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theburnedoutnerd · 16 hours ago

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The Leshy

A woman whose heart is already broken and the deep, dark call of the woods start off this dark fairy tale. A woman who lives beyond the graveyard realizes some sort of spirit is circling her home, something from deep within the forest that no one in her village dares to enter. But there is no fear, she knows what calls.

Female Reader x Nonbinary Monster

No matter how much you sweep, the steps to the church never seem to come clean. The dust and moss, on top of the fall leaves, gather in the corners, clinging to the old stone. You beat at it with your broom, but eventually you need to sit down. Your legs have never been strong, but the older you become, the worst it seems to get.

“Go inside,” Pastor Lado says as he returns. “This chill could get to the heartiest of men.” He offers you his hand, but you rebuff it.

“I need to sit more than I need to be warm,” you tell him. “Go on in, I’ll be along after.”

The young pastor gives you a look. It was by his graces you even had this job cleaning the church. Even though you polished the pews, you’d not sat in them since you were a child.

You nod to him. “I know, sir, I know. I won’t be long. Head on in and see if the pulpit is to your liking.”

Lado instead sits with you, gazing out across the village with a look on his face that just says how young he is. “I won’t have you getting sick, not with the holidays coming.”

You scoff. “There are ten women in this town who could do the job I do. Probably more who can do it timely and superior.”

“But I owe none of them a promise,” Lado sighs.

“You owe me nothing, it was my husband you owed.” You use the handle of the broom to stand up. Your cane is inside, leaning against the pulpit where you left it.

“And since he left us, my debt extends to you,” he says with an optimistic smile.

“He didn’t leave, he died.” You walk into the church with Lado close behind you. “Somewhere out there his body is one with the earth again. A million miles away for all we know! His unit was all but obliterated.” You look out the window towards the stones sticking from the ground. “Same as we all will be one day.”

Lado nodded. “Our time on this earth is borrowed after all. We all must owe-”

“No preaching. I told you,” you scold him. “I’m not into it.” You take your cane and nod to him. “I’ll finish my day by cleaning the communion cups.”

“Don’t stay too late,” Lado says with a hint of concern. There is a soft whistling that follows the breeze. His eyes follow it, going out towards the graveyard and beyond it. He looks weary at this sound, but he tries to keep up that chipper appearance. “Some of the villagers have reported-” He stops, and as a man of God you can tell he’s trying to process the superstitions of the village.

“Seeing things in the woods?” You offer.

“Yes,” he murmurs, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. “They say it’s a Leshy that’s out there.” He has a strange look upon his face, but it bothers you none.

You shrug, wiping your brow as you gazed off into the distance again. “Not surprised. My husband says he saw one in the woods often.”

Lado presses his lips into a firm line. “And you believed him?”

You smile and motion your hand around the sanctuary. “And your stories in your little book are to be believed, pastor?”

He’s trying so hard not to look offended, but you can see in his pale eyes how much that sets him off. “It’s not the same. One is fairy tales and the other-” he stops himself from arguing with you, catching up to your line of thought before you can even speak it. “There’s still moss on the steps outside. And the graveyard could use a raking.”

The smile that breaks across your face is one you have graced the young pastor with many times. “I know,” you chuckle. “I know.”

You leave the church at sunset, noting the back steps of the church were growing moss as well. You clutch your shawl around you. Taking your cane you hobble down the stairs as best you can. You’ve never been able to move swiftly, so you curse the cold wind for not waiting on you to get home.

Home was a small building nestled behind the graveyard. It was supposed to be the pastor’s quarters but he still lived with his rich parents at the edge of town. You had lived there since your wedding, back when your husband was the pastor. It was more than enough for you, after all it was just you. Children never happened, and your husband thought his prayers belonged out there during the war. So now you lived alone, and it was fine.

Crossing through the graveyard was a quicker means to get to your home rather than walk around it. The wind is sharp, but it is not strong enough to make the noise it is. You stall for a moment, watching the trees and the rattle and shake. Something is inside them behind your house.

Moss creeps down upon the tombstones around you, the grass grows high, clinging around the stones and your ankles. You shift slightly where you stand, finding that your cane has become stuck in the ground. You pull it back, ripping up grass and dirt along with it. You make your way out of the graveyard, heading towards the front door, trying to go as fast as your weak legs can take you. There is something big behind your house. You see the shadow of if from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t react,” you tell yourself, “don’t acknowledge it, don’t breathe.” You quicken your steps, the only give away you let slip. The shadow encroaches, coming closer to your house, leaning out of the woods and dripping like a willow tree.

The door cannot open faster, and rushing inside you slam it shut as the air around your home grows darker.

You whisper a small charm under your breath, turning towards the fireplace when you see an eye peering through the window over your bed. It looks at you and closes.

“Get away from my home!” You yell, now that you are safe in the protection and comfort of your home. “Do not trespass here! You have no permission!” You clutch your shawl tight around you to keep your hand from shaking. “Go on! Leave!”

Light returned to your window, but the shadow still loomed. You knelt before your fireplace as moss came down the back of the chimney. You hurriedly light a fire, and breathe with relief when the flames stoke high.

All you can do then is rest, sitting there on the floor before the fire even as it grows too hot. You breathe in slowly to calm yourself, to find your center. The more stressed you were, the harder it was to walk.

Your husband used to read to you when you got like this. His voice had a way of relieving the agonies your illness had left behind. You weren’t one for his preaching, but even he could make the good book sound appealing.

“I’ll lose these legs one day,” you told him.

“You need faith, my love. Faith you’ll have legs, regardless of their use. Faith you’ll be taken care of.” He would say with that knowing smile of his.

“Why you married a girl with little faith, and all you are is faith, I’ll never know.”

He kissed you and the world would fade away. “Faith isn’t to be measured. Simply had. Do you believe I’ll stay with you through sickness and in health?”

“I do.”

“Then there’s your faith.”

There was a knock on the door and you stopped remembering along with breathing. You glanced towards the door, eyes wide open, heart thrumming wildly. The knocking continues, slow and gentle in rhythm. You swallow and find your throat is dry.

“Who goes there?” You ask. “I have called for no company.”

There is a knock again.

“You either speak up or you can knock all night for all I care!” You take your cane in hand, using it to prop yourself up. Your legs don’t want to work at first and you stumble.

Something outside speaks, but they say nothing you can understand. They speak with a deep, guttural voice that makes every hair on your body stand on end. You then see something from under your door. It is a dark liquid that is steaming, and it has the faint scent of blood.

Whatever is out there speaks again. “Help…puh-please.” The words don’t sound natural upon its tongue.

