The Asylum for Fairy-Tale Creatures

by Sebastian Gregory

  She pulled the bear from his shelf prison and squeezed him into her so hard, the bear thought his sides sure to split. Tears soaked his fur, so happy Eleanor was to be with the bear—had she missed him as much as he had her?

  “Oh, bear,” Eleanor cried, “Mother has been taken from me. The cholera has sent her to heaven.”

  The bear did not know what heaven was or for whatever reason the mother had gone there. All the bear knew was Eleanor needed to hold him again and that was all.

  The bear watched from the window sill to the street below. There was his Eleanor surrounded by others but very much alone. She was garbed in black—it was as if his Eleanor were among a flock of ravens. She held onto the father. He did not seem to notice, only looking up as a wooden box was removed from the house and placed on a horse cart of flowers. There was a crack in the air and the sky wept; it poured down the window pane. The bear pushed his face to the cold window; however, something else caught the bear’s curiosity. Across the way on the rooftops, hidden behind the rain and perched directly above Eleanor, was an amiss, an ominous, a creature made of nothing but menace. It turned and caught the bear in its twisted gaze, and somewhere amongst what was almost a face there was a smile. The rain made it impossible to see more and then the procession moved on and Eleanor was lost to the bear, as was the creature.

  The absent mother was replaced by a melancholy. Eleanor moved as a half-child, pale skin and, within her once-happy face, sunken red eyes. The father was rarely to be seen, except when he came stumbling into the home with the stench of foul liquid about him. The bear watched Eleanor when she slept; she was fretful. She would whimper as nightmares plagued her. The bear had never felt so helpless. There had been several occasions where he heard noises coming from where there should be none, making Eleanor shudder and take refuge in her bed. Then there was Maisy, one of the pot-doll sisters—with a creeping screech the doll had turned her head to stare directly at the bear. The bear, knowing that he was the only one with life thread, could not understand how the doll managed to move. So he pushed her from the high shelf where she shattered on the wood below. Eleanor, who woke up with a start, for a moment was frightful at the noise of the shattering doll. But it was the bear she took from the shelf to hug. Maisy had lain in shatters ever since.

  Night and nights Eleanor slept with shallow breath; she murmured worried words. The bear felt it also; his fur stood on end at some tangible discomfort. Here it was: the miasma that had entered Eleanor’s fears. The bear could not see it, but was aware of the presence. It was a tingle of spine, a creak on the stair, a curtain that moved without breeze and danced like a ballerina ghost.

  The bear stood on the shelf. “I know you are there.”

  A voice like a scurrying of spiders. “I have come for the child—her sadness called me.”

  Eleanor stirred; the bear whispered, “Are you cholera? I will not let you have her.”

  The air thought thoughts, then suddenly the shadows lurched horribly, the bear was lifted and sent spinning across the room with a sickening growl. Eleanor sat upright; she screamed a silence, and the sound had been stolen.

  Morning brought the sun but no comfort. The bear sat where he had landed the night before, and waited and waited until the sunlight seeped high through the break in the window shutters. Eleanor did not move; a rasping sound, a horrible gasping, floated from Eleanor’s bed. The bear, with little choice and so much fear for his Eleanor, dared to do what he was never to do: he moved in her presence. He crawled slowly at first, moving past the broken pot-doll sister, the tatty giraffe; he climbed onto the bed and stood next to the sleeping Eleanor’s face. She was pale and damp; the bear stroked her cheek, his paw instantly soaked with the sweat on her brow and pale skin. Gently the bear leaned and pushed her; he was ready to freeze the moment her eyes opened, and the moment never arrived.

  He needed help so the bear went to find the father. He crept across hall, making his way to where the father slept. Except not now—even in the gloom the bear could see the father was absent. Instead there were empty bottles and overturned furniture. By the bear’s feet lay a spider web of glass picture frame. It held a grey picture of the mother, and she was smiling and shared the smile Eleanor once had. The bear would never let Eleanor become splinters, and he would never let the haunting take her. The bear made his way back to the room and there was his Eleanor, as beautiful as ever, waiting for him. Her eyes were closed and as deep as ever. Droplets covered her brow like tiny blisters. She was perfect. So engrossed was the bear he did not see the wretchedness that held Eleanor aloft in thick black tendrils of shadow and harm. He did not see as darkness drowned the world, pouring and suffocating, twisting, tightening, squeezing the bear.

