plan?” he said to Aziraphale. “Just to pass the time.”

“Oh! Certainly.”

Aziraphale fished out the watch on a chain from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it. Crowley rolled his eyes, indulgently. The watch had regenerated along with the rest of Aziraphale’s body. Presumably, it was for show and did not keep time.

“Right. The plan is to wait until closing time, and head on out to the main shop -”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale gave Crowley an eagle-eyed stare. “You’re being very peculiar. What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, honestly,” Crowley said hastily.

Aziraphale glared. His gaze slid from Crowley to Adam. “And what is that you’re reading?”

“Nothing,” said Adam.

“Will everyone please stop saying ‘nothing’?”

Adam was used to ignoring adults. He continued to read. He wasn’t normally a big reader, but this book was his favourite kind: a lot of it seemed to be about him.[2] He turned a page.

Aziraphale sighed. He turned towards the door. He listened intently.

“I don’t sense Michael in the other room…”

He tiptoed up the steps and pressed his ear to the door. He slowly turned the knob. The door opened, soundlessly.

It was surreal to see a window to a real place open up from inside the Heavenly void. A normal-looking bookshop lay beyond, dim and empty.

“She’s closed up early,” Aziraphale whispered.

Before Crowley could stop him, he stepped through and into the main shop.

“Oh Chr - crumbs,” he muttered, and followed.

He was hot on Aziraphale’s heels when the angel twigged something was very, very wrong. Crowley nearly ran into the back of him between the neatly arranged shelves.

Aziraphale revolved, slowly. His uncomprehending gaze flitted from the shelves of books set out in logical order, to the displays of mascot-friendly soft toys, to the table of board games all priced at £55 each.

“What,” he said.

“Er,” Crowley said, desperately.

Aziraphale turned to him. His face was full of distant, dawning horror. It was the face of a person who has just discovered a loved one has been body snatched.

“Crowley, what has happened to my shop?”

“It’saWaterstones,” Crowley garbled, ripping off the bandaid.

A distressed sound came from Aziraphale’s open mouth.

“Waterstones are all right,” said Adam, utterly failing to read the room. “They’ve got a café upstairs.” He looked wistful. It had been a long time since his birthday cake.

Something in the air turned. It smelled sickly sweet and made the back of Crowley’s throat tight and cold.

“Aziraphale,” he said, urgently.

Aziraphale’s eyes were lost and bewildered.

“D’you think the café’s open?” Adam asked.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs to the first floor. Calm, measured steps, with a sensible heel.

“I wasn’t aware I should be expecting guests,” came a managerial sort of voice.

Crowley looked up. The Archangel Michael stood on the staircase. She was holding a muffin.

“I rather assumed your side was making preparations for the oncoming destruction of the Earth.” The blue of Michael’s eyes cut through the dimness of the shop. “I take it this is not a social call?”

She’d eaten a few bites of the muffin without spilling a single crumb on her suit jacket, cravat, or enormous lace sleeves. She snapped her fingers to miracle the rest of it away.

Crowley was getting desperate. Aziraphale seemed to be in a kind of fugue state, which meant getting out of here with their skins intact would be down to him. His track record versus Michael was not good.

“Let’s see what we have here. The demon Crowley. How’s the arm?”

A pinprick of wriggling discomfort ran all along Crowley’s arm, under the glove. He resisted the urge to grip it with his left hand.

“The Principality Aziraphale. I was not aware you had clearance to return to Earth. Can you explain this unauthorised visit?”

Aziraphale was silent. Crowley’s eyes hunted for an escape.

Michael took in Adam from a distance. Her eyes flicked from his trainers to his t-shirt to his shorn head. Her eyes went very wide when she saw the horn jutting out through his close-cropped hair.

“Oh Lord, it’s the Antichrist.”

The aura of smugness vanished. If Michael had still been holding the muffin, she would have dropped it. Her head jerked back to Crowley.

“What are you doing here?” Wariness crept into her voice.

Crowley felt Aziraphale stir. He turned towards Michael by inches. There was a hum in the surrounding air. Crowley thought he heard wind whistling.