You crack open the door, peering outside into the cold night air. It is dark and hard to see, but you can just barely make out a large shape just before your door. The light from inside your home washes over it. The creature is bent over on the ground, almost falling over. Large horns protrude from the top of the head, covered in thick, draping moss with coiled, woody vines. You step into a puddle, finding it is warm and thick like blood.

“Help…puh-puh-” the creature gurgles as if something wet is in its throat. A soft whistling floats in the breeze, wrapping around you, your home, and the graveyard.

Lights flicker around the church and the woods behind it. Distant voices shout at one another, which only adds to the confusion in your mind. Without much thinking you kneel down before the creature, taking hold of what you can and dragging it, forcing it to move and come into your home. The large horns get stuck in the doorway and you twist them so the creature can fall inside. Its monstrous shape fills your home and you have to keep parts of it from touching the fire.

You close the door and brace yourself against it, breathing in deeply. You turn around slowly, looking down upon the creature you just dragged into your home. Dark blood is smeared all over the floor, the massive body is long and awkwardly proportioned, covered in patches of dark green, draped in vines and a dark cloak. The horns are jagged and saw-like, branching out like tree limbs with sharp fingers.

The creature wheezes horribly, struggling to breathe while it bleeds. The shouting from the woods draws closer, no doubt it was hunters thinking they had landed something big. You step over the limbs of the creature, tripping and falling as your legs give way under you. You lay there beside it, moaning in pain as you had hit your head.

“Help,” the creature chokes out again.

Moaning and holding your head, you glare at him. “How?”

The creature twists, showing you his back. There you see arrows jutting out from the side of the creature's body. Dark blood spills from the wounds, dripping to the ground like thick molasses.

“Men will shoot fucking anything,” you grumbled under your breath as you sat up. You push back the cloak and vines, reaching pale, fleshy skin that was puckering up around the arrows. They stick out from what looks like a shoulder and the side of a neck, but the shape of this thing was hard to determine. You notice the blood is going up the shafts of the arrows rather than down from the wounds.

“Help,” it wheezes. “Luhff-” it chokes out an incomprehensible word.

“Shh, be quiet. I’m trying.” You smooth your hand along the skin, trying to see the injuries. You tug on one of the arrows and it pulls freely and easily from the flesh as if you removed it from mud. You toss it aside, taking out another and another. The creature lays still upon the ground, breathing heavily but evenly. The more arrows you remove, the more it seems to calm.

You take the last arrow from the neck and smooth your hand over the skin underneath. The wound puckers, oozing the thick blood. You can’t stand up and move away. Your legs refuse to work, so you are trapped there beside the beast. Your hands shake and you are sick to the pit of your stomach.

Someone bangs on your door and you hear voices just outside. No doubt the hunting party was looking for this monster, or whatever beast they thought they got.

“Who goes there?” You shout from where you sit.

“We’re looking for something we were hunting. We found tracks all around your place, have you seen anything?” A hunter shouts from outside.

You look down at the creature, it shifts enough that you can see an eye peering up at you, wide and terrified.

“Get fucked! I’ve been in bed,” you answer back. “I haven’t seen a thing. But I have heard you all yelling up a storm out there!”

It was quiet outside. Already the hunters were retreating. They didn’t even have the decency to respond to you, let alone apologize for their perceived rudeness. You sink back down, exhaling loudly. You rub at your face and force down the sick rising from your gut.

The creature falls still and breathes. You almost think it has fallen asleep. You bow your head, trying to focus so you can get your legs to work again. Instead, you fall asleep there near the creature.

You lay on the floor come morning. Your body aches and your head is spinning. Embers crackle weakly in the fireplace and the chill from last night is seeping through a crack in the door. Moss has grown all over your floor, patches of grass slip up between the cracks in the boards, as well as vines that crawl up the walls and drip from the ceiling.

You slowly rise, gazing towards the door as it sways gently back and forth. You crawl towards your bed using it to raise yourself up. You sit upon the mattress, taking in deep breaths.

You speak nothing about what you saw that night. The monster was just as unreal to you as it was so real that night. The arrows that had been stuck in its body had rotted overnight and turned into mushrooms that sit pleasantly on your floor. There are notches in your doorway, where the creature’s horns had gotten stuck. And yet, you told yourself it was all a dream. It was easier to make it through your day if you told yourself that.

“He would have loved it,” you think to yourself about your husband. “Godly or not.”

As evening came again, the moss on the church steps had grown up and onto the sides of the church. Vines were growing from the earth, choking out the life of the bushes under the windows. The whole town was like that. It was as if nature was trying to reclaim the wood and stone used to make each building. You gave up on the church steps, let Lado fuss about them all he wanted, the moss wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

On your way through the graveyard you heard whistling upon the breeze again. You looked up from your feet and saw eyes staring at you from beyond the trees.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” you whisper with a shake of your head. “Those hunters are still around.”

The eyes stare at you unblinkingly.

You shift your gaze around, looking to see if anyone is around. All you saw was the lights of homes glittering throughout the village. The heavy pit in your stomach that had been there all day was moving around, twitching and renewing the fears you held last night. This leshy, this thing, whatever the hell it was, it wasn’t moving, just staring. It was somehow more disconcerting than it was last night.

Crossing through the rest of the graveyard you come upon your house, noticing that vines were growing down from the roof and over your windows. You glance to the left, seeing the creature is watching you. Branches and vines hang down from the great antlers, decorated in bones that look fresh and still bleeding.

“What do you want?” You ask it pointedly. “There’s nothing left to be said between us. What happened last night doesn’t need to be spoken of again.”

The head of the leshy came twisting around the corner of the house, extending from a far too long neck. You recoil, nearly losing your footing. The mouth of the creature opens and spilling from inside is a great amount of berries, fruit, and pods. It gags and coughs, spewing out more and more until your doorstep is stained red by half chewed wild berries.

It motions to the food. “Luhff! Eeeeeht.”

You rush inside your house, locking the door shut. The leshy stares at you through the side window, planting its strange, long fingers upon the glass. Its breath fogs the windows as it leans closer against it.

“Go now,” you command it, pointing towards the windows. “Leave and go back from where you came!”

It pulls back in surprise from your harsh tone. Slowly it moves, eyes still focusing on you even if the body is moving away. You hear it walking, going deeper and deeper into the woods. Finally, the eyes are gone.

“What did I do to deserve this?” You scoffed. You looked at your husband’s portrait upon the mantle. “What have you done?” You ask the picture with a hiss. Picking it up, there is a spot upon the mantle that is clean and undusted. You frown down at the picture, scoffing before putting it bake. “I need no one to look after me,” you told it, shaking your finger. “I am fine! With or without.”