  “Bear,” it whispered, “you can see her one last time, then her sadness is mine and you will be tatters.”

  “You cannot have her. Just go away,” the bear demanded , in the tiniest and strongest of voices ever spoken.

  “You dare defy my want? Even now as you face oblivion?”

  “No,” cried the bear, “she is mine and will forever be.”

  Eleanor opened her eyes. Her mouth opened to shriek but confusion formed instead.

  “Bear?” Her first and last word ever spoken to him.

  The bear smiled, from shadow and was the shadow. The darkness rose from it and spread like creeping vines around the room, completely engulfing Eleanor. The bear spoke with a voice like the scurrying of spiders, its true voice, the voice of a creature and the bear in one.

  “You will always be mine. You will never leave me. I will take your sadness away.”

  However in that moment the bear caught the reflection in her terrified eyes and saw the truth of the matter. In those eyes the bear saw his own memories. Of being a boy running across the cobbles, running excitedly to his mother, who called for him from the other side of the street. He saw his mother’s face smiling but quickly turning to horror. The boy, confused, turned to see too late the horse and carriage and he was crushed into the stones. Lonely in the never , the afterlife, the boy’s spirit cried for his mother. He stayed alone until the birth of a beautiful baby girl called to him. Life was good until time stolen and jealousy and loneliness replaced love once again.

  The corrupted bear, lost in the revelation, didn’t notice as the father, arriving home and hearing the commotion, forced his way into the room, and without pause scooped up his only daughter into his arms as the bear, empty, fell to the floor. Eleanor told her story to the father. How her toy bear had been a presence of its own. How objects had been moved in her room of their own accord. She said she would dream of the bear, but it wasn’t her bear, it was a boy who died long ago who, feeling her sadness on the breeze, floated into her bear, giving it a voice of its own. Of course the father did not understand her story and Eleanor was sent to a place where doctors were. The bear found itself discarded on the street, lost to turmoil as the world passed it by. It was kicked and stood upon, neglected and left to fester in the gutter, That was until it was found again and taken to a place that welcomed bears with no human

  Thumbeana

  There was a doll-maker who had dedicated herself to making dolls for all children everywhere. And, oh, what dolls they were masterpieces of beauty. The children and their parents came on long journeys from far and wide just to visit The Doll House (so was named the shop). It seemed, however, that her dedication had come with a price. Now when the doll-maker looked into the mirror, an old grey woman returned her gaze where youth had once been. She was content with the happiness she had brought others, but also sorrowful for the happiness she had denied herself. Suitors had been and gone and could never draw the doll-maker’s attention from her work. She had once longed for a child of her own, yet time had taken away that option. This did not stop her, however—the doll-maker dreamt of whispers that filled the air and the doll-maker’s

  Now when the children came to the doll shop they found the shutters firmly closed and the door bolte
d. Inside the shop the dolls sat on shelves and hung from the rafters. If the dolls, half-finished and otherwise, could have formed expressions they would have looked very, very worried.. Behind a red velvet curtain where the pieces dolls stayed, the doll-maker toiled under the watchful eye of the jars of eyes. Around her hunched figure as she worked, in a dusty darkness lit by a small candle, were the arms and legs and torsos of dolls. Bald heads with eyeless sockets swayed in the shadow of the candle. For seven days and seven nights she worked until her fingers bled. Occasionally there were knocks on the door, but in her obsession the doll-maker heard none.

  Finally she was done. Exhausted, she admired the results of her toil. Sitting on the work bench was a perfect little girl. A doll like none other, so radiant that she almost lit the room herself. Every feature a lesson in beauty. From her golden curls and sapphire eyes, to the silks and laces of her dress. All she lacked was life. However the doll-maker was prepared for this also.

