Sylvie

by Stacy Galloway

  As the years went by, Sylvie entertained herself by expanding her hunting methods. She used her knife to poke and cut the injured animals. Sometimes she would plant a small stake in the ground and plunge the animal, butt-first, on top of the point. They lived for hours and even days while gravity slowly pulled them down the length of the stake.

  Although this was fascinating, Sylvie made an effort to broaden her horizons and became adept at stealing. Men were the easiest. She would bat her eyes and stand a little too close and ask them innocent questions. A quick motion would find a pocket watch or wallet in her hand to be discretely dropped into her bag. Social events became treasure hunts. A coin from this purse and a mirror from that one.

  At age seventeen, Sylvie’s hobbies were interrupted by her mother’s death. At first, Sylvie was happy to be rid of the old lady. Her constant coughing and gagging made it impossible for Sylvie to rest. Sometimes she could block the noise, but other times Sylvie would lay in bed for hours and wish for peace and quiet. Resentment replaced Sylvie’s joy once she realized she would need to work for a living. She would never forgive her mother for dying before Sylvie was married and out of the house.

  Sewing was easy, and although she’d never done it before, Sylvie quickly figured it out. Soon, her days were filled with mindless stitches. And with each stitch, Sylvie seethed at the worthless townsfolk. With each needle jab she would envision delightful methods to kill them.

  Imbeciles. They were all imbeciles. Sylvie was superior to them. She was smarter. She was prettier. She deserved a better life. A life of luxury. For her comfort, she envisioned them bloody and screaming, their horrified eyes gazing up at her. These delightful fantasies carried her through her miserable days. To add to her pleasure, Sylvie began hunting at night.

  During a night hunt, Sylvie heard voices. She crept closer and saw young lovers Lenora Flick and Martin Johnson tangled in an erotic embrace. Sylvie watched and listened. They planned to run away to marry. Martin was sure he could get a job in the city. As they gathered their clothes and dressed, Martin bent down and carved their initials in the tree. Forever, he said, I will love you forever. They promised to meet tomorrow night. They shared a passionate kiss and went their separate ways. A glimmer caught Sylvie’s eye. She picked up Martin’s forgotten knife.

  The next night, Sylvie watched as Lenora entered the forest. Sylvie twisted her face into a mock anguish. She ran to Lenora gasping that Martin Johnson was hurt. Lenora’s eyes widened with shock and immediately dissolved into tears. Sylvie grabbed Lenora’s hand and said if we hurry we can help him. Lenora sobbed while they ran further into the forest.

  Sylvie slowed and stopped. She pretended to be out of breath, pointed and told Lenora he was just over there. Lenora ran. Sylvie slowly followed. Lenora peered into bushes crying and calling for Martin. Sylvie walked up behind her, clamped her hand over her mouth, pushed her down, and straddled her chest. Sylvie raised Martin‘s knife and slashed Lenora’s neck.

  Blood spurted and gushed. Ignoring the gore, Sylvie peered into Lenora’s eyes. They were a splendid combination of horror and pain. Sylvie stared transfixed until they glazed over in death. Sylvie scooted further down the body and stabbed it a few times just to see how it felt. It was like stabbing a pillow. A little resistance at first and then a soft plunge. Sylvie pulled up Lenora’s dress. She stabbed and yanked at the underclothes until they tore free. Sylvie stood, dropped the garments and the knife, and turned to look for Martin.

  Sylvie called Martin’s name using her best high pitched voice. She waited hidden in the shadows. Soon, Martin appeared. His face crumbled at the mess that was Lenora. He staggered and ran to her. He pressed his face to her face, sobbed and called her name. Frantic, he looked around for help and saw none. He scooped her up and stumbled towards town. Sylvie turned in time to hear the old hag cackle as she hobbled into the shadows. Sylvie took a shortcut home, changed and burned her dress.

  A short time later, there was a commotion outside and Sylvie joined the crowd. Soon everyone was talking about Lenora’s murder. The men formed a posse. The women huddled and whispered of rape.

  It didn’t take long to find the murder scene and Martin’s knife and the initials on the tree. The frenzied crowd demanded justice. The sheriff was no match when Lenora’s father and brothers led the charge towards Martin. Within minutes, he was lynched and swinging from the nearest tree. He hanged there for three days until the Johnson’s cut him down.

  It All Looked so Familiar

  “Sylvie take your medicine.”

  Bridgette jerked, startled. Nettie apologized, “I didn’t mean to startle you, dear,” she held the spoon out to Bridgette patiently.