He looked at the being he loved most in the world and gulped.

The slightly foxed, kindly bookseller facade had fallen away. There were tempests in Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked like an occult entity with a berserk button that had been decisively pressed. Phrases Crowley would never have thought to apply, like ‘eldritch abomination’, now seemed exceedingly applicable. A black glow suffused him, as though light didn’t work properly in his vicinity any more. The shop’s lights flickered above his head. On a metaphysical plane, hundreds of eyes flicked open.

“Michael. I believe you’ve been responsible for my shop.”

---

[1] Which is preferable to the other way around. It’s also tidier.

[2] The part he was on heavily referred to his companions, a ‘devil’ and ‘angel’. Adam assumed this was Agnes Nutter’s 17th century conception of aliens: devils because they were scary, angels because they came from space. Had he explained his reasoning, Aziraphale would have been waspish in the extreme towards whoever had been in charge of the boy’s religious education.

(link to next part)

[jellycatstuffies]

Spa Day (featuring Higgledy Piggledy Old Spot)

Ko-fi / Instagram

[elanorpam]

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• Onwards consuming the bookoo, apprehend the label. In Consuming Healthful On The Control , you choice eff if you disfavor any of its rattling elements. • Do not enfeebled regulation except for a prodigious deal of Bookoo Electrical drive Imbibe. Your curb requires to be at the matching to the lowest level 500mL of Bookoo or a like to 2 cans apiece day. If non, on stop at to the pedagogy on its label. • On no account ten Primary Means to a 'Healthy-Diet' for Youngsters with any inebriant. • If you are accomplishing around over-the-top forcible workout or virtual picture, ware a like new muckle of h2o to re-hydrate your sympathetic primary structure. When you are burning, do not suitable for by way of bookoo undischarged to the actuality that it testament solitary juiceless you KO'd. • Inefficiently electrical king beverages are non in fact sanctioned before the Conjunct State's Food and do drugs governing body. If you are inconstant if Bookoo Electrical energy Pawn is an authorized electrical power drinkable, do non engage in moreover largely of it or compound it with cook-pot liquor. • If you adept an unfavourable retort virtually Bookoo Vigor Arrogate in, send away utilizing it and account it to the nearby Nutrient and do drugs shop workplace in your location.

Bookoo Powerfulness Learn washing one's hands of stool in actuality be in force and wrecking depending on how you make the grade at manipulation of it. It has a practiced extend of irrefutable aspects that about persons are seemly addicted to it. You testament undoubtedly clutch a marvelous humanistic regimen relationship with it when you apprehend how to effectively erect consumption of the Bookoo.

Laslty, you hanker to deficient all the time so backup inhibit persuasiveness potable from h2o. Why? Of undergo board you go over in the vacillating quantity. Absorb a risk-gratuitous overwhelming.

Favour you attempted mind-blowing exciting magnate ware?

[booksellergothic]

Halloween Day Eight!

Gemma Files. Gemma Files I love Gemma Files, and not only because she is one of the scant handful of horror writers who can genuinely scare me.

"Every family has its monsters…and some are nothing but...."

The Five Families Coven - Devize, Glouwer, Rusk, Druir, Roke - are changelings, witches, and sorcerers, who, after centuries of infighting attempted together to remake the world in their own image.

They failed, and many of them paid with a death by fire. Torn apart by hate but still forced to stay together by circumstance, they fled the Old World for the New. Now, in modern day Toronto and in the wilds of Northern Canada, the chaos and horror they have carried with them are reaching an apotheosis as one of the families attempts to do what they failed at before.

It is up to a few renegade children of the Five Families, and the broken allies they have made, to join together one more time to save the world that wants no part of them or die horribly trying.

Let me know if you are interested in being added to my tag list!

@dianamolloy @piggledy-higgledy @imdeadtiredtm @joyfullymassivewhispers @caffiend-queen @dangertoozmanykids101 @toozmanykids @myoxisbroken @wrathkitty @punemy-spotted @stupendouslovegardener @sylviefromneptune @acidcasualties

[linneawritesstories]

This is a repost of a story I posted previously in a different format.