  Before the doll-maker had begun her project, she had read ancient tomes on the dark arts, necromancy and witchcraft. If she would not be able to produce a child by nature, then she would turn to the unnatural. Over the next few nights she burnt black candles until they ran down to tar, and sacrificed rodents to whichever supernatural creature would listen. She chanted for hours on end, until her voice ran to nothing, pleading for the perfect doll to be turned from a hollow nothing to a real child. Alas her efforts were for naught: whoever the doll-maker prayed to in the darkness ignored her cries and the doll remained lifeless. Too weary to carry on, the doll-maker fell into a deep, drowning sleep. It was then the doll-maker dreamt again of whispers that hinted upon a more hideous course of action. The very next day The Doll House had a grand reopening. Overnight balloons of all colours were tied to every lamp post of the town, marking the occasion. By each bunch of balloons bobbing in the summer breeze, there was an excited crowd reading an exciting sign. It read:

  “To all children for one week only, The Doll House will be giving away one doll to any child that enters of their own free will.”

  And every child did; they queued for miles, coiled around the streets like a huge excited snake. Into The Doll House they went, the doll-maker, as good as her word, giving a doll to every child. The town’s folk cheered and laughed at the doll-maker’s generosity; they would speak of this for years to come. However, they all failed to notice that for every five children who went in the crowded Doll House, only four came out.

  “Here, child,” said the doll-maker to a girl with blonde curls. The girl beamed back and curtsied at the doll-maker.

  “I love your golden hair, I wish I owned hair like yours” the doll-maker whispered while stroking the little girl’s locks. “Would you like a special doll?”

  The child gasped with excitement and the doll-maker took her tiny hand. Through the crowd they moved beyond the red velvet curtain.

  The week went on and soon there were no dolls left and all the pieces, the eyes, arms, legs, head and torsos had been used in the demand for dolls. Yet the jars had been refilled with other softer parts… The missing children, however, did not go unnoticed and the police guard turned the town upside down searching for any sign of them. The night filled with the wails of loved ones, begging for someone to return their children. It was when the guards came to the last place to be searched: The Doll House.

  Again the door was bolted and shutters closed, but the guards turned them to splinters. They tore it down, wishing they hadn’t and some wishing they were born without eyes. For they found the doll-maker sitting on the floor, cradling a doll like no other. They also found the children, of sorts. The doll-maker looked up with a content yet distant smile on her face. The guards recoiled in purest terror and revulsion at what greeted them, In years to come when the city guardsmen were old and grey; they would still contest to nightmarish visions plaguing them in the dark. The doll turned it;s head towards them. The thing resembled a child, but only in the same way a child could resemble a goblin. The doll was a mismatch of the taken children, held together with black string. A jigsaw of young body parts.

  “I’m Thumbeana,” it cheerily sai as the guardsmen screamed.

  A hangman’s noose came quickly to the doll-maker. The Doll House was torn down and replaced with an oak tree, long before the mourning for the lost children ended, which would be never ever. The townfolk wondered what to do with Thumbeana. In the end she was not destroyed, rather it was decided she be sent to the orphanage. As Thumbeana was literally made from the town’s children, it seemed a second loss of their loved ones would be too much to bear.

  Thumbeana, so innocent and childlike yet so unlike a child, enjoyed the orphanage. The nuns were mostly pleasant and hid their repulsion of Thumbeana well. The children there, however, were quite cruel. They sang songs about her:

  “Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

  Watches while you sleep.

  Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

  Jealous when you breathe.

  Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

  Has locked the bedroom door.

  Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

  Has been in the kitchen drawer.

  Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

  Has brought a shiny knife,

  Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

  Slice, slice, slice.”

