The Shackle

He crept slowly along the dirt path which seemed to crunch and scream with every footprint he planted. His soft trainers were useless here; the dirt was course and gave no ease to what he was planning on doing. He saw some long, thick grass nearby and decided that the best way to sneak over was there. It would let him move more quietly and quickly to the house. However, he hadn’t thought about the mud that was swimming around the long bristly stems; his feet seemed to dive deep into the brown mixture and it was a struggle for him to pull it out without almost falling back on himself. There was a droned and deep “shloop” sound as he did this, getting louder as he reached the garden. It took forever to reach this point, walking like a mud giant carefully through the forest; watching his every step.
He spent so long concentrating on his steps that he forgot all about watching the house. As he approached the shack, he noticed a small open window. A lacy tattered curtain blew gently inside. It was the entrance for ghosts. The small dilapidated building strained itself together, weathered wood pieced together like a domino line, just waiting for one to fall. There never was any light in the windows. He and the other children would have noticed if there was, even from the clearing. It was late and winter, so the nights were particularly dark and light would have been like a beacon to anyone one nearby, especially for him and his friends who were watching the house with their own particular interests. Now however there was, a flickering light bounced and changed inside the room. It seemed to be candlelight, with the wind blowing around the flame causing the light effects.
Conner paused for a moment and felt his heart pump. Should he go through with this? What was he supposed to find that he would only get from this house? What would she have that was so weird or special? He looked back and saw the silhouettes of his friends creeping around the bushes not too far from where he was. They had been keeping a watchful eye on him since he had left. It wasn’t unusual for them to just run off at this point screaming to alert where Conner was, getting him into trouble. But they were watching carefully this time, making sure he went through with it. Conner took a deep cold breath and felt it race straight down to the bottom of his lungs, it was nice. The fresh air calmed him down just a little and he turned back to look at the house. The light was still burning through the window and his breath danced and darted before his eyes. Making frosted, howling faces before hiding in the air.
“There was no reason to try now,” he thought, “if the light is on then she is awake and she will see me.”. He pulled his foot one last time out of the mud and treaded carefully on the grass around the house, this was better as the earth was dryer and the grass shorter. With his body in a hunch, Conner stooped slowing below the window sill and listened for any movement inside.
The hour was nearly gone and there was still no sounds coming from inside the room. There were times when he would take the odd glance out the corner of the frame into the small room it gave view to; he had still not seen anyone. This was getting ridiculous! He took one last look inside. Slowly placing his finger on the sill and pulling himself up, he peered inside. The light was burning out and the candle was almost gone. Just a small red pool lay on the saucer. He took his chance and decided it was time. He turned his head around to the garden and saw a pile of ceramic pots stacked away like little red Russian dolls he saw once at his grandmother’s house. He unpacked them slowly and eventually was left with the largest, deepest one. He turned it over at the window and used it as a stool to get inside. Leaping up with both hands he tucked his leg over the frame, bowed his head down to squeeze through and finally dragged his last leg inside. The room seemed different from inside than out. There wasn’t much furniture, what was there seemed to be old and overused. A dining table sat in the middle of the room holding the saucer and candle. It was withered and wrinkled. The wood seemed grey and dead, almost too brittle to touch. The air itself seemed dead too, it was colder inside than it was by the water near the loch. He tugged tighter at his scarf and zipped up his jacket a little bit more. Turning around, he noticed a sink and cupboard. He walked over to search for anything that he could take back to his friends. The smell caught him first, then the sight. What was left was rotting and buzzing with flies. The black stains were clinging to the plates and moulding everything together. He pulled at his scarf again, placing it over his nose and mouth, tugging a little more to make sure it was thick enough around his face to block the stench. The cupboards were stained too, a yellow smear washed the doors; a sickly pale yellow. He reached out a finger and held the handle around it, pulling it open quickly he expected the worst but there was nothing inside at all. There were a few more places for Conner to search; drawers and cabinets, the kitchen was small and it didn’t take long. Everything was bare. He was not happy. He had wasted his time. He looked around again at the sickly table which seemed to be bleeding as the candle spilled over. Beyond this was a battered green chair. It was upholstered with an itchy felt fabric, with a bitten hole here and there showing off its age and blending well with the rest of the room. It sat in front of a door that was shut tight; it was one of only two doors he could see. He figured that apart from the bedroom which must have been behind the moth chair, this was the only other room in the house. The second, a peeling blue one, was obviously the front door.
