They Sent The Ravens Part 1

They Sent the Ravens

Chapter 1

The woman in black staggered across the graveyard-her limp leg dragging behind her in the mud. Her face bore frustrated distress but what shone out most was her fierce determination and pride. No-one stood by her side to guide her. No, no, she didn’t need help. She was walking slowly though, every step brought with it intense concentration married with nauseating pain. When she reached her bitter-sweet destination, she slumped to her knees like her legs had bent from right underneath her. She caressed her shaking claw-like hand on the cool stone of the grave. It was a blisteringly hot mid-July day even though by this time the sun was retiring under the clouds-she was thankful of the cold against the prickly heat of her clothing. Despite the heat wave weekend the small Seattle town was enjoying, the woman was dressed in head to toe black. Upon her head rested a thick black Russian hat, Mildred strained her head in a feeble attempt to unveil the woman’s mystery. She compared this-silently, of course-to witnessing a train crash. She didn’t want to see that hollow, corpse-like face, but she simply could not tear her young and dangerously curious eyes away from that black widow. Mildred examined her more closely and noticed that her shoulders bore the burden of a faux-fur coat (again, in black) and her legs were smothered in woolly charcoal tights. Against the carefree summer day with the little floral dresses and ice cream that came with it-she stood out like a saw thumb. Mildred wondered if she even noticed how impractical her ensemble was, but she doubted that she did. At first, Mildred assumed the blackening veil of grief had vacated her basic awareness of everyday instincts. It was only later on-as hot tears welled down her cheeks-she concluded the reason to be much more sinister. That claw-like hand reached out again, this time to pull out a sad looking bunch of flowers-half-wilted white lilies, seemingly from nowhere. To little Mildred, they already looked as dead as the corpses that lay beneath where she sat; cross-legged, book in hand. The woman in black lay the lilies down carefully on the grave and that was when Mildred really noticed those hands, those horrifying, wretched hands. The skeletal woman’s skin was stretched brutally around gangling, long bones. Her fingers were wrapped around the bouquet so tightly that if it were living, it would surely be gasping for its last breath. Her fingers, those long spindly fingers like the legs of some gruesome spider as it lurked in the corner of the room, just waiting, waiting…waiting for someone to come along so it can pounce. Her fingernails were gangling and a shade of putrid yellow. They pierced the lilies, crunch crunch. The veins in those sickening hands bulged from her ghostly, sallow skin, they were a sickly blue and purple and made little Mildred’s eyes protrude almost out of her sockets as her hand slapped against her mouth. The noise was slight but the woman in black heard it as clearly as a bell in her shrivelled up ear. The attic of her haunted house whipped around like a bat released from the depths of Hell. Her vacant eyes burned into the erstwhile innocent blue eyes of little Mildred Defloure. And that was the moment of which she saw that face.



That face,



Those eyes,



Those teeth…



Oh god, oh god, oh god, those teeth...



It was 3:42pm when the harsh sound of Elizabeth and Mortimer Defloures home phone drilled through their home. Elizabeth held it loosely in one hand and pressed it half-heartedly to her ear. In the other hand, she held a small gymnastics trophy with the words ‘Mildred Defloure, 1st place regional’s’ inscribed into the golden slate beneath the miniature posing girl. Elizabeth held one handle tightly in one gloved hand as her fingers slipped through a cloth. A bottle of polish was set on the counter next to her, opposite the phone. Waiting. Elizabeth's misty blue eyes narrowed in confusion as the faceless voice on the other end was that of a stranger. His macabre tone widened those blue eyes and for a second you would have thought they belonged to little Mildred Defloure; that poor, helpless child. Her now bare hand gripped the phone desperately and clenched it to the drum of her ear. Her pulse was racing.



bah-dum, bah-dum, bah-dum.



Her blood was beating thickly in her racing mind, so deafening that the stranger’s voice sounded like it was suddenly plunged under the depths of the sea.



No, no, no.



If you had seen Elizabeth Marie Defloure at that very moment, you would be forgiven in thinking that she was in fact, a corpse. The blood in her body drained bleakly from her face as her legs experienced that sickly feeling of forgetting their very existence.



Buh-dum, buh-dum, buh-dum.



Nausia waved over her sweat-drenched body, causing her to gag. Black spots blurred her vision.



Elizabeth wasn’t listening to the suddenly mocking voice on the other end of the line now. She just stood in the middle of the living room, phone clasped to her ear so tight it almost crumbled into chunks of mechanical pieces. She stood in frozen, breathless horror as the voice began blurring so much so that she couldn’t even make out one word.



It’s just a dream…Wake up! Wake up! Oh, for goodness sake, wake up!



Her face bore the fear of a little child as it loses sight of its mother in a crowd, the face that resembled little Mildred so much it was truly terrifying.