  Bridgette took the spoon and looked down at the thick, dark red liquid. Her stomach rolled in protest. Gingerly she held it to her lips, opened her mouth and swallowed it. She grimaced and forced the bitter liquid down.

  “I also brought a sandwich. It’s here on the table.”

  Bridgette hadn’t noticed the sandwich, or Nettie, or anything else for that matter. She’d been completely engrossed in Sylvie’s revolting journal. She folded a corner to mark her spot, closed it and set it on the table.

  “Is it helping, dear?” Nettie gestured towards the journal, “reading about past memories, is it helping you feel better? You once told me that your journal could make you smile even on the worst days.”

  Bridgette had no words. The very last thing she wanted to do was read any more of the vile journal. But she needed an answer. She didn’t know what, exactly, she was looking for so she needed to read word-for-word, line-by-line and page-by-page until she found it. And surely the answer was in there. Since Sylvie proudly wrote of her murderous accomplishments, surely she wrote the details of how she planned on shoving someone into her useless body. Of all of her monstrous acts, that one was surely her coup de grace.

  “Well now, I’m sure it is,” Nettie answered her own question, “I’m going to go down to the house and pick up a few more of my things. Unless you’d rather me not go.”

  Bridgette nodded, “By all means, please go do anything you need to and thank you so much for helping me.”

  Nettie arched her eyebrows in surprise and then smiled, “I won’t be long, dear, keep resting. I can tell it’s doing you some good.”

  She left the room and a few seconds later Bridgette heard the familiar creak/slam of the back door. Bridgette stared at the journal. She needed to keep reading it but was loathe to pick it up again.

  She knew she was putting off the inevitable, but she stood up and stretched her legs. She got caught in a wave of dizziness and stood still to let it pass.

  Finally feeling steady, she walked towards Sylvie’s bedroom, glanced at it but didn’t bother to go in. She’d had enough of Sylvie and was dreading learning any more.

  She turned towards the kitchen and stopped. A wave a familiarity settled on her. She went back to the living room. The rocking chair, little table and footstool in front of the fireplace made it a cozy sitting area. Here was a wooden floor where hers was carpeted, but otherwise it was the same room. Bay windows dominated the far wall and opened up to a sea of blooming violets, daisies, and dandelions. Further off, the flowers gave way to a gently swaying meadow separating this house from Nettie and Floyd’s house. And finally, the forest, dark and green stretching around the back of both houses.

  Bridgette crossed the room and looked intently out the window. Nettie and Floyd’s house is where their neighbors Ellen and Earl Hartman, live. The flower meadow looks the same, but Bridgette didn’t see any trees where she knew her and Tom had three oaks and an apple tree in their yard.

  Her stomach plummeted at the implication. But she wasn’t as devastated by the worsening news as she had been before. After all, she’d already accepted that she was in another time and another body. She might as well accept that she was in her own house. In fact, that might work to her advantage. She wasn’t sure how but she had to grab onto optimism wherever sh
e could find it.

  With what she felt like was a new sense of sight, she walked out of the living room. She deliberately avoided Sylvie’s room and saw another door at the end of the hall. The second bedroom. The room that would be for their child- if her and Tom were to ever have one.

  Sadness crashed over her. She willed herself not to cry as she opened the second bedroom door. A soft jasmine scent filled the air. Delicate white flowers dotted the soft pink wallpapered walls. A pink and white quilt covered the single bed. A matching quilt lay crumpled in the corner. Bridgette leaned to pick it up and noticed it wasn’t crumpled but folded. A smaller quilt had been folded and laid gently in the corner. A doll sized pillow laid at one end. The little doll bed was a perfect match to the other bed. And aside from that, there was no other furniture in the room. No shelves for books and no toys. Except for the wallpaper and the doll bed there was no sign that this was a child’s room. Uneasily, Bridgette looked around. The thought of Sylvie being a mother made her blood run cold. She felt sorry for the poor child and grateful that at least someone tried to make the room pretty for her. Bridgette wondered who had so lovingly decorated it. Maybe it was the father because she was certain it wasn’t Sylvie.

  Bridgette left the room, gently closing the door. She walked to the kitchen and looked around. Again, it was her kitchen but not her kitchen. Her modern appliances were replaced with a huge double sink, a sturdy stove that looked like it would survive the apocalypse, and a squat square box with a handle that Bridgette suspected was an early version of the refrigerator. The room was bright and efficient, but sterile looking. Lots of kitchens were the heart of the house. Meals lovingly made and good memories all around. This kitchen looked fine, but had the feel of neglect. As though it wasn’t often used. And when it was used, it was done with haste, quickly cleaned up and abandoned until it had to be used again.

