Nettie turned and walked out. Creak. “And eat some chicken stew! You need to eat, dear!” Slam.
And the Red Apple
Sylvie. They called her Sylvie. She willed her mind to make sense of it. Dreadful suspicions bubbled up. She pushed them back again and again unwilling and unable to let them materialize into thoughts. Thoughts that, if created, had monstrous implications and unimaginable scenarios. She felt like she was on the brink of a grotesque cliff with nowhere to go and she was too afraid to jump but more afraid to turn and face the corrupt creature that had chased her there.
Time stopped. Her mind was numb. She could have been sitting for hours or days or weeks or years. But it was probably minutes. Slowly, Bridgette took a shallow breath and held it. When no coughing erupted, she let it out in a whistling sigh. Her throat burned and her eyes watered and her chest ached. But she didn’t cough. She gripped the arms of the rocker and stared down at the stranger’s hands. She lifted her legs straight out in front of her and watched as two pale bony feet poked out from under a blue dress. They matched the hands. Bridgette clenched her eyes shut and wished the four of them away. But they all stayed and were as boney and creepy as ever. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the red book.
Where am I and what happened?” She whispered to the fireplace. Despite her earlier call to flight, she felt stuck and frozen in indecision. Her thoughts clumsily clumped around looking for answers. Solutions were struck down before they even came to light. No, it wasn’t a dream. No, she didn’t sleepwalk somewhere. No, this wasn’t Tom’s idea of a joke. Each negative thought paralyzed her further. She didn’t know what to do so she did nothing but sit and rock and refuse to look at her hands.
A small voice told her to look for a mirror. “Real quick,” it whispered, “because you know it’s more than your hands and feet, you know you’re in a different body… A body with dirty hands and black hair and wearing a dre- .”
She slammed a door on the voice. Quieting it before it could become more insistent, before it could make what she knew was real more real than she could deal with at that moment.
Pure, unfiltered terror filled the void left by the voice. Monsters and evil shadows capered about. Suddenly, she was her five year old self in a long forgotten memory. Sleeping in a dark room. Waking in the middle of the night. Her closet door, which she so carefully closed, was standing wide open. A monster stood there, just far enough in back to be blacker than the shadows. Its white eyes narrowed into evil slits watching her. Little Bridgette laid there frozen in terror while her lamp stood inches away on her nightstand. All she had to do was reach up and turn it on. Slowly she stretched her hand out, keeping an eye on the closet monster the whole time. His eyes never left hers. She reached and felt the base of the lamp- a cold, smooth curve. Her hand followed it up and up. Inch by inch. She knew she was almost there. Just a little more and… then a cold, clammy hand grabbed her hand and pushed it away. She’d screamed and screamed and screamed….
Bridgette forced the memory away. Focus. She needed to focus. And she needed action. A plan. Something that didn’t involve nightmares. The red splotch in the fireplace caught her attention.
Focus. Why is the book in the fireplace? Someone tried to burn it. But why would someone try to burn it? Because…. And she had no answer for that. It was weird. Not as weird as waking up with boney hands and black hair. Indeed. But it registered on the scale of weirdness. “So, I’ll pull it out,” thought Bridgette. But she didn’t move.
Action. A plan. Pull the book out of the fireplace. It was a start and it might give her a clue. She reached and was frozen by her childhood memory of the clammy lamp hand. Shoving the memory away, she forced her hand out and grimaced at the sight of the grimy, jagged nails. The rocker leaned forward and she reached, reached and grasped the book. Triumph surged through her and she yanked the book out sending the rocker backwards and toppling a small table.
Bridgette jumped up holding the book in her hand. She looked behind the rocker to find a square table laying on its side. She took a few small steps and was rewarded with no coughing fit. She righted the table and saw something underneath it. Carefully reaching down- and still no coughing fit- she found a portrait that was apparently on the table before she knocked it over.