Mildred…Oh Mildred…



Suddenly her pulse rose to a crescendo and the phone broke free from her pained grasp; her sickly perspiration acting as its key. It slammed numbly on the floor, piercing the deafening silence that echoed throughout the empty house. The trophy-so tight and protective in her hand-crashed down to the harsh floor next to that damned phone. The impact broke one handle and the little gymnast cracked straight down the middle. Elizabeth would later examine this and that would provide the introduction to her helpless, hopeless depression that would eventually end her life.



This can’t be real. Can’t be real. Can’t be real. Can’t be real. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!



Elizabeth collapsed to the floor, savouring the cold wood against her burning flesh. If fear had not bulged her eyes open, she would have passed out from the raw shock of those words. Those words...those damned words.



Not even a minute later, two police officers arrived at the front door of the Defloure household. On the forth knock, they were greeted by the shadow of Elizabeth Defloure. Her face was paper-white, eyes induced with raw fear, mouth quivering. Unable to speak. The officers sombrely removed their hats and held them defiantly in their hands before asking if they could come in. Elizabeth Defloure didn’t reply. Her mind wasn’t focused on this nightmarish scenario; her only thoughts remained on Mildred. She silently let them in in a trance-like state, not even thinking about what was happening.



“I think you should take a seat, ma’am” one of the police officers drooled in a sombre southern twang as he gestured to the couch next to the bookcase. The same couch in which Mildred fell asleep on just the night before, her father; Mortimer, had to scoop her up and carry her upstairs to bed. He could smell the strawberry shampoo on her baby blonde hair as he held her in his arms; her lips were parted in her deep, heavy-breathing slumber.



Elizabeth paused for a moment, allowing the instruction to process in her mind for a few seconds until she reluctantly yet dreamily complied.



“Mrs Defloure…I’m afraid we have some bad news about your daughter, Mildred Defloure, I’m sorry to say that she has been found dead in Saint Michaels Churchyard. We’re-”



“I know” Elizabeth spoke, her face unreadable. Her voice was almost possessed.



“You know?” The officer asked, exchanging baffled glances with his colleague.



“Yes. You phoned.” Elizabeth stated matter-of-factly, still in a traumatized trance.



“Mrs Defloure…We didn’t phone. No-one phoned.”





It was 3:23pm on Wednesday 13th of August when Mildred Anne Defloure was pronounced deceased. The post-mortem revealed her death to be unknown; it was believed that her little heart just stopped beating and she was no more. The police treated the case as ‘suspicious’ but no solid evidence was found to prove anyone as even a suspect. Some concluded that she was literally ‘scared to death’. She was just eight years old when she breathed her final, fearful breath. Mildred was found by a nearby mourner in St. Michael’s Evangelical Church graveyard; the same church in which she was christened along with her younger sister; Annie. The newspapers later reported that Mildred Defloure was found sitting bolt-upright, her legs crossed beneath her. Upon witnessing the corpse of the little girl; the mourner described her as ‘wide-eyed…a-a-almost h-haunted’. A police officer agreed with the witness, stating that he had ‘never seen anything quite like it’ and he didn’t think he would be ‘forgetting those horrified, tainted eyes in a long while’.



If Elizabeth had read the countless newspapers covering her daughter’s disturbing demise, she would have sombrely agreed. She was called to identify the lifeless body of her child as she lie on a cold, hard, slab of metal. Still, Elizabeth could not cry. She refused to believe that she would never see her little Mildred ever again. She would never hold her tiny hand as they crossed the road, she would never make her breakfast in the morning before school, and she could never tuck her in bed at night, kiss her on her forehead and wish her sweet dreams. Elizabeth would never get the chance to give her daughter the doll she had bought her for her upcoming ninth birthday. ‘Mildred would love that’ Elizabeth had thought with a contented smile as she stroked its long, blonde hair before buying it. She already had it wrapped up in bright pink wrapping paper with the words ‘Birthday Girl’ lettered over the paper in deep purple. It was secretly stored away in the attic, excitedly counting down the days until it was ripped open at 5am on September 19th.



She’ll never be nine…



After Elizabeth had confirmed that the pulse-less body was that of her daughters, she was left alone with her child for a few precious minutes. She held her little icy hand in hers and watched as Mildred’s face remained unresponsive. Elizabeth had found herself in limbo, she was still in disbelief. To her, it was still just a dream. She would wake up in the morning and Mildred would be there, in her little pale pink pyjamas, her feet making pitter-patter sounds as she ran across the hallway to her mother and fathers room and jumped up on the bed, chattering on to them in her lovely high-pitched baby voice. Only, she wouldn’t. When Elizabeth woke the next morning, Mildred would not be there, she would not snuggle up to her in bed that morning nor would she the next day, or the next, or the next…No, Mildred would never be there again.



Wake up, Elizabeth! Wake up, wake up, wake up! For heaven’s sake, just wake up!



Elizabeth stroked her daughter’s soft, blonde hair, just like she had done with the doll that Mildred would never play with. She could still smell her sweet, strawberry shampoo. Elizabeth lay her head softly on Mildred’s before kissing her forehead. Just as she did that, a sudden, reckless thought entered her head. It came from no-where but in that moment, Elizabeth thought it was the best idea she had ever had.