The leshy reappears each night, offering something else each time. Nuts and fruits, mushrooms and tubers. It presence each night brought with untold side effects for the village in the morning. The underbrush was growing wild, blackberry bushes were taking over yards, the church was turning greener and greener each day to the consternation of pastor Lado.

With each visit you ignore the leshy, go into your home, and tell it harshly that it needs to leave. The leshy listens each time, but does not obey your command to never return.

One evening the leshy doesn’t even wait for you. It comes up to the windows of the church, watching you as you polish Pastor Lado’s pulpit. You have long since stopped being afraid of it, and instead, all you feel towards the leshy is a strong frustration. It is like a tom cat outside your window yowling every night.

You open a window to the church, which the leshy recoils away from, stumbling into the graveyard and nearly knocking over a tombstone.

“Why won’t you leave me be?” You ask, using a gentle tone. “Why do you make the wildlife grow around this town as if you are trying to strangle life from it? The hunters go missing one by one each day. You have more bones each day. What is it you want? Am I to be added to your bones? They aren’t very good! Especially the leg ones.” You let out a huff then slouched your shoulders. “I know you can speak, so at least speak to me on these matters.”

The leshy stares at you, strange eyes wide open and unblinking as you speak. “Buh-onssssss,” it gargles.

“I saved your life, why not spare mine and go elsewhere?” You point towards the forest.

“Luh-life. Yes.” The leshy nods. Its strange hands pat against its chest, or what could be a chest.

You narrow your eyes as the leshy does a strange little dance around the window. Patting its chest then hobbling to the left and weaving back in.

You sigh and shake your head. “What are you doing? You silly creature. Each day you get more and more ridiculous. It’s sweet in a way, but my ways are set and you’re making a mess of them.”

“Luhff,” it huffs out, spittle flying from its teeth.

Narrowing your eyes you wiped off your cheek. “Go back to the forest from where you came.”

The leshy steps back, crunching through the wall of the graveyard and toppling a few tombstones. It looks down, staring at the mess below its feet.

“Now look at what you have done!” You come out of the church, hobbling with your cane. “Get out of there! Get out!” You come up to the leshy and try to push it aside.

The leshy takes hold of your hand and plucks you up off the ground then sets you upon its back. Your cane drops from your hand and as soon as it hits the ground the leshy takes off with you into the forest. You scream, but no one takes notice of the sound. The leshy runs through the trees, dodging, swaying, crowing at the top of its lungs. That whistling rows louder and louder, echoing from the leshy’s form. You hold on as best you can and keep your head ducked down.

“I don’t think they are bad or good,” your husband once said. “They aren’t human. They don’t have that nature.”

“Says the pastor,” you scoffed at him. “How many beliefs do you have?”

Your husband just smiled at you. “More than you have.” He kissed you and looked back down at the drawing in the back of his bible. The creature there was something only someone genuinely imaginative could have drawn, or else, it truly was real. “If you see one, I think you’ll understand this world is more than what you can see. You can’t explain everything, my love. Sometimes you have beliefs, faith even.”

He was always like that, much like a pastor himself. Faith. Belief. It never was anything to you. You had your wits, your pride, you could stand up for yourself even if your legs gave out. But he had something you needed, and even when he died you couldn’t admit it.

You raise your head from the shoulders of the leshy, seeing the sunset going down over the mountain tops. The leshy shakes, grunting and stomping through the river. The leshy places you on the other side of the bank where no one has been before. The villagers spoke of what lay beyond the point and made it known it was unsafe to go beyond the river.

“Luhff!” The leshy huffed and shivered, sending cold water all over you like a rain.

Something inside of you has given way, and tears have begun to sting your eyes. They fall from your cheeks and your nose begins to clog. You take a shaky breath, hating the leshy is seeing you this way. “What are you saying? What do you want from me?”

The leshy grins at you and nods. It sits down in the water, gazing up at you with those wide eyes. They are the same color as your husband’s were. Even the way the vines and cloak fall over the leshy’s face reminds you of him.

“Me,” you murmur.

The leshy holds its arms out to you, spreading its fingers and opening up its palms wide. You continue to stare at it, holding in your breath as the tears fall. You have to let a sob out and your knees buckle. Your weak legs give way and the leshy catches you in it’s arms, holding you fast, embracing you.

“You don’t want me,” you whisper to it. “You don’t want this.”

“Luhff,” it chuffs it again. The leshy strokes your hair and the river begins to overflow. The water rushes faster, beating against the body of the leshy and coursing up onto the dry ground.

The leshy places you back down upon the bank, and rises back to standing. It walks up beside you, heading towards the deepest, darkest part of the woods. The moon could only give so much light, and you were afraid of going any further.

“Take me home,” you insist. “Please.”

The leshy gazes at you, its eyes unblinking. It then points into the forest. “Unh. Unh!” It juts it’s finger with each breath.

You shake your head and sniffle, wiping your nose upon your sleeve. “I can’t walk in there,” you offer. But that wasn’t the reason you wouldn’t budge. “You dropped my cane.” Behind you the river was going wild. You won’t be able to cross it on your own.

The leshy scoops you up in one arm, carrying you close to its chest and then it walks into the deepest woods. You cling to it, gripping tight and shutting your eyes.

“Tiss-ah way tiss-ah way,” the leshy sings as it continues trudging forward into the thicket.

You keep your head turned and eyes shut. But then you think: “what am I so afraid of? What is it I think is out there?” You raise your head, thinking about how silly it was that you let the ideas of the village get to you. It was the forest, the same forest you knew, just over the river.

“Luhk. Luhk!” The leshy points ahead, seeming to sense your gaze return.

Somehow, the moon had gotten brighter and revealing a path through the trees. Dancing lights hover along the path, bouncing and floating along the gentle breeze. As you were staring, trying to put together the vision before you, something began crawling up your legs.

Screaming, you swat at the wooden vines growing around your shins and the back of your calves. The leshy sat you down, despite your heavy breathing. The vines held you up, made your legs feel as strong as they were when you were little, before you got sick, before you met your husband.

“Anh, anh,” the leshy held out his hands, urging you to go forward.

“This is all very strange for me!” You say with a restrained fury. “I am…not accustomed to this.”

It urges again. “Anh. Anh!”

You couldn’t admit your fear, so instead you turn back towards the lighted back. There is a hushed whisper about the trees. Voices speak to one another, just low enough your couldn’t make out individual voices or conversation. It became a droning hum that tickled your ears and down the back of your neck.