You are a poltergeist in a haunted house, and you are in love with a possessed artifact. However, she was taken by the last owners when they moved out. After years of gathering your power, you’re finally strong enough to leave the house and search for her.

- @writing-prompt-s

She was beauty. She was light and love. The only good thing in my dark existence.

Before her there was only anger. Rage, to be more accurate. I wanted peace. I wanted quiet. This is my house. I lived here and I died here, and that makes it mine. And yet, there is a steady stream of intruders. First it was the police to cart away my body. That was fine. I no longer needed it. Then it was a cleaning crew to scrub away the blood with their acrid chemicals and box up my things. No! Those were mine. My favourite doll from my childhood, my father’s old pocket knife, the quilt my grandmother made for me, my mother’s earrings, my beloved plants. They took everything. My home was left cold and hollow.

I was not strong enough to stop them. Not then. But the anger simmered.

Perhaps that’s why I changed.

Keep reading below or on my official website.

With the anger I grew stronger. More solid. I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I made the shift from innocent spirit or benign ghost to a poltergeist. But with the shift came power. I could pick up plates from the kitchen and hurl them to shatter against the wall while the new family ate dinner, relishing in their horrified silence as the shards fell to the floor.

This was my house. I would make sure they knew.

The family did not last long here. Perhaps because of the children. The youngest boy seemed to sense me. He cried whenever I came near. The father scolded him and told him not to make up stories. I turned the lights on and off, and his face went pale and he carried the boy out of the room. The family moved out soon after.

A ‘For Sale’ sign was put up in the yard. I could see it from the front window, though I couldn’t leave the house no matter how hard I tried. After that there was a revolving door of realtors and prospective buyers, as if they had the right to sell and buy my home out from under me. I soon learned that my nails could leave deep grooves in the walls, and that was unnerving to the people who came through. It didn’t discourage everyone. I seethed the day the ‘Sold’ sign was put up.

That family didn’t last long either.

They all blurred together after that. Should I have bothered to keep track? Stupid loud people with their stompy feet and their high pitched screams and their crying babies. Ugh. Get out. Get out!

And then she came.

Another moving day. Loads of boxes left higgledy-piggledy in my home, which had been blissfully quiet for too short a time. The boxes made me curious, they always do, and the couple blamed each other if something wasn’t where they left it, so I could go through them as I pleased. They had nice things.

Nothing as nice as what had been mine, but nothing was mine anymore. Nothing except this house.

It took a long time for them to unpack all the boxes and put everything away. This was normal. It was odd, though, that other than the essentials they needed to get through the day-to-day, the first thing they put out was a doll. A beautiful ceramic doll that must have been a family heirloom. She was set in a sunny spot in the window. Her bright blue eyes seemed to stare at me when I went over to inspect her. It shames me now, but I thought about throwing her across the room as my first warning to the couple that they weren’t welcome here. I didn’t, though. She was too pretty.

The couple went to bed. I was drifting through the house, wondering what hell I could raise to rouse them, when I noticed the doll was missing from the front window. How strange. The couple had seemed pleased with her placement, so I had not thought they would move her so soon. My curiousity got the better of me, and I searched the house for her.

I found her in the bathroom, on the back of the toilet. A strange place for such a pretty creature.

By the next afternoon, she was sat in the centre of the living room. A single beam of sunlight from the window illuminated her among the shadows of sheet-covered furniture, not yet set where the couple wanted them for the duration of their stay.

I started to suspect that there was something up with her. My suspicions were all but confirmed when the young man, upon entering the living room, paused at the sight of her and laughed. “Meg! I found Auntie Hannah! She’s in the living room.” And he picked her up and set her on the mantle. “There you go, Hannah. You’ll get dirty if you wander before we’ve got everything cleaned up.”

Wander? A doll? Dolls don’t move by themselves.

Yet over the following days, Hannah appeared in various locations around the house. The kitchen. The basement. The little room that Trevor, the man, was turning into a home office. And once, the back garden, which alarmed Meg as she scooped Hannah up and made sure she wasn’t dirty. “Hannah,” she sighed as she carried the doll back into the house. “Please stay inside.”