Just take her. No-one’s around. Take her home.



Elizabeth’s hand slipped under her daughters little, lifeless leg while the other held her nape, she picked her up like a fireman carrying out the last victim of a house fire. Elizabeth frantically scanned the room for an escape, her deceased daughter still resting lifelessly in her arms. Frustrated tears welled up in the baby-blue eyes of Elizabeth Defloure as she realized she was running out of time.



The window.



Elizabeth ran as fast as she could, taking into account the dead weight in her arms. There was a small window in the corner of the bleak room. There was a little golden handle on its side; she tried to push it open. It was locked.



The key, the key, the key. Look for the key.



“I’m gonna get you out of here, you hear me? It’s gonna be ok, baby, it’s gonna be ok.” Elizabeth told her breathless daughter in panicked tones.



Elizabeth’s heart was beating for the two of them, adrenaline pumping through her veins.



The plantpot. The plantpot, the key’s always under the plantpot.



A tiny cactus plant rested upon the widow cell, Elizabeth picked it up, frantically scanning the uncovered area. Nothing. Her fingers searched through the dirt in the pot until she finally gave up the half-hearted approach and smashed it hard on the floor. Bit’s of ceramic, dirt and plant crashed down on the floor in a clumsy racket. Elizabeth carefully bent down on the floor, aware of her baby in arms. She rested Mildred on her lap as she dove into the mess on the floor, willing the key to be amongst the dirt.



Like Mildred will be. Shutupshutupshutup.



“It’s ok, baby, I’ll get you out of here, ok? I promise, I promise.” Elizabeth hurriedly uttered before planting a shower of kisses upon her daughters blonde head. She held her there for a while and closed her eyes, feeling her tiny body against hers for just a few precious seconds.



She pulled gradually pulled herself together and struggled to her feet.



The key, the key. Where’s the key? If you were the key, where would you be?



All rational thinking dissolved from the mind of Elizabeth Defloure in that moment as she ran around the room with no known destination, just searching desperately for that stupid key.



“I-I don’t know what to do, baby. I can’t find the key, I can’t find the key…” Elizabeth cried as she broke down and fell to her knee’s, sobbing uncontrollable and rocking herself and Mildred back and forward, back and forward.



“Mrs Defloure? Mrs Defloure, are you-Mrs Defloure, what are you doing?” A medical intern almost-screamed, unable to disguise his shock.



Elizabeth Defloure looked up at him with eyes that seemed somehow twenty years younger, eyes of a scared little child. The intern (who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen) rushed to her aid, his expression asking a thousand questions.



“I-I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the key.” She responded to him apologetically in a desperate, saddening tone. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” She wept as rocked herself back and forward, squeezing her lifeless child in her arms.

Chapter 2

The dreary morning of Wednesday the 23rd of August was the day Elizabeth dressed in her most despised shade of black. It was also the day in which she repeated the same childlike explanation of Mildred’s demise to her younger daughter; Annie. Annie was an inquisitive, prodigy child and mature for her age, therefore it was difficult to tell her that her sister had ‘gone on to a better place, where she’s got tonnes of toys and ice cream and everything she could ever want’. If this was true, it didn’t explain being waken up in the dead of night to her mother’s desperate weeping. Annie knew something was wrong. She would hear her mother and father talking in hushed tones in the kitchen as she stood on the landing in her pyjamas, trying to keep as quiet as she could. Elizabeth and Mortimer would hear the floorboard creak and their voices fell. Mortimer would sigh and greet Annie on the stairs and carry her back up to bed on his shoulder. He'd tuck her in as she asked what he was talking to her mommy about. He'd say it was 'grown-up stuff' and tell her 'not to worry about it'. This happened in a regular, almost comfortable pattern nearly every night in the Defloure household. As time went on, Annie developed a keener ear and could make out some of the suspicious voices of her parents. At first, it was single words, such as ‘Mildred’, ‘funeral’, ‘gone’. Then, ‘can’t cope’, ‘just want her back’.