The leshy placed its hand upon your shoulder and you gasp.

“Tuh-rye.” It gargled.

You frowned, but cautiously took a step forward. There were twinges in your legs, but the vines kept you aloft and made your limbs stronger. You take more leary steps, eventually coming upon the floating lights. You excused then as strong fireflies, but the closer you came upon them, the more it looked like the faces of sleeping babies and children. You recoil, but the leshy keeps you moving forward.

“I would like to know what am I supposed to be doing!” You shiver away from another light that sighs like a sleeping child. “What are you doing?”

The leshy’s hand moves from your shoulder to your arm, slipping down until it catches your palm and holds it there.

“I have not simply trusted anyone in a long time. Do you understand? It has been me and only me. And you…well, I should say, you look more trustworthy than some people, but you also look very unknown to the world.” You swallow down the lump growing in your throat.

More of the lights passed you by, their faces growing younger and older in the same breath. You shirked back, coming closer to the leshy. “I know not what to make of you. Leshy, or whatever it is you really are.”

It smiled at you, showing off jagged strange teeth within its mouth, the same mouth that had regurgitated berries and mushrooms as some sort of gift.

“You do understand me, don’t you?” You asked. “Not personally. But just what I say. You left when I told you to every night. So you must understand something.”

The leshy nodded and its horns knocked against branches that hung above you.

“Well,” you huff. “Then you are adamant to show me something. Whatever it may be.” You crossed your arms, rubbing your arms as the night was growing colder. You shawl only did so much to ward off the chill.

The leshy stops and strugles with something around its neck. It rips at fabric, tearing off the cloak which it place around your shoulders. The material was strange and seemed to be made up of many different patches.

“Thank you,” you mutter. “That was uhm…very kind.”

The leshy bows down and used his large hands to smooth out the cloak. Debris and forestry build-up scatter from your shoulders, coating the ground. After a moment, it walksf orward again, guiding you along the path.

Voices continue to drone on in the distance, a few spoke louder, thrasher than the others, cutting through the hum that vibrated the air. “Blood,” one rasps out. “Meat,” another sang horsley. “Muhmuhmumuhmum,” a third moans incoherently.

The leshy stuck out his hand, offering it for you to take. “Lee-tull murh,” its words were becoming a touch clearer to understand.

“Blood.”

“Meat!”

Taking hold of the leshy’s hand, you keep close to its side. Your eyes darted around into the darkness. “What is that? Who is speaking?”

“Odd-turs,” the leshy whispered.

You craned your neck up to look at him. “Others? What does that mean?”

The leshy changes directions, heading towards a darkness you could not see into. It held onto your hand tightly, pulling you along faster and faster. The vines upon your leg made you run to keep up, but you were losing breath.

“Please! I can’t run like this!”

“Blood!”

“Mumumuhuhmumum!”

You scream, catching pace beside the aching in your chest. The trees part, opening up into a valley drenched in moonlight and covered in those baby-faced lights. Their sleepy sighs and moans fill the field, while stars twinkled and threw sparks upon the earth.

The leshy stills for a moment while you breathe heavily and a cold sweat drenches the back of your neck. Figures you hadn’t noticed before were out walking the field, vanishing, then reappearing where they stood before.

“What is this place?” You whisper. The more you watch, the more you notice the figures, whose very image seems to be a distortion of the moonlight.

“Death,” the leshy spoke clearer than ever before. It met your eyes as you stared at him, disbelief washing through you with a hint of terror.

“If you are death come knocking at my door, I would like to know,” you say staunchly. You stiffen your back and shoulders. “So I can tell you what I think of you properly.”

Shaking its head, the leshy points you to beyond the line of the valley where lights do not distort or hover. In fact, it looks as if a lantern is dying where he directs you.

“There. House.”

“Your house?” You sk and the leshy nods. “You wanted me to see your place as you’ve seen mine?”

It nods again. “Ha-ohm.”

You bob you head with him. “You could have told me so and not scared me half to death.”

The leshy grins and wiggles in excitement.

“You wanted to startle me!” You balk at it, dropping your arms down to your side.

The leshy clapped its hands together. “Juhck! Juhck!”

You scoff and stomp out onto the field. “Some joke!” You lead the way, but the leshy runs out ahead of you. Its swift movements elongate its body, shifting and moving like water in the air. The lights move aside, float higher, but the distortions disappear as you grew close, then faded back as you walk away.

The leshy points into the dark alcove then disappears inside.

“Wait up, I can't keep up, even with these vines.” You step over stones, nearly tripping. The stones shift and move, making sounds like hollow wood. It was too dark to tell, but a thought creeps over you that perhaps it is bones and not stones.

The leshy picks up the lantern, turning the knob so the flame burns brighter. It shakes the light towards you, happily wiggling as it stands in the mouth of a cave.

You step with caution, looking into the mouth of the cave. It was cold and drafty, and a scent you could only describe as old hung thick about the place. The leshy walks in with its lantern revealing a collection of old swords, rusted medals, books, wagon wheels, and various pots and pans. There were jugs placed along the walls, and towards the back there was an old cot with a blanket draped over it with possibly something laying on it. Almost everything had moss and vines growing upon it. The floor was soft from all the moss, and despite the chill it was warm.

“Yes?” The leshy asks.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Uhm…this looks like a house.”

The leshy hung the lantern on the ceiling, using a hooked root. It scampers towards the cot, pointing at it.

You step in further. “I don’t want to lie down, not until I go home.”

Light distorts around the cot, looking like a man sitting up then laying back down again. Cold chills go down your spine. The leshy points. “Anh! Anh.”

The figure that sits upon the cot looks frail and lean, their body long and hair disheveled. You step towards the leshy, but it pushes you to the cot. You stumble, hitting the cot and pulling back a bit of the blanket, revealing a skeleton underneath. You recoil away, cupping your hand around your mouth.

“I wish she wasn’t so intent on being alone,” a familiar voice whispers. “We’re so different. I don’t understand her half the time.” The voice strains to speak. “It’s nice having you here. I just wish we could have made it further.”

You shake your head slowly as the distorted light continues to sit up and lay back down. “It can’t be.”

“Take me back to her, if you can,” his voice sounded gargled as if something was coming up his throat. A cough echoes all around you. “Take me home so she won’t be so alone. So she will be loved.”

The leshy places its hand upon your back. “Luhff.”

Despite shaking hands you pull back the blanke. Parts of it are rotten and fall away, some clinging to the body under it. The figure is wearing his old uniform, holding his old bible.