He then saw a small biscuit tin sitting on the dining room chair that he had not noticed before. It was red with shining gold flecks and designs swirling around the edging. Perfect! He paced quickly over to the box and sat down. He then carefully opened the tin and saw some letters and a photo.
“You won’t get much for that!” rasped a small voice behind him. He turned quickly, dropping the tin and its contents with a small smash on the floor. His heart beat quickly again and played along with the clash the tin had left behind, it felt like an orchestra was going off in the room. Then he saw where the voice had come from. She was frail, the look to be expected from some one living in a house with no food. Her hair was wiry and erratic as if a moody grey cloud was floating on her head. Her skin seemed to droop and hang from her face; he couldn’t help but be reminded of the candle that lay flickering on the table next to him. The wax bubbling on the plate. Her eyes where black and cold, dark deep eyes that held no colour but seemed to absorb it. They burrowed in her face, small, piercing straight through Conner’s own. He felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave. His feet however did nothing. She stood there with the wind blowing from another open window around her thin nightgown. It had a flower pattern growing from the bottom all around the dress. The neck was trimmed with lace and just like the rest of her was frayed and far from new. Her legs were exposed, shrivelled and tough like a young tree that had been cut and left to rot. She wore boots on her feet covered in dry mud. “She must have gotten them dirty from the tall grass just behind her garden?!” thought Conner. Then he looked down at his own shoes and saw the mud still clinging and wet.
“I wa…wasn’t.”, Conner tried to answer but he couldn’t throw the words out his mouth or throw himself to the front door just a few feet from his side. The old woman’s eyes never left his and still bore into him, keeping him on edge. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…I’ll just go!”. These were the only few words that he managed to say, choking and gurgling on them whilst fighting back tears. She was old and looked like no harm but those eyes were too intense not to fear. He took a step towards the door as she raised her bony white finger at him.
“Not yet. You can make me some tea first.” her voice was wheezing as she spoke.
“What? Yes if you wa…want.” he didn’t know what to do. If he made her some tea and then left it would be over with. But how could he, he had just looked through all the cupboards and there was nothing in the house.
“Look on top of the fridge” she choked, as if she knew what he thought “there is one lying there. And I don’t take milk anyway… or sugar. I was never allowed so I never got used to it. Go on then!” he backed off to the end of the room where the fridge had been. He hadn’t checked there because he never wanted his prize to come from here. He turned his back slowly to the woman and peered over the top of the fridge, looking for and expecting some container for the tea bags. There was none. Only a soggy over used bag lay there staining the surface. A brown pool spewed from its belly.
“Eurgh!” he blurt out quietly. Then a key turned in a lock. He caught his breath and looked at the blue door. She stood there with her hand delicately placed on the handle. She took in another breath and coughed a little more. Her arm felt around for her walking stick and she still stared into Conner while holding herself up. Trembling slowly back to her chair, Conner stood watching like it was a miracle. He was confused. How did she get over there so quickly? He had only just turned around.
“That tea won’t make itself, you haven’t even put the kettle on the stove” the voice drilled into his skin, crawling through it, burrowing for somewhere warm to bring its chill. It had, his heart froze again and jumped, then skipped a beat.
“Sure.” he ran quickly over to the stove and switched it on, lift the kettle and felt some weight in it, there was enough water inside for her tea. He then took a moment to realize where he was. For a second there he had forgotten that this old woman had locked him in and was sitting there looking at him with those eyes. “Is that all you wanted?” he asked. She said nothing. She was sitting back at the dining room table again and for the first time she hadn’t had her gaze on him. Her head was down to the floor, racing around at the contents of that little red tin that had been sitting on the chair. There was a photo at Conner’s foot too. He reached down to pick it up. The photo was grey and brown, it was so old.  It was a wedding picture. A beautiful woman smiled broadly at him from the film with stunning dark hair shining, deep lips glowing and eyes sparkling.
“It’s not me, before you think that,” she was still looking down at the floor, at the other papers thrown around “it’s my sister. Not me.”
“She’s beautiful”
“She’s dead!” she barked. “Get everything else for me.” Her pale bones waving around the room at the rest of the tins contents. Conner scurried, picking up everything he could see, he dared not look at what each thing was. She knew what he was thinking when he looked at her sister’s photo and she wasn’t even looking at him.
“I’m sorry.” he said, handing everything back to her, the wedding photo on top.