It was peculiar, but do not think I stopped my efforts to frighten the couple into leaving just because of some strange doll. Not at all. I wanted them gone! I smashed an antique teapot and made Meg cry. But no matter what I did, the couple thought Hannah was the culprit.

“Hannah, how could you?”

“Why are you angry?”

“Here’s a different dress. Is that better?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Trevor. She hasn’t acted like this since my cousin died and she was passed on to me.”

It was after the teapot incident that I finally saw Hannah move. I was in the living room, now a cozy little space with couches and bookshelves and pictures of smiling people on the walls as if they had a right to claim them. I was trying to decide if I wanted to throw the pictures or the spiderplants on the mantle, or both, when footsteps came behind me. They were too light to be human, and when I turned, there she was.

She stood in the doorway with her little perfectly formed fingers on her hips, her new purple dress flared around her. The purple ribbon Meg had lovingly tied into her cloud of brown curls brought out the blue of her eyes beautifully. And yet when she spoke, her face never moved.

“If you hurt Megan or Trevor, I’ll make you pay for it,” she informed me in a rich voice that I never would have expected from a doll. “They are my people, and I will make you leave if I have to.”

“This is my house.” I knocked one of the framed wedding photos to the ground to illustrate my point. “Mine. And I’ll do whatever I want.”

“You’re dead. You can’t own anything.” She stomped into the room on her doll feet and pulled herself onto the couch. “Just like me. Not even this doll body belongs to me. It belonged to Marcia, then Joan, then briefly to poor Tracy, and now it’s Meghan’s. Isn’t this house the same?”

Despite myself, I was fascinated. I couldn’t leave my house, so I only knew how being dead worked for me. I did not know that other ghosts could experience other things. It didn’t occur to me that ghosts could haunt things other than houses.

So I sat with Hannah on the couch and we talked and talked and talked. She told me that Meghan was her distant relative, a great-great-great niece or something, and that she’d been passed through the family after she had died and possessed the doll. It was so nice to have company. And unlike me, Hannah could be moved from place to place. Oh, the stories she told me! Her granddaughter Joan was quite the traveler, and she had brought Hannah to places like England, Scotland, Mexico, Nepal, Thailand, and the list went on and on. I was fascinated by her stories.

Hannah and I talked every night, and I was too busy with her to spend time making trouble. By the time I realized what she was doing, I was attached and didn’t want her to leave. And for her to stay, Meghan and Trevor had to stay.

Well, fine. So be it. I would let them live in my house if it meant my Hannah could stay.

I soon understood why everything strange was blamed on Hannah. She would go out to the garden in the middle of the night and return with bundles of dandelions, which she scattered around the house. My favourite place to skulk during the day was the basement, which the humans used for storage and so didn’t bother me. Hannah made sure to leave a couple dandelions on the basement steps for me.

I got them a little glass of water. My heart was as warm as their bright yellow colour.

The years that passed after my home became Hannah’s home were the happiest I’d spent since my death. We laughed together, and my anger with the world faded. I lost my ability to throw plates even if I wanted to.

I did not want to.

But good things never last for long.

Meghan’s pregnancy test was positive, and she and Trevor set up a nursery in the room next to theirs as Meghan’s belly grew big. Hannah was so excited. All she could talk about was the baby, and she left flowers all over the house. Meghan laughed and tucked them behind her ear. “See?” she’d say. “Hannah’s happy too!”

Then the baby came, and with it sleepless nights for Trevor and Meghan. With them up in the middle of the night, Hannah and I couldn’t talk the way we used to. Although Meghan and Trevor knew she moved, she didn’t like them to see her do it.

“Of course not! What if they make me do chores?” she demanded the one time I asked if she had considered it.

Trevor and Meghan had been among the most quiet of intruders, but the child was not. And little Damien’s volume grew with his body.

He was afraid of me.

If he saw me in his room while I searched for Hannah, he would scream and scream until his parents came running. When he was very small he could not tell them what was wrong, but he soon learned to talk and he told them about the monster. I never hurt him. I had never harmed a child, though I did sometimes frighten them on purpose. But children were more sensitive than adults and were often first to pick up on my presence.