“Here,” the leshy whispers.

“No,” you answer back. “He’s not.”

“Unh unh. Here.” The leshy turns you, making you look up into those familiar eyes. “Tuhck while…ca-came…buh-back.”

You furrowed your brow, feeling angry at this creature. “No. My husband is gone. Dead!” You pointed to the cot. “That’s all!”

“Nhot hall. Muhr.” The leshy extended its hands. “Fae-teth.”

“He was so close,” you whisper. “All this time.” The bed before you seems so small. He was always such a tall man.

“Luhff. Here.” The leshy took the bible from the cot, taking fingers with it. You lunge as if you could keep the hand in place. The leshy opens the bible to your portrait. It falls out to the ground, and upon the back you see writing.

“My love,” you see written upon it. You take it up, seeing your husbands hand writing, shaky, but legible.

“My love, I know I won’t make it back to you just now. The flesh is weak, struck and bleeding. But my soul is strong, and my friend has agreed to help me make it home, even when I perish. You have always been so strong and resilient, I doubt I need worry much for you. But my love, you have always been alone. I know you do not care for such things, but I do in my boundless love. My friend will keep that love, will keep me. I may look strange, but I promise, I will be there. I won’t be a million miles away, much longer. I never was. Love, A.”

“Luhff,” the leshy chuffed.

“Love,” you whisper back.

The leshy put its arms around you, holding you tight.

You wake back in your room, body sore, legs aching. You doubt you could rise from bed. You lay there, staring up at the moss covering the ceiling. You then see the bible sitting on the side table, and on the mantle your picture has been leaned against the framed one of your husband.

“Strange,” you whisper. “That is one one to say it.” You sink into the bed and a few tears roll down your cheeks. He’ll come back that night, you think to yourself. He’s not a million miles away.

#others writing #momolady

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theburnedoutnerd · 2 days ago

Text

The Axe

A dark story about love gone wrong. A young woman waits on her husband to return home, but he vile stepmother who has come to live with them while she is ill, continually abuses and degrades her.

Female Main Character x Male Human (both cis)

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They thought living in the country would be best for Bernadette. The time spent at her family’s summer home out near the lakes were some of the best times of her life, so surely rural living would be the best for her after what happened.

The house was surprisingly chilly, but there seemed to be no attempts at making it warmer, and Bernadette was surprised by the dust on the mantels and the claustrophobic rooms. She walked through the house, thinking she didn’t want it to seem so inhospitable when her husband returned. She wanted to have the place renovated and beautiful, but everything just seemed to keep getting in the way of that goal.

Due to a childhood ailment, Bernadette was almost mute, and could barely speak above a whisper. Most of the time she had to communicate through letters. In youth she had carried around a notepad and pen at all times, so at least she had beautiful handwriting.

But now, in this lonely house, Bernadette often kept to herself, walking around, staring out the windows, and feeling the listlessness that came with nothing to do. The planned renovations were put on hold, due to constant heavy rain that felt endless. Some of the walls had already been taken down exposing the hollow, dusty boards beyond.. It made the house feel even more desolate.

“I cannot begin to describe how empty it all feels without you, my love,” she began one of her letters. “This place and all around it feels lost without your warming presence. The staff does not listen to me. And do not get me started on what else has been going on. I keep to myself to ignore it. I know this is not how you would like me to do things, but I do not know what else to do with myself. I know you cannot write to me as often as you’d like, but I cannot begin to return to my senses without some word from you! I fear I will not be myself completely until you are home. Even if these renovations are not done, I still wish you here. That is all I long for. Your ever-loving wife, Bernadette.”

One afternoon, a day more dreary than the last, Bernadette wandered back into what had been the bedroom. It was the last room to be renovated, and one wall had been removed to open the space. She wanted French doors, to open onto the terrace and let in beautiful sunlight, but now the outer wall was just a blank expanse of brick and mortar, and the connecting wall was partially torn down. She walked around the brick, leaving footprints in the dust.

Bernadette turned to look at the wall where the bed had once stood. She and her husband had spent so few nights there before he had to go, but those moments had made Bernadette so happy. She never thought she would be wed until she met him, and after that their companionship was like a fairy tale. He gave her a voice and helped her to gain her confidence, so without him present, it might as well go on raining forever.

“I know this house is old, but it has possibilities,” he told her. “We can do what’s needed to make it feel newer and lighter. You can make yourself happy here.” His smile as he said this brightened Bernadette’s soul. He lifted her up in a way no one else ever did. “We have wealth now, and we can do everything we need to make this place our home.”

Bernadette turned back to the destroyed wall, peering into the space between bricks where the cold air slipped through. Something was wedged there. Perhaps one of the workers left a tool behind. She reached inside and stretched out her fingers to feel something cool and smooth against her fingertips, then took hold of the handle, drawing forth the tool from within.

It was an axe, quite heavy in her palms, and the blade still looked to be sharp despite the obvious wear. Bernadette looked it over, wondering if it was missed by whoever used it last. She took it downstairs and placed it by the empty fireplace. She had left a note for the staff to light it, but the note had been ignored again.

Frustrated that she was being treated this way while her husband was absent, Bernadette made an addendum to the note. She struck the pen to the paper harshly, hoping to convey her frustration. “... or else my husband will be made aware.” She smiled to herself after penning the addition, then returned upstairs to find something to do.

The staff had been chosen by her stepmother, and she was not surprised they were ignoring her. Bernadette was used to being ignored. Her parents had sent her away as a child, first to relatives, then to school, where she became ill and lost her voice. She was returned home where her mother passed away and her father remarried, and Bernadette’s stepmother had been a source of unnecessary conflict for her. She tormented Bernadette regularly about her voice, constantly asking her to speak up for once, even mocked her frequent scribbling of notes.

“Look at this stupid, vapid, girl,” she would exclaim. She always had company. Her friends, even passing acquaintances, would be invited over so she could show off her newfound wealth and affluence. Everything Bernadette’s mother had so tenderly added to the house had been replaced by her stepmother by something bigger and gaudier. Bernadette was the last piece that needed replacing, but unfortunately she could no longer be sent away. No one wanted or knew what to do with her. Her late mother’s side of the family refused any contact with her father after he remarried. Her stepmother refused to waste any more money on her, so another school was out of the question.

“She can’t speak!” the woman sneered as she circled Bernadette. “And when she does, you can’t even hear her. Say something, child. Anything at all. Surely you can muster a few words in your defense.”

Bernadette would just stare off into the distance, placing herself into the paintings or reading the spines of books along the shelf. Should she dare to speak, or even worse, write something, it would only make the mockery of her stepmother worse.