“Why? Why would you be sorry? You never knew her.” her hand reached out and hovered just above his. She then pulled it back under her long flowing sleeve. Another arm came reaching over and started to pet and stroke the flowers growing on the material, softly protecting the frail cloth. “Put it back on the table!” and with a swift unexpected gesture her fingers slashed the air and pointed directly back at the dead wood.
A whistle blew and wailed as the tin was put back on the table. He reached back at the stove and pulled the kettle off.
“I need a spoon” he said “to stir your tea.”. She pointed at the sink with the flies swirling around like her own personal tornado. The black buzzing sound surrounding her dishes. Conner placed his hand back on his scarf, waiting to pull it over his face but stopped knowing that she would see him and be offended. He took a deep silent breath and went to the sink, reached down and fingered for a small spoon to stir her tea. Grabbing the metal quickly and turning the tap he let the fresh loch water rush through the pipes and wash away the muck that lay on the teaspoon. He poured the kettle and picked up the teabag, dipping it gently into the boiling water and stirred together. “There you are.”  That was her tea made; now he could go home. This wasn’t at all worth it; she made him nervous. “If that’s all then…well I guess I will just…go.” His breaking words and cracking voice didn’t support how serious he was about leaving. The room had turned blue with the freeze of the air coming from both the windows that still lay open. “Do you want me to close these for you? You will catch your death if you leave the room like this.” Running towards the furthest window to force down the frame, he struggled to push it and found himself on his toes to gain some height and weight. Eventually the wood seemed to loosen and wiggle in the joining. Crack! Smash! The frame slipped through and whacked itself against the sill, causing the whole pane to shatter around his hands. Conner screamed in pain as the glass embedded in his skin, it flew into his hands like wild animals stretching out and pouncing for blood; it ran all around and leaped onto the window sill to rest and turn cold. Conner hurried to the sink and turned on the tap again, the flies however seemed to enjoy the heat blasting from his hands and he fought them off. The iced chill eased some pain as the water washed away the stains. There were still some shards that hadn’t washed, with some ease he tried to remove these as best he could but there was still a feeling of something foreign underneath.
“That should hurt.” she whispered in his ear, the breath evoking a grey chill down his neck as if they were commanded by these words. Conner froze and stared down onto his hands that still wept a drop of blood. She was near him, she was next to him. He turned his neck slowly to her and looked far into those eyes. The colour was completely gone and all that was left was an empty, absorbing black shade. “My tea is getting cold.” With that she eased herself back, slowly to her chair again. Conner caught himself staring at the blue peeling door and imagined himself on the other side. The odours from the wet mud charging through his nose, the grass tickling and grasping around his feet, he even wanted to hear the awful snaps from the woods -those sounds that could be from anything ready to hunt you down. Even the taunts and jeers from his friends in the distance. But in here there was nothing and this was worse, the silence was kept constant and still, there was no taste or smells in the air. She caught him staring and grabbed her chest, her cough was powerful and seemed to crack her ribs with the force; she calmed herself and placed herself back into a frail position. “What do you and your friends think of me…little boy? Huh? Am I the local witch?” The twisting motion of her neck stretched and wrapped her already alien skin. It was as though a preying mantis was taunting its meal.
“No!” it came out his mouth before he thought it. This was the first lie he told, of course they thought she was a witch. The cabin by the loch, the old woman living alone, it was hard for a child not create a story.
“Please!” her cough sneaked up on her and she bent forward and back trying to catch and trap some air. “I’m too old and ugly to believe you don’t. But do you see any cats around my ankles? A pot to stew my children?” Conner darted his eyes around the room, over and over again, searching for the stew pot just in case he had missed it bubbling in the corner, heating up. “I’m no witch boy, your imagination is as daft as me!” she snapped back in place, her back straight against the chair. “So why are you here? Let me guess?” she eased herself onto her brittle timber legs and used the back of her chair for support. A gentle gust flew through the window, a blue spectre circling her shape. The flowers on her gown danced and flew with the frost and the brown laces on her boots wiggled along the broken splits of the wood on the floor. Then, just as quickly as this movement appeared in the room it escaped and the black shaded eyes darted at the window and everything died. No wisp of movement amongst the frail curtains, no distant echo’s from the woods. Nothing. The entrance for ghosts was closed.  She then slowly turned her head again, twisting her spine. Her eyes became level with his and they glistened with a soft rage. The glazed opals peered once again and summoned a dark fear into Conner. “It cant be for much.” she continued “But something only in this shack? This hovel? This home?” as she carried on, her arms darted the air as she pointed around the room, allowing her elbows and wrists to protrude and sink like milky waves along her skin.