It was one of those old fashioned black and white pictures of grim, unsmiling people. The man was standing and looked friendly enough. He looked like he was holding back a smile. Next to him, and holding his hand, was a small girl. She was a cutie, with her curly hair and frilly dress. A loving father and daughter. But seated, front and center, was a lady with dark hair and eyes so light they look white. Bridgette’s hand shook as she brought the portrait closer. The seated lady was dressed in an elaborate dress with matching gloves, hat and umbrella. Nausea roiled through Bridgette as she forced the portrait closer. The man and girl stood off to the side while the lady commanded full attention to herself. She radiated evil. Her face was a split second away from leer.
Shakily Bridgette set the portrait back on the table. She sat in the rocker and scrutinized the red book. One corner was charred, but it was otherwise unharmed. She turned it around in her hands and flipped it open.
Slanted script filled the front and back of every page. There were no margins, the words went from edge to edge. It was that old hard-to-read spiked script that was almost as alien as the ancient words.
She scanned through the pages. ‘…the knife…ignorant fools… the shack… Lester will not guess… I deserve more… ’ Hate emanated from the pages. Jagged down strokes emphasized each letter, each letter seized on the next to form vile words. The script was harsh, ugly, black slashes.
Suddenly, the portrait loomed large in her mind and zoomed in on the black haired lady with her grim mouth ready to twist into a leer- or a snarl.
Bridgette forced the troubling image away and opened the front cover.
Sylvie Sterling
Her Joyful Life
Written By: Sylvie, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World
Sylvie. It was her book. What would you call this? Life Story? Journal? Bridgette opened the back flap. Unlike the rest of the book, here there was only one paragraph:
‘And so, now, I will end this writing. I will burn this book and eat the apple. I will succeed. I deserve to succeed. I will leave this disease ridden, useless, ill body behind for another to fill. The time is done. The flames are high. Goodbye sweet story you have given me great satisfaction. How I long to bring you with me for my viewing pleasure, but alas we must separate. I deserve to live. I deserve to live forever. Locum Tenens.’
Horrified, Bridgette re-read the page. The apple. Sylvie ate the apple and left her disease ridden useless ill body behind for another to fill. The enormity of the thought overwhelmed her. She had ‘filled’ Sylvie’s body? How did that… how would that… how could that work? That’s like a fairytale where poison apples become magic and wicked witches brew potions and wreak havoc. Things like that don’t really happen.
The apple was still lying on the floor. Bridgette peered down at it. Earlier, it had been bright red, fresh, and new. Now, the edges were curled and blackened. A putrid odor wafted into her face. It smelled like a dead animal.
Bridgette closed the journal and set it on the table. Was the apple the way home? Was it the answer to this Sylvie-created nightmare?
She reached down and grabbed the apple. It was warm, slimy, and throbbed in her hand. She stared at it. Should I? Dare I? What if it doesn’t work? She paused. What if it does?
Bridgette bit the apple and its skin gave like a pus filled membrane. There was a bit of resistance and then a gush as thick fluid filled her mouth. She gagged and almost threw up. She grimaced and forced herself to swallow the vile mess. Rot filled her nose and she gagged again.
The floor vibrated and groaned. A wind picked up and swirled around the room. The temperature plummeted and Bridgette shivered. Her breath came out in light puffs that were immediately swept a
way. A screeching groan filled the air and voices, thousands of voices, chanted and screamed in the background. A cacophony of sound surrounded her, the vibrating floor bucked violently and a hole opened up. Inky darkness reached up, swirling eddies around her feet. Dark tendrils wrapped around her. She tried to push away the pulsating blackness. But she couldn’t move. Panicked, she tried to kick her legs, but the blackness held them tight. Frozen and bound by the abominable force, Bridgette felt the iciness ooze up her back. It snaked around her throat, her mouth, her nose and finally her eyes. The wind screamed and the voices screamed reaching a fever pitch. The black mass enclosed her like a malignant cocoon. The tendrils joined together and formed a black band that stretched from the inky hole to the mass that confined Bridgette. The wind heaved a mighty WHOOSH blowing out the fire and pushing the screen door onto a startled Ole Duke. The black band swelled and pulled the Bridgette cocoon towards the yawning hole. It yanked her in. The hole blinked closed, the wind stopped, and the room grew silent. Bridgette was gone.