On the eve of the funeral, Annie awoke to her parents voices once again. She tip-toed out of her bedroom and down to the seventh step on the stairs--not an utter was heard. She pressed her ears into the direction of her parents and listened carefully, closing her eyes for focus. She heard her mother’s voice first-‘you don’t think…*muffle muffle*’ then her father’s ‘I don’t know…It’s just *muffle muffle*. Annie then moved down to the last step on the stairs, determined to have the answer. Any answer. Whether she liked it or not. An infuriating silence followed. Annie waited impatiently, willing her parents to speak once more. Her prayers were answered as she heard the voices yet again. ‘Remember what you did?’ her father’s voice spoke out, it sounded on verge of tears mixed with raw anger. Annie’s pulse was racing as she waited with bated breath for her mother’s reply. What did he mean? What did her mother do? Questions too complex for any six year old--despite their intellect and maturity--to understand flew through the confused mind of Annie Defloure. Annie did not hear her mother’s reply and she was quite glad of that; there was something so horrible in her father’s tone that she did not want to hear anything else of it. Instead, she took herself back to bed and tucked herself in, without the comforting aid of her father. She would recall later on, in endless therapy sessions, that the room seemed so much darker at the moment, and it had stayed like that ever since. That night, Annie Defloure dreamed of the elder sister that she would outlive; in two years, she would be the same age of Mildred, in three, she would be older. This thought occurred to Annie whilst pretending to be asleep on the sofa but secretly watching one of her father’s late-night crime shows with him. There was a woman speaking about her five year old son who had died in a suspicious train-crash, she said that, ‘he would always be five. He’ll never grow any older now…’ This thought alarmed Annie but, as always, she told no-one. Instead, she kept it in her head where she analyze it, fear it and obsess over it over the entirety of her life. Mildred was her big sister. She was two years, four months, twelve days, seven hours and twenty-three minutes older than her. And it would always be that way.



If you had walked past St Michaels Evangelical Church on that disconsolate day, you would have seen fifty-one black ties, sixty-three hankichefs, two grief-stricken parents and one little white coffin. If you looked close enough, you would have seen a little girl stood in between her mother and father, staring hopelessly at the 5ft wooden box that imprisoned her beloved and only sibling, confident, friend. Gone. Just like that. She was there one day, she laughed, she cried, she fell asleep on the sofa and soon it would be her birthday…Then, she was no more. The smiles stopped and that was it. Gone.



You would have also seen the misery-stricken shadow of Elizabeth Defloure. The ghost of her, you could say. Her once radiant skin had become a sorry shade of ivory. Her eyes of a mesmerizing ocean blue became lifeless and dead with a red rim around them. Bloodshot and pained. Not an ounce of makeup blessed her face as she stood dismally in that graveyard. The same place in which she proudly brought Mildred eight years ago to baptise her. The very same place she held her hand and took her to Sunday School, where Mildred smiled and giggled as her sister was baptised. Where Mildred came after school to say ‘salut, grandmere, ca va?’ and read her books. The same place in which Mildred’s heart stopped. Where Mr J. Karlstan screamed and cried as his traumatized eyes set upon the horrific corpse of Mildred Defloure. Where harsh blue lights flashed and sirens whirled when it was all too late. The same place where Dr M.Raesaaid wiped his eyes on his sleeve, thought of his three children back home, and declared Mildred Anne Defloure deceased.



Elizabeth stood vacantly--her eyes transfixed on the tragically small coffin--to her, she was stood in an empty graveyard with Mildred and the vicar. In reality, she was surrounded by teary eyed relatives and close friends. She did not acknowledge them. They were not important. They didn’t know her pain. How the hell could they? No-one understood, not even Mortimer or Annie, not really. There was a misty drizzle in the air which created an even more macabre atmosphere, as if Mother Nature didn’t deem the mysterious death of a small child as sinister enough. Oddly, this was Annie’s favourite kind of weather as you could smell the dismal yet cleansed rain but it was absent. Much like Mildred, Annie thought to herself as she squeezed harder on her parents palms. The vicar’s words became a blur and in a moment of madness a thought that he could just say anything crossed his mind. No-one was really listening to him anyways; he knew what they were all thinking. Thoughts and theories of the cause of the smiling girl they saw on their way to work and school raced through their minds. They were thinking of Elizabeth, Mortimer and Annie, and how they would cope with the empty chair at dinner, the cold bed, the unused pink toothbrush. Whatever other thoughts raced through their minds, it was not the words of the vicar.



As the vicar finished those intensely religious yet somehow cruelly impersonal words, it was time to throw the dirt in the ground. Elizabeth watched on as a clump of earth fell onto the little white box, her vision obscured by desperate tears. To Elizabeth, this was still a dream, a horrific nightmare, but she would wake up. She would wake up and this would all be over and back to normal. Only, it wouldn’t. And nothing would ever be back to normal.



“Elizabeth?” the vicar prompted her as understandingly as he could when it came to her turn to throw the dirt on that white coffin.



A high-pitched sound escaped Elizabeth’s thinning lips that sounded a lot like ‘no’. She began shaking her head, slowly and miserable at first, then erratic and violent. Mortimer’s hands were placed firmly on her shoulders as she tried to wriggle hysterically out of them.



“Calm down, Elizabeth, please, please calm down, for Mildred, at least, please, please, please, Elizabeth, you’re upsetting Annie, please!” Mortimer babbled in panicked hysteria as Elizabeth’s screams became those of a mad woman. The rest of the mourners either dabbed their eyes in terrified pity or cursed her in hushed tones.



Mortimer’s hands gripped her shoulders as his panicked worry escalated to hot anger. His voice became harsh and violent as he shook her fragile shoulders. This violent act only lasted a mere few moments because then, Elizabeth broke free. She slammed her hands into his stomach, sending him flying backwards onto the cold ground. She didn’t even look back as she pushed through the panicked mourners and into the 6ft hole they were surrounding.