“No I’m not here to steal anything!” another lie sprung from his mouth. True it wasn’t theft to gain profit or harm, just a childish prank. An initiation. He was sent for an ashtray, an ornament or even a stupid magnet. Nothing of importance to anyone.
“Everything I have is important to me boy.” and along her face a gentle line moved causing her eyebrow to raise ever so slightly. It was like a soft curved hook catching him and hanging him in the moment.
Conner choked on her words, drowning in disbelief. His thoughts were being stolen. She was grasping then out of the air, freezing thoughts caught in the room that had no time or place to flee. Her dark shade commanded all. “Look around you and show me what you wanted? That green mossy chair? My knifes and forks and spoons? This candle holder perhaps? Tell me what you wanted in here?” as she spoke her voice remained calm. There was no fire or heat in her. She was a cold shape, a creature from the frost.
“I’m sorry!” Conner screamed, “I really am. I was just a dare, I didn’t mean to upset you!” he staggered backwards as he said it. Finding each foot further from her a blessing. Pacing backwards to the window he had came in through. Knowing he had
only the one escape.
“Wait boy.” she commanded. The words blasted through the room and lay still for a moment, lingering in the air. Then suddenly they crashed down hard into his mind. Those words were thunder. Reeking with fear and power. They charged down from the air and scarred his mind, bringing afterthoughts and terrible realisations. She was in control here. “I am not going to hurt you. Or blame you. I can understand your predicament.” she twisted some wires from her head and plucked a few from her scalp. The white fibres rested on the palm of one hand whilst she rolled them tighter with the other.
“What are you doing to yourself?” he exclaimed as he watched her deliberate act .
“This?” again she shuffled forwards with her cane. Those bone fingers wrapped tightly around the handle while the other hand held her hair like a cigarette. “This is a memory for you. This is my memory for you.” and as she spoke with her calm cold voice she held her hand out a few inches from his.
Feeling his hands on the counter Conner leaned backwards, stretching his spine into an arch shape as her ghoulish face came though the frost. Glowing a haunting blue with electricity. Her eyes absorbed his fear and left a withering feeling inside, dull and clear. He looked around and changed. He turned to glass. Looking through himself he saw his heart beating, a strong powerful jolt. The blood scurried along his limbs like a carnival of explosions all round his frame. The red lights danced and swirled and his heart pumped. Beating rhythmically. Regimented. Ordered. He watched how his life was created and preserved. He wanted to smash. Crash like diamonds and bleed forever.
Suddenly she stopped. A statue gazing through him watching his heat and heart rage through his veins. She watched the fire burn him and felt the heat blast through his frame.
“You are so warm. So much heat.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I really am. But please, I need to go.” his body and words whimpered against the rotten counter top. The black flies tickling his skin, feasting on his blood. She was a demon to him now so why fear the minions?
The fiend stepped back and let the crisp hairs trickle between her fingers and fall, landing on the aged floorboards. Some broke into dust and some clung to the wet mud on Conner’s shoes.
“My sister was a whore you know?” these where the only words that rasped from her throat. It was an earthquake in the silence that loomed around the shack.
Conner still felt diluted and separate from himself and was caught of guard by the sentence. “Your sister from the photo?” he realised now however that he couldn’t defy her. She was a witch without the pots and cats. She was Time’s mistress and knew its intricate art.
“Time my boy is a celibate old fool. No no. He was unkind to me. But I learned much from him. My sister was a whore. My most important lesson.” and off she struggled all skeletal and deathly back to the grey table.
“From the photo?” he replied from the floor like a child doused in fear.
“Yes from the photo!” and suddenly an ember sparked in her eye and the candle flickered a little brighter in the room. “Her. Her and her letters. It is bile. Spewed bile from a black tongue.” as she spoke she gazed distantly at the floating steam that escaped from the mug still sitting untouched. The heat flew and danced a little before dying and screaming in silence. Overcome by the cold.
“What did she do to make you hate her? What was her name?” he asked to distract himself from his own feelings. Giving himself time to recover. Besides, he enjoyed the thought of her angry as it made him view her more human. With anger and pain and regret she had more to offer than simply a marble heart - hard and untouched but able to live forever. And that was a terrible thought in his mind that she couldn’t read. Because it lay in his primal fears and deep within the emotions of his warm beating heart. A creature like her, a monster in the most simplest of ways must eventually find a grave to wither and die and scatter.