It was no secret in the household that the woman only wanted her father for his money. Bernadette’s family was extremely wealthy. So it was no surprise when her stepmother began pushing Bernadette to marry her son, who Bernadette had never met. The boy was away for school, finishing up his education for something, but Bernadette never knew why. Her stepmother insisted on the union, which would assure that the remaining wealth of Bernadette’s family all went into her pockets.

It wasn’t until she met the man that Bernadette had a change of heart. It was early in the morning, and Bernadette was the only one awake besides the maids. Most mornings were quiet and peaceful, so Bernadette enjoyed the study while no one was around. He arrived out of the rain and cold, and his cheeks were ruddy and his smile charming. “You must be the lady of the house. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I suppose you’re my sister now,” he laughed.

How such a handsome creature came from such a vile one astounded Bernadette. She led him into the study to help him warm up. He did not mock her voice, or her inability to speak, but instead found her method of communication charming. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “You would think most would just give up, and here you are fighting to be heard. It’s remarkable.”

He had been the first to ever say such a thing, and it touched Bernadette to her soul. It no longer bothered her from there that her stepmother insisted on the union. In fact, she and her husband began to grow quite close, and he wooed Bernadette in seret, kissing her sweetly when they were alone and reading to her. “I do not care for my mother or her desires,” he whispered to Bernadette one day. “I would have been drawn to you even if you were poor. That is how much our souls are connected. You and I were meant to find one another.”

To marry him was Bernadette’s greatest joy. She had never dreamed she would find someone who would even want to marry her, let alone love her as well. The wedding was nothing grand, as her stepmother did not want money wasted on an extravagant affair. They were given a house, but not one of the good ones they owned.

“It will do. This is just for us,” her husband said. “We’ll be together, and that is all that matters.” And all was well, for a while.

Bernadette went back upstairs after placing the axe near the fireplace, into the room where she had been sleeping to sit at the foot of the bed. She had been sleeping there for a while, not just because of the renovations. Just before her husband had to leave, her stepmother had become ill. He insisted on letting her come to their home to convalesce there. Bernadette had been apprehensive, as the woman had been the main source of her torment for the last few years. “Not to worry, we’ll let the staff deal with her. I just ask you to be kind to her. She is my mother, after all, and yours as well. Perhaps she will be kinder, too.” Her husband said gently, calming Bernadette’s nerves.

That evening, Bernadette went back downstairs. Her note was gone from the table, but there was still no fire. She frowned, deciding to take matters into her own hands, but as she went to get the firewood, she noticed the axe was gone. She remembered where she had placed it, so perhaps the servants had taken it outside.

Bernadette stacked wood into the fireplace, then went to the kitchen to search for matches. While there, she saw the axe by the door. She took it, afraid the staff would move it out to the shed, where it would be forgotten. She placed it back by the fireplace, then tried to light the matches. “How pathetic you are,” a voice sneered.

Bernadette flinched, striking the match against the side of her finger and scraping skin from the knuckle. She looked up to see her stepmother standing in the doorway, her eyes narrowed at Bernadette. “You can’t even strike a match. What good are you even for?” She kept her pashmina clutched tight around her neck. “Worthless, that’s what you are.” A wicked smile spread across her face. “Aren’t you going to say something? Cat got your tongue?”

The raucous cackle that emanated from her throat made Bernadette’s blood boil and her heart sink. Bernadette slammed the matches down and walked away, choosing to ignore her stepmother rather than engage her. It seemed that most of her life would be devoted to fighting this woman. “Run away, that’s fine!” her stepmother called after her. “Keep running! You can’t leave me!”

Bernadette slammed the door behind her so she couldn’t hear any more. She went back into her room, sitting down upon the edge of the bed. Once her husband came home, everything would be fine.

Her stepmother had refused the help of the staff, insisting that Bernadette be the one to care for her. She made life hellish for Bernadette, creating terrible messes in the bed, throwing her hot tea and meals at her. Eventually, Bernadette just stopped checking the bed or bringing her food. Her stepmother’s wails could be heard all throughout the house, whining and moaning like a petulant child. Bernadette had even considered closing the door for good and never acknowledging her again. But she could not leave her stepmother to suffer in such a way. She returned to taking care of her, making sure her tea and meals were always lukewarm. But by then her stepmother was too weak to even throw a saucer. “Once my son comes home,” she rasped, taking windy breaths between every other word, “he will hear of how you treated me.”

Bernadette pressed her fingers to her throat so she could speak. “And he will hear of how you treated me.” Her voice was barely audible, but the stepmother heard it.

The next morning as Bernadette opened her bedroom door, something fell to the floor in front of her. Lying there was the axe, and she frowned as she picked it up. It shouldn’t have been placed against her door like that. She carried it back downstairs, placing it on the table while she wrote another note. “This axe is not to be touched. Leave it alone. And please start another fire. My husband will not tolerate this.” She placed the note beside the axe and left in a huff.

“Why don’t you say something?” her stepmother’s voice rattled from her room. “Just speak up!”

Bernadette slammed her stepmother’s door as hard as she could and continued down the hall. As she passed by the window, she saw something moving outside. She stopped, gazing out the window and only seeing her reflection against the gray rain. But for a moment it had looked like another woman was walking beside her.

Her husband had told her that this house once belonged to his father, a poor aristocrate whose family fortune was squandered, leaving mere pennies for him and his mother. He had lived there his entire childhood, and returned when he wished to escape university. Bernadette’s stepmother said many things about his residence, including that her son was a notorious cad. She made up such vulgar stories about him bringing women here to seduce. The stories were so salacious that Bernadette knew they could not be true. She refused to hear of them, and yet, her stepmother would carry on about the affairs, taunting Bernadette with the notion that his affairs continued while he was away.

“His father was the same way,” she crooned one day. “Didn’t matter who or what it was, so long as he could stick into them. Worthless,” she coughed. “It was good when he died. He left us more than nothing. He had no coffin, you know? They couldn’t find his body.” The smile which graced her face was enough to make Bernadette think that her stepmother had something to do with the man’s death. No one smiled like that, except for unrepentant devils.

Her step-mother noticed Bernadette's frightened stare, and slowly the smile melted away. “That is a good thing, dear. He didn’t deserve it.”

It was Bernadette’s constant fear that her own father could fall victim to that woman. After all, she stood to inherit his wealth, and it would be so easy to do if she’d done it once before. She had sent her father many letters trying to find out why he married such a beast, but he never wrote her in return. He was probably ashamed of the reason.