Mildred, you don’t have to worry now, I’m here, mommy’s here now, baby. It’s ok, it’s ok.



Elizabeth’s body slammed against the coffin and if she had been eating anything since the day she got that damned phone call, she would have broken it in two. She collapsed on the coffin, hysterical tears streaming down her face.



“Mommy’s here, baby, mommy’s here, I’m not going anywhere, mommy’s here, mommy’s here, it’s ok baby, it’s ok, it’s ok-“ she wept as she stroked the cool wood of that held her daughter inside it.



“Elizabeth, what the hell do you think you’re playing at? Get the hell out of there! Elizabeth! Now!” Mortimer screamed at his wife as he lay on the ground where she pushed him, unable to stand up from the agonizing impact of her anger.



Elizabeth did not hear his words as she wrapped her arms around the coffin, lay her head on it’s cold surface, closed her eyes and wept.



“It’s ok now, I’m-I’m gonna take you home, and you can play with your dolls and Annie, Annie’ll be there too and it’ll be ok, it’ll be ok…” She managed to whimper in between violent sobs, her almost white-blonde hair spreading across the wood, hanging loose and hopeless.



By this time, the reminder of the mourners had gathered closer to the gaping hole in the earth, where a weeping mother lay with her child, 6ft below the surface…



“Elizabeth! Get the hell out of there! This is Mildred’s day, not yours! Get out of there, all you’re doing is making a goddamned scene!” Mortimer screamed down the grave, he was standing now and his voice bellowed so loudly it almost vibrated. At this point, many mourners stepped back and the saddening scene fell into dark silence.



In one sudden movement, Elizabeth’s eyes popped open into a wide-eyed, fear-enduced stare. She leapt up and took two steps away from the coffin, much to the shock and confusion of the mourners.



“There’s-There-There’s something, something, there’s-there’s something in the coffin.” She stuttered, fear possessing her speech.



“Yes, yes, there is Elizabeth. Well done for finally fucking realizing that. Our daughter’s in that goddamned coffin, dead as the day is long, you stupid fucking-“



“Shut it! Listen.” Elizabeth screamed madly as her hand flew out to point to the coffin accusingly.



The mourners gathered round and cupped their ears to hear.



Squawk, squawk, swuaaaawk



“Oh my dear god!” An elderly woman screeched dramatically as her hands flew to her mouth. The crowd followed in her footsteps and shrieks and shouts and screams ripped through the sanctuary of the graveyard. There was something in that coffin other than little Mildred. Something…b-b-but wha-what?



The squawks became louder, multiplied, amplified. Elizabeth’s hot, raw tears streamed down her face as she clutched at her head madly, ripping out chunks of hair in a violent act of self harm.



“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the hell up!” She screamed at whatever occupied the coffin as she clasped her hands to her ears in a childlike attempt to block it out. Block it all out.



“Elizabeth, we need to open the coffin. There’s clearly something in there, don’t ask me what or how it got in there, but there is something in there. I need you to calm down and open the coffin.” The vicar explained as though he was talking to a madman holding a gun in a bank robbery. Elizabeth responded only in a fresh flood of tears so the vicar repeated himself.



“How? How am I going to open it? I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” she finally responded.



The squawks became hysterical and flooded the previously macabre silence. A bony woman in the back fainted dramatically, causing a small circle to gather around her to her aid.



“We have a crow-bar inside the church, I’m sure of it. Just wait here and stay calm.” The vicar said before scrambling to the safety of the chapel, blessing himself on the way. He was only gone a few moments before he came running back to the grave; crow-bar in one hand, iron cross in the other.



By this time, Mortimer had finally rescued Elizabeth from the grave of their child and they stood huddled together with Annie in the middle of them. Head to head, wrist to wrist, heart to heart. Her sobs had gone from hysteria to those of utter despair.



They watched as the vicar leapt into the grave, sending the mourners into a pantomime of gasps and shrieks. They gathered around the grave yet again-like a flock of sheep-to watch in awe as the vicar struggled to open the coffin even with the crow-bar. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead before continuing. The metal ploughed at the wood violently, digging and colliding until-



Until it flew open. The squawks drilled through the anticipated silence as their sources escaped. Their thick black bodies ripped through the opening of the coffin that imprisoned them with the corpse of Mildred Defloure. Dozens, no, no, hundreds flew up to the sky in one horrific flock. The vicar fell backwards from their impact and stared in horror as the ravens fled the coffin. Hundreds of giant black beaks, thick black feathers, curled, pointed talons. And those eyes, those black vacant eyes, so menacing and miserable. The vicar urgently blessed himself as the sky became littered with charcoal, feathered evils. Blood curdling screams shot out of the mourners throats as they fled almost quicker than the ravens.



