Use this line to start a piece of writing - it should be no longer than a side of A4 (on computer, size 11 font) and no shorter than 10 lines (on computer, size 11 font)
The bottles clanked. They were there to catch the faeries, he said. That's what he'd always said. They said he was mad. He probably was. But that didn't stop him hanging the bottles from meagre strings around his house, filling them with perfumes, with flowers, with twisted bits of metal that glittered in the sunlight.. It didn't stop him nailing horseshoes over every doorframe, or pouring trails of salt along every doorway and windowsill. He slept with a horseshoe under his pillow. The slightest noise would jerk him awake at night, shivering, clutching the metal ring. Then he would drift back into uneasy sleep, listening to the bottles clanking in the wind. He swore, in the morning, that the salt was disturbed by the prints of tiny feet. The front of his house was dilapidated. The windows were boarded up, green paint was peeling from the door. Ivy and clematis had wound insidiously into the brickwork, long since darkened by the city smoke. And yet the back of the house was verdant as a meadow. The grass was a deep, vibrant green. The flowerbeds were well kept, with crocuses, roses and lavender. There were daffodils in spring, snowdrops in winter. As the sun rose, the apple tree in the centre cast its shadow away from the house. They liked it there, amid the verdancy. Yet a pall hung over the garden. The daffodils did not stay long in spring, their flowers decaying long before their time, despite the best efforts of the diligent gardener. The tree was strung with more bottles and, as evening crept in, they began to look like people hanging by their necks from the ancient boughs. Occasionally, a rose bloomed black. It was in this garden, all those years ago, that the child has been taken. Her mother refused to believe it. She said she couldn't have been taken; she was still there, playing on the grass. But her father knew. The mother had left shortly afterwards. The old man still believed. He wasn’t allowed to see her. Not after that night when her mother had found him bent over their child, a pillow ready in his hands. Twenty years he had been locked away. Twenty years to let his beliefs fester. To let his paranoia build up. His old house had been sold many times, then abandoned. Some said it was haunted. It was now the house where the man had tried to murder his daughter. Some things never change. One terrible act pervades a mind, a house, a neighbourhood. He still believed his daughter had been taken by the faeries. His daughter, who had still not been able to walk or talk properly by the age of three, who had struggling through school, even with a carer to look after her. Who had made it through college. Who now had a job with the RSPCA. He believed her gone, many years ago. Replaced with a changeling. Perhaps she had.
The bottles clanked. They were there to catch the faeries, he said. That's what he'd always said.
ReplyDeleteThey said he was mad. He probably was. But that didn't stop him hanging the bottles from meagre strings around his house, filling them with perfumes, with flowers, with twisted bits of metal that glittered in the sunlight..
It didn't stop him nailing horseshoes over every doorframe, or pouring trails of salt along every doorway and windowsill. He slept with a horseshoe under his pillow. The slightest noise would jerk him awake at night, shivering, clutching the metal ring. Then he would drift back into uneasy sleep, listening to the bottles clanking in the wind.
He swore, in the morning, that the salt was disturbed by the prints of tiny feet.
The front of his house was dilapidated. The windows were boarded up, green paint was peeling from the door. Ivy and clematis had wound insidiously into the brickwork, long since darkened by the city smoke.
And yet the back of the house was verdant as a meadow. The grass was a deep, vibrant green. The flowerbeds were well kept, with crocuses, roses and lavender. There were daffodils in spring, snowdrops in winter. As the sun rose, the apple tree in the centre cast its shadow away from the house. They liked it there, amid the verdancy.
Yet a pall hung over the garden. The daffodils did not stay long in spring, their flowers decaying long before their time, despite the best efforts of the diligent gardener. The tree was strung with more bottles and, as evening crept in, they began to look like people hanging by their necks from the ancient boughs. Occasionally, a rose bloomed black.
It was in this garden, all those years ago, that the child has been taken. Her mother refused to believe it. She said she couldn't have been taken; she was still there, playing on the grass. But her father knew.
The mother had left shortly afterwards.
The old man still believed. He wasn’t allowed to see her. Not after that night when her mother had found him bent over their child, a pillow ready in his hands. Twenty years he had been locked away. Twenty years to let his beliefs fester. To let his paranoia build up.
His old house had been sold many times, then abandoned. Some said it was haunted. It was now the house where the man had tried to murder his daughter. Some things never change. One terrible act pervades a mind, a house, a neighbourhood.
He still believed his daughter had been taken by the faeries. His daughter, who had still not been able to walk or talk properly by the age of three, who had struggling through school, even with a carer to look after her. Who had made it through college. Who now had a job with the RSPCA. He believed her gone, many years ago. Replaced with a changeling.
Perhaps she had.
Very intriguing Henry - I like the idea of the garden being this picture of health but in fact it hides such a dark secret.
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