Bernadette was sitting in the study, writing another letter, when she heard a crash outside. It sounded like something had fallen into the bushes just outside the window. Unlocking the window to look, she peered through the rain, then then looked up to see the windows above her just closing. Bernadette leaned out the window, and saw the axe had fallen into the bushes. She went out into the rain, crawled through the bushes and fetched the blade. It almost looked like there were shadows moving in the room it had fallen from, set against the glow of a fire. Bothered by this, Bernadette took the axe back inside, intending to bring it to whomever had dropped it from the window. It was strange, considering the room in question was her husband’s office, which had been locked since he left.

As Bernadette went upstairs, she heard people talking in low, hushed voices. One voice was a woman’s, speaking in a hurried rush of words. Bernadette opened the door the voices were behind, but she found nothing in the room except lit candles. She looked around, breathing slowly. She knew she had heard something. She set the axe down on the table and approached the window. She touched the glass, then the latch. It felt warm. Had someone actually been there? Perhaps she had been mistaken.

It was easy for voices to carry through the house. Bernadette stepped away from the window, bumping into her husband’s desk. An open drawer rattled, and inside she saw a clutch of letters. Bernadette opened the drawer further, and saw her handwriting - all the letters she had sent to her husband. She grasped the bundle, feeling angier than she did before. Her letters had never been sent! That would explain why her husband had not responded to her. She charged down the hallway, then stopped when she heard a scream. The house fell still and quiet again, only filled by the sound of rain. She took another deep breath, looking down at her hand. She thought she had taken the bundle of her letters, but instead she held the axe in her fist.

‘How odd,’ Bernadette thought, ‘I was sure I took the letters’. She turned around, back down the hallway to her husband’s office. The door closed as she watched, and she could hear the lock click.

The axe slipped from Bernadette’s fingers and dropped to the floor with a dull thud. She slowly approached the door, placing her hand on the wood. Inside she heard muffled panic, low voices and cautious breathing. She took hold of the doorknob, twisting to find it locked. Bernadette twisted again, this time pushing harder. The door banged against the frame, the voices went quiet, and Bernadette tried the knob again. The door opened and she stepped inside the office slowly. No one was there.

Bernadette saw the bundle of letters on the desk. She approached and picked them up, and saw the string that tied them together was stained and crusty, stiff with something dark brown, and the same stain covered the letter at the back. She set them back in the desk drawer, closing it tight, then smoothed her palms across the desktop and took a deep breath.

When Bernadette went back into the hallway, the axe was gone. Chills went up the back of her neck, prickling along her hair and itching over her scalp. She gazed down the hall, endless and hollow in the dark, like the mouth into a void which would swallow her up if she took another step. She turned the opposite way, going into her small bedroom and locking the door behind her. It felt as though someone was breathing down her neck, following her around and using that axe to toy with her.

Bernadette clasped her hands together to pray. She had been having nightmares since coming back to this place. She saw red in her dreams, and heard screams of terror. When she walked through the house, the walls were stained like the bundle of letters, and hands reached from within, pushing against the stone like it was fabric. The long fingers stretched and grasped at her, and Bernadette would run, but just as before the hallway would become endless. No matter how far she ran, the hallway never ended, and the walls began to creep closer and closer together. They grew so close that the hands could touch her. They grazed her skin and pulled at her hair, and moans issued forth, deep, sorrowful, pained. They whined from the walls, stretching out like the fingers until Bernadette could no longer move. The walls swallowed her up and she would wake, staring up at the cobwebs along the ceiling.

The cold air of the house had become normal to Bernadette, serving as an aching reminder of how little people cared for her. She could deal with the temperature, but it was the coldness that came from people she could no longer stand. She wanted her husband to come home. She wanted her father to respond to her. She wanted her stepmother gone from the place.

Bernadette left her room in the morning, finding that the rain had grown heavier and darker than last night. Bernadette stood by the window, looking out over the countryside that had once brought her peace. Outside, the world stretched on and on, ending with the hills falling into the river. Her eyes followed along the grounds, seeing strange objects moving in the shadows. Bernadette turned away and rubbed her eyes, and it felt as if there was sand behind the lids.

Her stepmother’s chambers were downstairs on the ground floor, which Bernadette intended as an insult. As she grew close, she noticed the axe lying beside the door. Bernadette approached gingerly and looked around. There was no sound coming from any direction, no signs of anyone else in the halls. She picked up the axe and held it firmly in her grasp. The handle fit her palm, weighty and elegant. Her fingers wrapped tight around the wood, and her eyes followed along the blade, wondering just how sharp it really was.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the rasp and wheeze of her stepmother coming out into the hallway, perking her sensitive ears and making her skin itch. Bernadette was sick of hearing her, of seeing her. She reached for the doorknob, gently turning it so it didn’t make a sound. The door creaked quietly as Bernadette opened it to a crack. Inside she saw the curtains drawn around the bed. Her stepmother’s breathing became more urgent, almost as if she couldn’t breathe at all. Bernadette stepped inside, holding the axe at her side. Perhaps it was her stepmother who had been moving it all around the house, her who had kept her letters from being sent. It would make sense that she was trying to torment Bernadette, for she had been from the moment she married her father.

The curtains around the bed shifted as Bernadette came close. She peered in through the darkness, seeing nothing beyond the first few inches of the duvet. Bernadette slipped her fingers around the curtain, tugging just enough so light pooled around the pillows. “What are you doing?” her stepmother’s voice croaked quietly from within. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Suddenly afraid, Bernadette lowered the axe and put her arm behind her back. She still couldn’t make out her stepmother’s face in the shadows. “I came to check on you.”

“You’re not supposed to be here! You’re not supposed to be here! You’re not supposed to be here! You’re not supposed to be here!” She wailed the words over and over. Bernadette let go of the curtain and stepped away from the bed. Her stepmother screamed the words over and over, shrill and angry.

“Shut up!” Bernadette tried to speak over the cacophony. “Shut up! Shut up!” her voice came out no louder than a whisper, but she roared along with her stepmother. She raised the axe, intending to swing it down through the curtains. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” She nearly swung, but then she heard a knock at the front door.

The world went quiet, save for her stepmother’s breaths. Bernadette’s body swayed as she tried to understand. She left the room, hearing the knock again. She grew frightened, clutching her hand over her chest, and stared towards the source of the noise, her skin cold and her chest tight. Thinking it could be her husband, she went to the door. The weather outside was so dark and foul, how could it be anyone else? She opened her mouth to speak, but found her voice was gone from yelling at her stepmother.