And then, the graveyard was almost completely empty. The mourners had escaped in mass hysteria from the devil-like ravens. You see, the people of Franklin were plagued with a bitterly small and isolated town, far away from the city lights and modern attitudes. Religion played a major part in their lives; they were god-fearing and devote. To the inhabitants of the desperately lonely town, the ravens symbolised death, dismay and, most importantly, the devils work. They blessed themselves as they fled in droves; panicked screeches filling the erstwhile voiceless scene.

Mortimer’s bereaved eyes watched on despairingly at the vicar. The melancholy drizzle had now dispended into an enraged hailstorm and the vicar laid in the saturated mud, his iron cross elevated to the heavens, howling in incoherent shrieks. Mortimer suddenly became aware of the presence of his distraught wife on his shoulder. Elizabeth had her head buried into the comfort of his husbands shoulder. It smelt of tobacco and detergent. She allowed her sobs to become muffled in the warm polyester, her cries held almost inaudible against the rage-fuelled weather. She sniffed upwards a couple of times and tucked her light, very English brown hair behind her ears, preparing herself for the harsh reality outside of her comfort blanket.

She gradually and reluctantly withdrew herself from her husband’s protective embrace. Her misty blue, almost grey eyes stared up at him and the couple exchanged sympathetic expressions. Fortunately, she didn’t see the distressed vicar’s as he lay in the swampy mud; hysteric and insane. She had her back to him and his shrieks were like chatter against music. She gave a sad smile of disbelief to her husband as tears gathered in those blue eyes once again.

“I think we should go…” She mumbled, holding back her tears by biting down hard on her lip. Her gothic scarlet lipstick had been smeared away on Mortimer’s suit, causing it to gather in the corners of her mouth and a flicker on her cheek.

Mortimer nodded, looking almost defeated.

“Annie, come on…” Elizabeth whispered sadly, looking around her. “Annie?!” she yelled as she then realized there were only three people by the grave.

“Annie! Annie!” Mortimer and Elizabeth simultaneously screamed, as if wild animals searching for their lost cub. They ran and hollered, adrenaline racing through their veins to their hearts. 



“Annie…” she breathed as she finally saw her child. Mortimer came running up a moment later, breathing a sigh of relief and almost smiling. Annie did not share their ease. She was busy. Elizabeth and Mortimer’s vision of Annie was obscured by a willow tree, she was sat under its serpent-like branches. Talking. Her parents moved with morbid curiosity to their child as her voice became louder yet remained in a secretive tone.



What they saw next would haunt them eternally. The brushed past the dishevelled branches of the willow tree and saw a black beaked nose, beady black eyes, charcoal talons and Annie. She was sat cross-legged, her hands cupped underneath her chin. Listening.



“But why?” she said with eerie sweetness.



A few moments after, she spoke again “Oh…”



“Annie!” Elizabeth finally yelled, scooping her daughter up in her arms and kissing her forehead protectively. Annie wiped her face angrily where her mother had kissed it. And when they looked again, the beast was gone.



“She did it, mom. She took her.” Annie spoke, the words sounding too adult for her baby-voice.



“Who did it, sweetie?” Elizabeth asked, trying to keep the worry from reaching her face as she cradled Annie like a newborn; much to Annie’s dislike.



“The ravens. She sent the ravens to take Mildred. ”

Chapter 3

~

Death

–noun

1.

the act of dying; the end of life; the total and permanent cessation of all the vital functions of an organism. Compare brain death.

2.

an instance of this: a death in the family; letters published after his death.

3.

the state of being dead: to lie still in death.



The bitter and permanent stench of death drifted through the red-brick Defloure home in the following days. The hysteria had gradually fallen into eerie gloom and hopeless, pitted misery. Everything in the house reminded them of the little girl that used to live there, once upon a time that seemed so long ago. Every piece of furniture, little keepsake, treasured photograph, item of clothing, everything, everything held a story about that blue-eyed child. From the fireplace where she ran into and had to get stitches when she was four, to her mountain of books, waiting to be read by a little girl who once was. The books held a life inside them, just willing and waiting to be picked up and read. Cover to cover. One of the books had a little leather bookmark with the words ‘Franklin town museum’ placed carefully on the eighth page and now, always will be. This book was found by Elizabeth on the side of the sofa for none of the family members dared to venture into the stillness of Mildred’s bedroom. Everything was how it was on the last day she lived. The bed was unmade, her dolls were dotted around the room in random places, and her white horse poster was curling at the edges, just about to fall, but still hanging on. It was imperfectly beautiful and no-one dared to spoil it. Or maybe they just liked to think Millie was just in her room; reading or drawing pictures of her with her family, that she’d be down for dinner and she wasn’t really gone at all.

Elizabeth dealt with the grief by writing. It helped her focus on something other than the impending doom that pressed down her chest. Suffocating and mocking her. It also allowed to her talk to someone; to spill it out, get it all out of her. And most importantly? To tell the complete truth. She wrote like a woman possessed. She divulged into a disturbing trance as her pen scratched at the paper. When this happened, Mortimer and Annie would leave her alone and retire to another room. Mortimer thought that it was a damn site better than looking for a solution at the bottom of a pill box, so he left her to it, his more left-brained mind couldn’t fully comprehend her artistic new comfort, but he understand it helped her and that was all that mattered.