Blinded and bound, she was helplessly freefalling. Suddenly, she was launched up and flying. Then she was slowing and dropping and slowing and dropping. She landed with a thud. Glimmers of light appeared, out of focus and disjointed. Slowly, her eyes adjusted and she was looking through some sort of mask. The eyeholes partially blocked her view, but she could see. Tom’s face popped into view. Oh, Tom! She tried to speak but there was no sound.
Tom looked horrified, his eyes riveted above her head. Bridgette wanted to fling her arms around him but couldn’t. She tried to speak but made no sound. With a mighty effort she heaved herself forward, trying to free herself from the invisible bonds. Suddenly the eyeholes were bigger and she could see more of the room and more of Tom. “Tom! Tom!” she called her voice muffled.
Tom’s eyes widened, recognition replacing the horrified look of before. “Bridgey?” he said cautiously, “Is it really you? Bridgey?” He leaned closer, looking into her eyes, his face tense.
She willed herself to step forward. Her right foot moved a tiny bit. She wiggled her arms and found that they weren’t at her sides, but above her head. They were heavy and her shoulders ached at the unnatural position. She flexed her hands and heard a loud thud as something dropped behind her. She tried to bring her arms forward, to hug Tom, to reassure him, to tell him how much she loved him. But her arms were dead weight and wouldn’t move.
Without warning, she felt the bonds tightening, curling their way up her nearly paralyzed body. “NO! NO! LET ME GO!” she shouted, but it was no use.
Cold tentacles snaked their way up her legs and around her waist. She struggled to reach out, to embrace Tom or even just touch his face, but her arms wouldn’t budge. Now, the tentacles coiled around her arms and slithered up her back.
“Tom! Tom!” She screamed but her voice was faint. The mask eyeholes grew smaller and Tom was fading into the distance.
“I love you, Tom! I LOVE YOU!” She screamed with all her might. Her voice echoed, the eyeholes became pinpoints and disappeared.
Wind swirled around her in the blackness, she felt a tugging like a great rubber band stretched to its limit. A pause, silence, and then a violent wrench as she was shoved backwards into oblivion.
Slowly, she came into awareness. She felt the hard floor under her. Opening her eyes, she stared at the fireplace. Wisps of smoke fluttered up the chimney. She saw the remnants of the apple. It was ink black. As she watched, pieces of it curled, broke, and dropped to the ground, turning to dust on impact.
She pushed herself up and was hit with a wave of nausea. She took a deep breath and a violent coughing fit wracked her body. She tried to take another breath and couldn’t. Her nausea increased and she threw up. Black spots danced across her vision. There was a rush of dizziness and everything tilted. Her arms weakened and gave way. She passed out before she hit the floor.
And Tried to Not Get Committed to an Insane Asylum
Bridgette woke up, but didn’t open her eyes. She was snuggled into a soft bed under a warm blanket. She sighed and coughed. Her head, throat, and lungs ached. She tried to convince herself that the nightmare was over, but she lost that argument when she heard a voice say ‘Sylvie’.
Bridgette flinched and almost cried. She opened her eyes and saw she was in a dark, candlelit room.
Nettie looked anxious. “Sylvie, are you feeling better? I was so worried when I found you on the floor! Is the consumption back? You’re health’s been weakened by that horrible tragedy and now this! Hank ran for Doc Hawkes and he should be here in no time.”
Nettie leaned closer, “You must rest, dear. I have my Beth here to sit with you tonight. Tomorrow, Hank’s wife will return from her mother’s and then she can run the house while I sit with you. Now no arguments. I’ll hear none of it. You must rest to regain your strength and I’ll take care of everything else,” she sat back determined, “I’ll have it no other way.”
Bridgette tried not to cry, but lost the battle. In desperation she said, “I want to go home, I don’t want to be here anymore!” She sobbed and fell into another coughing fit.