“No one’s answering,” she heard from outside. Bernadette held her breath.

The knob jiggled as someone tried to open it. Bernadette’s eyes focused on the lock, watching it, praying it didn’t fail. “Maybe we should go around,” another voice said.

Bernadette rushed from the front door, running through the kitchen to the staff entrance. She checked the lock, even braced a chair in front of it. Then she ran to the parlor, where there were glass doors that opened to the garden. She locked them tight, twisting a tie from the curtain around the doorknobs so they could not be pushed open.

She was close to her room when she remembered the cellar doors. Bernadette ran. She bolted towards the kitchen, where the door was being banged upon, then rushed down the stairs to the basement. The cellar doors hadn’t been opened, and she felt relieved. But as she moved close to them, they flew open, admitting a spray of rain. Bernadette ran and hid, ducking herself down behind crates. “Something doesn’t smell good,” a man said from above.

“When does a cellar smell good? Try not to overthink this.” two men came down from above, leaving the cellar door open behind them. One of them came in further, looking around while the other lingered behind him.

The first man sighed. “I still don’t like it.”

“We’re looking for trouble.” The other man kept his voice low. “What’s to like?”

Bernadette clutched the axe tight in her fist. These men had broken into her home, probably looking for something valuable to take. She inched back further as the two of them came into the basement, walking right past her towards the stairs. One looked quite big and heavy, and the other appeared slimmer but taller.

The slim one turned before going up the stairs, making Bernadette duck behind the crates. He followed the bigger one up, and they closed the door behind themselves. Bernadette sat there, wondering if she should stay in hiding or try to do something about the invaders. Her mouth felt dry, and she still couldn’t find her voice. She heard their footsteps above her head as they went along the kitchen floor. She heard one of them scream, followed by a dull thud.

Every inch of Bernadette’s skin crawled. She went to the stairs, creeping up them so no sound was made. At the door, she turned the knob soundlessly and peered through the crack, where she saw the slim man run from the kitchen. The bigger one was knelt on the floor. She stepped out, creeping slowly and cautiously towards him. She didn’t breathe as she approached, keeping herself as quiet as possible.

The big man began to rise from the flags, and Bernadette swung the axe down into his back. He screamed, and she pulled back to strike him again. The man fell to his knees and she hit him again, and again. He fell to the floor for the last time, sagging over something beneath him. “What was that?” his companion called out. “What happened?”

Bernadette left the kitchen, creeping down the corridor to the parlor. She heard the footsteps of the slim man approaching and she hid herself in the shadows, moving behind furniture as he went down the corridor. She quickly ran towards the stairs.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Bernadette’s flesh crawled as she looked behind her. The door to her stepmother’s room was open, and she stopped on the stairs and gazed through, seeing the curtains around the bed flutter. Her steps led her back inside, and she stood over the bed as before, only this time she didn’t feel the need to keep her presence hidden. “You’re not supposed to be here,” her stepmother wheezed. “Look at what you’ve done to me!”

Bernadette tilted her head to the side. She could hear the slimmer man screaming in the kitchen. She brought up the axe over her head, and when it landed there was a crunch rather than a sickening, wet thud. She brought it down again, hearing a snapping and breaking.

“Look what you’ve done to me.”

Bernadette threw open the curtains. She saw a shattered skull upon the pillow, and a skeletal arm thrown back over the headboard. A thick brown crust covered the comforter, and decayed skin peeled away from the shattered bones. Bernadette almost laughed, but no sound came from her lips. Bernadette stumbled from the room, giggling to herself, and the axe dragged along the floor behind her as she went towards the stairs.

“Oh, God.”

Bernadette turned around, seeing the slim man standing behind her. His face was pale and grave, but in the shadows he almost looked familiar. “It’s you.”

Bernadette opened her mouth to scream, but only a hiss could escape. She ran upstairs and the man gave chase. She bolted down the hallway, but the hands began to reach from the walls. She evaded and struck them with the axe. She ran and swung, swung again. Her breath rattled as she tried to escape the hands. She heard voices coming from the master bedroom and she ran inside, slamming and locking the door behind her.

There was a weight upon her body and a shroud over her eyes. As Bernadette looked into the room, she could almost see the bed and she desperately wanted to lay her weight on it. She staggered in, towards where the wardrobe had stood. Behind her the door rattled and banged as the man shouted for her.

“Where are you going?” Bernadette whimpered, her voice cracked and frayed. She reached up, touching the broken wall where the wardrobe had stood.

“I didn’t expect you to be so needy,” her husband said. “Isn’t it enough to be here?”

Bernadette saw shadows moving beyond the wall. “You can’t leave me here.”

“I can do as I wish,” he said. “It’s mine now.”

Bernadette watched the fireplace, her eyes not focussing. She slipped into the wall, where she had found the axe before. “I’m yours.”

“Yes, that you are. But that does not make me want to stay here. I hate this place. I wish my mother hadn’t sent us here.”

“I can make it a home,” Bernadette wept. She fell to the floor, dropping the axe, and crawled through the dust and debris to where her husband was lying. “Please, stay.” She touched his face, wiping away decay.

The door burst open and the slim man came inside. Bernadette turned as he approached, clutching her husband’s head in her arms. The man picked up the axe and threw it aside. “You’re not supposed to be here, Bernadette. We’ve been looking for you.” He was shaking, and he couldn’t look directly at her. “Stay where you are.”.

Bernadette sat inside the wall, clutching her husband’s head and rocking back and forth. As the sun began to shine through the rain, more men arrived. They pulled Bernadette from the wall, dragging her and hitting her so she would comply. She struggled and hissed, kicking and clawing at the men. They threw her to the floor, knocking the air out of her lungs. “Easy now,” the slim man said. “She is still a woman.”

“She killed everyone in this house,” a gruff voice snapped. “This ain’t a woman anymore.” Bernadette was lifted off the ground by the speaker and another man. She was taken from the bedroom and into the hallway where they forced her into the void.

The next thing Bernadette saw was a bright light shining in her face. She looked up, seeing the slim man standing above her. Her arms and legs were bound to a bed, but she didn’t struggle. “Where am I?” Bernadette’s voice croaked.

“Back where you belong,” he said coldly. “You’ve been missing for two weeks.”

Bernadette didn’t try to speak again. She rolled her head away, looking back at the wall. She could remember flashes of bright red and her husband falling to the ground. She could remember being taken away. She ran, found her husband’s grave and took him home. After that, she wasn’t sure.

“I want to know why,” the man said sternly. “Why did you kill them with the axe?”

Bernadette took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

#others writing #momolady

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