At first, Mortimer didn’t show any interest in what she was actually writing. He didn’t want to face up to the true, uncensored mind of the woman he had been married to for eight years, who he thought he knew more than anyone, for the simple fear that perhaps he didn’t know her at all. However, when he found himself alone in the kitchen with Elizabeth’s notebook (when she was in a sleeping pill induced slumber) he dared to divulge into its contents. He locked the door and set a pair of reading glasses upon his hollow yet still handsome face and opened the book…



25rd August

The moment had solemnly arrived. I knew it would, in time. It was that moment I had been dreading from the pit of my stomach; desperately, hysterically trying to avoid. I had been struck down by that moment of realisation. The raven carried it with him on his wings and had arrived on that miserable day. It had allowed me a mere few days of dreamlike ignorance and limbo but now, it had set its wings upon my shoulders and she would now carry it with me. If you are thinking that he brought misery and sorrow along with him, you would be sadly mistaken, for the raven was not that kind, with him, he brought only emptiness.

30th August

I miss my Millie. I miss her more than I’ve ever missed anyone before; I miss every little thing about her, even the things that used to annoy me. She used to leave orange peel on the living room floor on an almost hourly basis. I’d come in to see her sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the stuff. I’d tell her that one of these days, she would have no choice but to clean up her own mess when she’s older and I’m not there to tidy up around her, she said that would happen. I guess she was right. But now, it sounds incredible stupid, but I’d give anything to clean up after her. 

{{u}u}2nd September

Gloom. I think that is the word for it. The black cloud is hanging dimly above my weak frame, sagging over my bowed head while the vicious raven weighs down my left shoulder. Digging its claws deep into my flesh. I sit in eerie silence, just staring ahead. The crow has not blessed me with dramatic tears nor infuriated screams. The raven had cursed me with empty realization and my heart therefore resembles the tear-stained Titanic. It is forever sinking into the ice-laded, black sea. The sea has no end, no destination. Just forever falling, falling, falling. I watch on bleakly as the vibrant colours that used to shape my world are dismally faded into unforgiving shades of grey and black. Sometimes I let my mind wonder and the tide rides out for a few sacred moments, then the crow digs its blackened claws into my shoulder and the sea comes flooding back in. And I’m back; falling deeper and deeper into the black, black sea. Falling, falling, falling…

And they don’t understand. They think they do, yes, but they don’t. I am the sole bearer of the burden that is the truth. It’s weighing down on my back and eating away at me. I don’t know if I can cope any longer and I am afraid to admit, if I didn’t still have Annie, I don’t think I would be here to write this. Morty helps but he doesn’t know the truth; he knows part of it, more than most people know, but he doesn’t know it all.

I stare the knife in the kitchen drawer and imagine, actually, more like fantasise, about reaching for the knife, drawing it out slowly, rolling up my sleeve, slicing through my flesh. I can imagine the blood pouring from my veins, escaping my pitiful existence. It would hurt. Yes, it would hurt a great deal, I should imagine. And that would a good thing. I want to hurt; I want to feel something except this numb gloomy state of mind that has capsized my ‘life’. And then, after a few litres of blood, it would be over. My misery would be finally over. But, of course, I can’t do that. Who am I kidding? I have a family, people who depend on me. I’m not THAT selfish. God has kept me here for some reason, I don’t know why, but t He has and I guess that means something. I just wish, sometimes, that I could be dead for the day. Just one little day. Just a bit of peace. I’d come back the next day, I promise. I just want one day without the burden, without the constant, aching pain. I think I’d be a lot better if I did that, to be honest. Just 24 little hours without the raven…



Mortimer didn’t need to read another word. He slammed the book shut and took two headache tablets without water. The raven, he thought gravely, what the hell was the raven? It’s a bird and nothing more. There was a poem about a raven that he remembered having to study at school; he couldn’t remember what it was about, nor its significance, though. Annie mentioned something about a raven at Mildred’s funeral, he suddenly remembered. It was an exhausting day and they had dismissed Annie’s disturbing words. They told her that it was ok for her to want attention but she didn’t need to make things up to get it, they apologized to her for not being as focused on her as they should, they gave her a warm mug of milk and haven’t spoke about it since. Elizabeth had claimed not to know anything about it and they had simply left it.

Mortimer threw back a shot of whisky before unlocking the door and preparing himself for the confrontation he so despised. He could feel the liquor burning down his throat.

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth?” He yelled as walked through the house.

“Yes?” She responded wearily from upstairs after a few moments.

“I need to talk to you, are you coming downstairs?” Mortimer asked before he retired back to the kitchen and took another shot.

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth questioned suspiciously as she appeared in the doorway.

“Just sit down, we need to talk…”

Elizabeth gingerly took a seat and waited with confused anticipation as she tried to read Mortimer’s eyes for any clues.