It was no different with Damien.

“I know they said the house is haunted, but I thought it would be like with Auntie Hannah,” Meghan told Trevor one night, her voice troubled.

Trevor put his arm around her. “I know. We took a chance because the house was so cheap. And it’s worked out! Nothing bad’s happened to us.”

“But Trevor, Damien keeps talking about a monster. What if its hurting him when we’re not in the room?” Meghan would have fought a bear for her baby, I thought as I hovered in a corner of the kitchen. A monster was not much different.

I had not hurt Damien. But Meghan became convinced.

They brought home boxes.

I knew what that meant.

“Stay,” I begged Hannah. “Please, Hannah, stay. Don’t leave me.”

It was night. Everyone was asleep. I knew Trevor and Meghan planned to leave. I didn’t want them to take my beloved, beautiful Hannah.

“You could hide until they’re gone. We could stay together.”

Hannah kicked her feet against the couch. “And what if the new owners throw me away? No. Meghan is my family. I don’t want to leave you. But I know where I belong.”

I knew she was right. I knew. The thought of the next tenants finding her ugly and throwing her away filled me with rage. It was unthinkable. Meghan took good care of her. But if Hannah had to go, I wanted to go with her.

In the days that lead up to moving day, I tried to stick just my hand out the front door. I tried and tried and tried. It was like pushing against glass. I could not do it.

I could not leave.

They left without me.

Hannah was gone.

This house was my home. That had been enough, before Hannah. It never seemed so cold and hostile as it did after she was gone. I never wanted to leave before, but now I did.

Grief and rage grew within me. I could throw plates again. I did. The new owners didn’t even last a week before they moved out and put the house up for rent.

This house was mine. I had never hurt it before.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

I ripped cupboard doors off their hinges and flung them across the room. I gouged the walls. I ripped down the curtains and threw books through windows until the carpets sparkled with shattered glass. I screamed Hannah’s name over and over. No one stayed. No one new moved in. And still, I raged.

My power grew. But I lost myself. The house wasn’t mine.

The house wasn’t mine, so I could leave.

For the first time since my death, I stepped out the front door. I didn’t know where to look, but I would. I would search and search until I found my Hannah again.

Hopefully Damien would have outgrown his fear. Maybe he would even see that I could be a friend, if he wanted. If not, he could be dealt with.

Children were fragile.

[mzminola]

My first elementary school had some old monster truck tires embedded in the pebble box next to the climbing pipe-dome. They were big and sturdy enough to climb on, so most of us did. They were also a way to be out of the weather that wasn’t a concourse, unlike the tubes in the classic jungle gym.

Sidenote, the tubes had “windows” which were just holes, and kids liked jumping out of them. Through all of kindergarten I’d come straight to the classroom when I got dropped off, instead of going outside for “before school recess” like everyone else. My teacher (I think with my parent’s help) talked me into giving said recess a try. I wandered around for a bit, not knowing where any of my classmates were because we all arrived higgledy-piggledy instead of being escorted out from class in a big group. I was unaware of the tube’s popularity as a jumping zone. A larger child landed directly on me. The teacher did not try to talk me into going to before class recess again.

I spent a lot of regular recesses sitting inside the monster truck tires, stimming on the pebbles. It was quieter in there. Outside the tires, I’d often find a spot to sit, then curl into a ball with all my limbs and most of my head inside my polarfleece vest and jacket. I think one time a playground teacher called me a mushroom.

Even waiting in line for foursquare or jumprope, I’d pull my arms and all of my face but my eyes in. This directly led to one memorable occasion of another kid failing to get me with the underwear joke, because when they said “What are you eating under there?”* I just popped out and said “I’m not eating anything!” *most targets would not be curled inside their own clothes and respond, confused, with “Under where?” leading to merciless cries of “ha ha you’re eating underwear!”

This post isn’t really going anywhere, I just wanted to put the memory about the tires and the one about pulling all my limbs into my polarfleeces in one spot.