“Her name was….” and for the first time she paused. Her drooping languid face draped only in the moment without cause or reason. Thoughts seemed unable to stir in the twisted pool of her mind. Perhaps lost amongst the black filth and stew and drowning under her heavy thoughts of hate. “It is gone. I have forgotten my sister’s name.”. It seemed true. The woman from the photo was lost in filth and drowned in mud. A haunting pale beauty uncontained by name but only distantly remembered when she bobbed to the surface of her polluted mind and sunk back again into mystery.
“If you cannot remember her name then how do you know she was a whore? Are those the letters in the tin? Then she would have signed them. You can remember her name if you want to.” he dizzyingly found his feet and wiped his hands of the dust from the floor. That grey matter of shed life that had built up within the room.
Then her eyes returned and cast themselves forcefully onto Conner.
“She was a whore without a name. But still a whore!” and again the light from the withering candle burst bright for a single moment and the lacy curtain floated gently against the window.
As Conner leaned into the furthest corner of the room, cowering from her he saw her eyes less threatening after this burst of anger. She was adamant in her statement and convinced by her own truth. If she couldn’t remember her sister or her name she was clinging to this one thought. It seemed to be her one link back. It appeared to hold her onto something. Even if that red devil panged and cracked her cold marble heart she somehow seemed to realise the pleasure in it. Her own gratification from remembering this one pain she couldn’t let go after time stripped all other memories away. Was it a punishment or a blessing? She sat there as a ghost, blue and grey and dead. She was a half formed life. She had been stripped of everything but a single pain and memory.
“I cannot remember her. Not one thing except…nothing. It is a feeling boy not a memory. Its holding me here in this room, it’s a crimson chain. Binding me to this shack, this hovel, this home.” listlessly she fumbled these words with her hacking voice cracking the air. These however seemed to crash and fall as she spoke them unlike others who let words fly with prayer onto higher spheres. Dancing in rings as they celebrate their release and power to change. Her words were heavy and dark and when they opened they spewed slime and filth from their bellies.
“I am buried under sorrow boy. I am in the grave of my own making. It is my second grave. I am a festering meal to the worms boy and I cannot escape the squirm. I lie down and do not die. I awake and do not live. I am held only by this thought. This one pain. My sister is a whore. But I cannot remember her or her name.” and as she finished this line she moved her head towards Conner once more and gazed deeply at his form. She watched his chest flutter and fly as his heart beat behind it. His cheeks flush with fire and his eyes fill with fear. She saw his fear and felt nothing. It lingered over him in a swarthy dark shape chained directly to him. He could not escape it. She turned her eyes over her own form and saw no shapes around herself. Her life had festered by and nothing grew from her. No life or love could survive in her barren environment.
As her milky skin drooped so did the stillness of the moment. Her old adversary of Time had entered the room and left a hanging moment. Conner looked at her and asked again hoping to repeat the effect as before, “Why is your sister a whore?”.
“I do not know. I cannot remember. I am buried with hate and cannot see in the dark.”
“Did she hurt you?” he asked.
“She was beautiful. Slim and slender with a perfect smile. It is impossible to hate beauty.” and then that ember in her eyes grew and its writhing smoke twisted behind them and tickled her mind. That grey perfume trailed through the murky waters and caught a memory from deep below. Floating on the surface of her mind was an image of a torn and twisted shape. She scooped it up and shed streams of tears.
“I killed her.” she whimpered. Conner was struck not by the confession but by the tears. He still could only see the dark shade that had placed him in a state of fear. Now however it wept and confessed with remorse. “She lies twisted in my garden with the squirm. Oh how now I remember my guilt! She was a whore although I cannot remember. The details float by now and sink again. But her twisted body is clear and deathly. I am guilty of it but I cannot remember. She is buried with mud and I with guilt and hate.” still her voice was calm but now the candle died and only the blue moonlight beaconed into the shack. The tattered lace curtain by the window fluttered easily again and wisps from the night circled around the room once more. She sat firmly in her chair and wept softly at Conner. The black absorbing shades grew brighter and their darkness faded gently as if the clear blue tears washed them clean. She sat drenched in the moonlight that softened her features. The frosty blue air entered the room again and circled her once more, it was like dancing electricity and lit up her form. She sat still and watched the light come for her. With a gentle gust that fluttered her nightgown and hair she delicately scattered into the moonlight. Her blue form disappearing through the window and into the night.