“What is it? You’re scaring me, Mort. Is it Annie? Is she all right?”

He remained silent and stared into her eyes for a moment before taking out her notebook from underneath the table and sliding it across to her.

“I think you know what.” He said coldly, staring at the notebook with anger burning through his blurry eyes.

Elizabeth jumped up out of her seat and glared down at him with disgust. “You’ve been reading my diary? My inner most personal thoughts and you’ve been going through them? I can’t believe this... I can’t believe you!” she screamed, thrashing her arms around like she was drowning.

“What the hell is 'the raven'? You gonna tell me that, huh? You said you didn’t know what it meant when Annie said it, but you’ve been writing all about it!”

Mortimer’s face was now so close to Elizabeth’s that they could kiss. Needless to say, they did not. She could smell the whisky on his hot breath and knew it had begun again. This time she was going to do something about it. This time she wasn’t going to play the fool.

“This is nothing to do with you. You know what? I’ve had enough! I’ve had enough of you!” She screamed at him violently.

“Oh, you’ve had enough? You’ve had enough? Oh ok!” Mortimer yelled sarcastically.

“Yes! I’ve had enough; I’ve had enough of you, you and-and this” She screamed, gesturing to the rest of the room and the rest of their lives.

“You’re crazy, you know that? Mentally fucking challenged.”

“I am not crazy! Don’t you dare call me crazy!”

“Just…just tell me what this raven thing’s about and then…then I won’t mention it again.” Mortimer whispered, calming himself down.

“You won’t.” Elizabeth whimpered “Once you know, you’ll ask a million questions and…and everything will change. There's thing I don't know about it myself, things, frankly, I don't want to know.”

“Beth…if it’s got anything at all to do with our daughter’s death, I want to know and I want to know now.” He said slowly, thinking over every word.

Silence

“Ok…” She said, taking a deep breath. “The raven…it’s-“

Annie suddenly burst through the kitchen door. “Mommy, where’ve you been? You said you’d only be a minute.”

“Um…” Elizabeth looked from Mortimer—who was shaking his head in disbelief of his terrible, bad luck—and then to Annie, who was staring up at her with her wide blue-ish green eyes. “Ok, sweetie, how about we go back upstairs and play with your dollhouse, that be ok?” She explained sweetly as she knelt down to Annie’s level.

“Ok!” Annie grinned before rushing back upstairs.

Elizabeth turned back towards Mortimer to tell him that ‘we’ll talk about this later’ or ‘I’ll tell you soon, I promise’ but he wasn’t there. She caught sight of him through the window. He was sat in the garden on the bench, bottle of whisky by his side. She left.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply and put on her best Soccer-Mom-With-Cookies-Smile before pushing opens the white wooden door, (which was clotted with half-peeled stickers and wild crayon marks).

They did it, mom. They took her. They sent the ravens to take Mildred

Stop it, Elizabeth. Blot it out. Blot it out.

Elizabeth shrieked as she saw Annie. Her back was facing her and she was mumbling into the coarse feathers of the raven, its talons closing around her chubby limbs. Its sharp beak opened and fangs shot out of its prison. As Elizabeth screamed, the raven turned back into the dollhouse and Annie stared at her in confusion.

You’re crazy, Elizabeth. Crazy, like me. Just like me.

“Mommy? What’s the matter?” Annie asked with tears forming in her cobalt eyes.

“Nothing. I just…I thought I saw a spider, but-but it was just a piece of fluff. Sorry I screamed, sweetie.”

“Oh…it’s ok.” And she went back to brutally slamming her toys around in the little dollhouse.

Two sandwiches short of a picnic, that’s what they called me. HA!

Elizabeth widened her smile to compensate her fearful eyes as she sat down next to Annie, stroking her baby soft hair.

Like mother, like daughter, huh, Lizzie?

“What’s her name?” Elizabeth smiled, holding up one of Annie’s fifteen Barbie dolls.

“Rebecca. No…I think…Liza.”

She’ll hate you, too, just like you hate me. Just wait and see, Lizzie.

“SHUT IT, MOM! JUST SHUT IT!”

Annie’s bottom lip trembled as she stared up at the monster who had taken over her mother. She remained on the floor as she scrambled madly into the corner, too afraid to even cry.

“Oh my god…oh my god, I’m so sorry. Annie, sweetie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Elizabeth mumbled in almost incoherent rambles as reality dawned on her. She moved towards the shaking infant as spoke. At this point, Annie’s quiet whimpers became desperate cries as she tried to get away from her mother.

Told you so, Lizzie. Look what you’ve done. She hates you.

“Annie, it’s me, sweetie, it’s me” Elizabeth cried, hurt at her daughter’s genuine fear for her. “Annie…come here, gimme a hug” As Elizabeth’s arms attempted to close around Annie’s shaking torso, she slammed her little hands to her mother’s stomach and ran past her, down the stairs, out of harm. Elizabeth could only watch as her last remaining child fled from her.

History repeats itself, doesn’t it, dear?