Nettie looked startled and in a hushed voice said, “Dear, dear you mustn’t talk like that. Such talk will do more harm than good. We don’t want anyone suggesting you need to go away. Hush now and rest. The doctor will be here soon.”
Go away? Bridgette desperately wanted to go away so she pushed on, “I want to go away, I want to go home, I don’t want to be here anymore.” She trembled and coughed again.
Nettie gently replied, “You’re sickness is scrambling your thoughts, dear. No, you do not want to ‘go away’. This is your home. You do not want to go away to be locked up in one of those dark grim asylums,” she shuddered and continued, “Here, in your home is the best place for you to grieve and heal and get well. Floyd and my boys will tend to your fields. Your animals are in our barn until we get you a new one built. I think we’ll throw a barn building party in July- after the sowing and before the harvest. We’ll have a picnic and everyone will bring their best recipes. The men will have a new barn built for you in no time. It might even work out for the Fourth of July celebration, if we get the word out in time. Won’t that be fun, dear?” Clearly Nettie relished such gatherings. Her eyes lit up as she described the scene.
An Asylum? Bridgette was silent, weak, and achy. She tried to remember everything she knew about asylums. On TV, they were those big stone buildings where, back in the day, the sick and the poor and the mentally unbalanced people were locked away, usually for the rest of their lives. Conditions were atrocious as nurses tried to care for hundreds of people at a time. Ghost hunting groups traipsed around in them. They’re supposed to be haunted from all the tortured souls who died there. She remembered their friend, Kevin, ghost hunted in one a while ago. He and a group of people paid to spend the night. He said they didn’t see anything but the place was plenty creepy.
A distant knocking disrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, that must be Doc Hawkes,” Nettie stood up and bustled out the door. “I’m coming!” She called as she left the room.
Bridgette saw a young lady sitting quietly next to Nettie‘s empty rocker. That must be Beth. The young lady glanced up, narrowed her eyes, and glared at Bridgette.
“Here we are!” announced Nettie as she came into the room followed by a tall man in dark clothing, “Come along, Beth, we’ll wait in the living room.”
Beth casted a baleful glance at Bridgette and followed Nettie out of the room. I don’t think she likes me much. I mean Sylvie, she doesn’t like Sylvie.
“Now, I’ve heard you’ve had another episode. Let’s take a look,” said Doc Hawkes opening his black bag. Bridgette laid quietly during the exam.
The doctor was direct and to the point, “Your consumption is back. Rest. Eat. Drink. And walk daily. Go outside if possible. Here’s something to help you sleep,” he said as he held out a small bottle.
Bridgette swallowed the thick liquid, grimacing at the t
aste.
He looked at her sympathetically, “I’m sorry, it’s come back. I thought you had fully recovered. But, you’ve been through a terrible trauma and the illness has taken advantage of your weakened system.”
He turned to go, “I’ll have my boy run some medicine out tomorrow. Take a spoonful morning, noon, and night. I’ll be back in three days to check on you.”
He closed his bag and walked out the door.
After a murmured conversation with Doc Hawkes, Nettie and Beth came back into the room.
“Rest now, dear, I’m going to go on home, Beth will sit with you until you go to sleep. I’ve made up the bed in….” She sniffled, “Molly’s room. Beth will sleep there, but call out if you need her. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She reached over and brushed her hand gently across Bridgette’s forehead, “Goodnight, Sylvie, sleep tight.” And after busying herself with a few details, she left the room.
Bridgette’s mind refused to think coherent thoughts. Drowsiness spread though her like a soft blanket. Sleep beckoned and Bridgette struggled to keep her eyes open. She woozily glanced at Beth who was busy sewing and ignoring her.
A cough threatened and Bridgette cleared her throat.
Beth froze and scowled, “Do you NEED something?”
Startled, Bridgette shook her head.
Beth clenched her sewing, stood up and glared at Bridgette, “I am only here out of respect for my mother,” she hissed, “If it were up to me… never, mind, I’ll be in the living room.” She walked out and slammed the door.
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