  Thumbeana tried to fit in. She brought the girls gifts, necklaces of sparrow heads, as a sign of friendship, but the orphans only screamed and threw rocks at Thumbeana. It was when Thumbeana squatted in the mud, pulling rocks from her skull, that she had an idea. Perhaps the orphans would like her more if Thumbeana was just like them? The morning came and the nuns were woken with the shrill screams of the orphan girls. They ran like banshees, hair wild and thick, nightgowns billowing, into the sleeping dormitory to find each of the girls bawling for mothers they didn’t have. Some orphans stumbled and others ran. Some simply sat not knowing what to do. Each of the girl’s scalps was red raw and gone. And there was Thumbeana wearing the hair, stuck to her with red wet mess. In her hand a bloodied pair of scissors. And around her, what was left of the orphans’ hair in messy scraps.

  “Now I’m beautiful,” she said.

  Shortly after, Thumbeana found herself leaving the orphanage as a black carriage and blacker horse came to take her away. She waved as the driver ushered her within. The nuns watched in silence from the orphanage window as the asylum called to the girl.

  The Asylum for Fairy Tale Creatures

  The journey to the asylum was long and lasted days. The prisoners rocked this way and that in the dark, knocking against the bars. A single oil lamp hanging from the ceiling shook and failed to penetrate the dark. The red-hooded girl’s thoughts wandered back to her village, where they locked her into the stables; she screamed to be let free and was ignored As the sun sent beams through the cracks in the wood she was visited by the village magistrate, a balding and very short fat man who was also the village butcher and smelt of pork.

  “You must confess, child. We sent the huntsmen to the cottage. There was no wolf—they only found the remains of your grandma,” he said. “Was it madness or witchcraft, girl? Confess. If you wish to save your soul, confess.”

  “It was a wolf, yet it spoke, it spoke,”

  A brown cow with an udder dragging and dripping milk along the floor, chewed straw to cud oblivious to events of the barn. It was a rank creature that would fetch only a sum of beans at market. Flies flirted with its hide, and in the warmth the stench was strong enough to choke upon. Leaning back against the wooden wall the Huntsman, head to toe in the skins of his prey, stroked his crossbow as if it was a pet. He spoke with the gruffness of a thousand dead animals.

  “Wolf don't skin its prey, wolf don't wear disguise, wolf don't speak ".

  The magistrate nodded in agreement and wiped the sweat from his brow at the same time.

  "I'm not sure what has happened to you young lady, but I have to think about the good of the village. I sent word t
o get you help"

  The girl could not move. She had been bound by rope against part of the fence that kept the cow wandering the barn. Her long dark hair messily covered her face.

  "I want my mother, I need to tell her what I saw."

  The magistrate stood to his full four foot height, "that's impossible I'm afraid. Your actions were the last straw"

  The girl pulled at her ropes, which bit into her wrist.

  "I want my mother," this time more forcibly

  The magistrate sighed and moved to leave. The huntsman opened the barn door. Light poured in.

  "Your mother has gone. She threw herself into the river. We found her this morning. She had filled her pockets with rocks,"

  The barn door closed with a bang.

  The girl was left with only misery for company until after one day and night he stable doors were opened again and she was dragged into the sunlight. The jeering crowd of villagers, ,screaming murder, parted and a huge black carriage waited, drawn by an equally black mare that snorted at her approach. In the carriage seat, a leather-clad driver held the reins. The driver’s body was covered head to toe in black leather: boots, long coat, gloves and a three-cornered tricorne hat. His face was obscured by a crimson velvet mask that had no features at all.

  A lumbering guard opened the back of the carriage to which there were bars on the windows and the door. He walked with a huge sway, creating his own shadow. He wore a dirty white smock apron. He was huge, his head the size of a shaved boar and just as bald. As the girl was passed to the guard she saw his eyes, ears and mouth were completely sewn closed with metal pins. The crowd parted and fell silent as the guard thudded past, the girl in his massive arms. He placed the girl in the carriage, chaining her by the wrists to a small cell, of which there were four. The door was closed and locked. All the girl could do was sob. As the journey began she rocked this way and that in the dark, knocking against the bars. As the journey continued exhaustion gripped her and squeezed; however, every time her eyes rolled the carriage lunged and exhaustion’s hold loosened.