  Bridgette sat back in the rocker after the trip around her house. She missed her ‘real’ house. She missed Tom. Her hope was fraying and she was starting to get scared. Really, really scared. A cold surge of fear- a life changing fear- ran through her. She was beginning to doubt that she would find a way out of this. She was in 1912 and she was getting scared, oh so scared, that she would never see 2012 again.

  Bridgette picked up the journal, hoping against hope that she would read an answer. She hadn’t seen one yet, and the more she read the more she realized that the answer may be in the journal, but that would only be part of it. The other part would be within the person willing to do the act. Bridgette thought she might find the means, but she didn’t know if she was the type of person who could make the way. And if Sylvie was any indication of the type of person needed to make this happen… Well, Bridgette didn’t want to think any further than that. Because, from there, it felt like doom. And she couldn’t afford to feel doomed. She needed her tiny shred of hope to hold out for a while longer.

  Then it Changed

  The writing style changed. Opening the red journal to the spot where she had left off, Bridgette noticed that the pages were starting to look more like diary entries. Or at least there were gaps and spaces in between events. There were no dates and like the earlier section it was written about Sylvie and by Sylvie. But the main difference seemed to be that the events were written in current event style. In this section, it looked like Sylvie was writing her life story as she was living it. She included dialogue and interactions. From her point of view for sure, but maybe she would give away the secret. Bridgette dreaded getting back into Sylvie’s life. But she knew this was her only hope and she crossed her fingers that the next pages would detail the process of how Sylvie managed to evacuate herself out of her body and replace herself with Bridgette. Bridgette took a deep breath and started to read.

  Sylvie had seen the old hag a few times. Usually, the hag was standing off in the distance. Sylvie had no use for her so she ignored her. One night, not long after Lenora, Sylvie was wandering the forest. She hadn’t shot anything recently. Her slingshot paled in comparison to the appeal of the knife and Sylvie was dreaming of ways she could use hers. Turning around, she was face to face with the Hag. She glared into the hags deep, black eyes.

  “I’ve got something that is yours,” the Hag croaked and hobbled away.

  Sylvie caught up to her and sneered, “What could you possibly have of mine?” The Hag remained silent.

  “I have no reason to believe you and I will not follow you,” Sylvie said as she turned around. A bony claw like hand suddenly gripped her wrist. It ground itself into her and yanked her around.

  The hag pulled Sylvie right up to her face, “you will want this. You need this. Come with me.”

  And she pulled Sylvie by the arm.

  Sylvie followed. Furious and curious, she followed.

  The hag pulled her deeper and deeper into the forest. Soon, they came to a clump of trees that was much thicker than the forest itself. Sylvie could see the outline of a crumbling shack.

  The hag stopped, grabbed Sylvie’s other wrist, yanked her down to eye level, and whispered, “It is forbidden. You must ask permission.”

  Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. The old lady was crazy.

  The hag squeezed her wrists harder, grinding bone on bone, and screamed “ASK! YOU MUST ASK TO ENTER!”

  Sylvie tried to yank her arms away, “LET ME GO!”

  The old hag ground her bony hands harder into Sylvie’s wrists. She dug her nails deep into the flesh and twisted. Pain clouded Sylvie’s vision. Blood ran down her hands.

  “ASK! ASK! ASK!” screamed the hag.

  “CAN I ENTER? CAN I ENTER? YOU OLD BITCH!” Sylvie screamed, anything to stop the pain.

  The hag threw Sylvie’s arms down and looked towards the shack. There was a deep rumbling and a loud KABOOM! The door flew open revealing a black nothingness.

  The hag walked up the steps and through the black doorway. Sylvie rubbed her wrists. She tried to wipe the blood away. She could see the ugly, jagged cuts that would probably leave scars.

  In a black rage, Sylvie curled her fists, stomped up the steps and burst through the doorway.

  Bridgette paused, pulled up her sleeves and looked at her wrists. There were faint ‘c’ shaped scars on both. Another scar on her left wrist grabbed her attention. It was fresh and ran across the underside of her wrist. Bridgette shuddered and pulled down her sleeves.

  Every sense was assaulted. A rotten fish odor was not masked by the acrid smoky odor coming from the pot boiling in the fireplace. A deep, warning rumble was coming from somewhere on the floor. Dozens of lit candles were scattered here and there. It occurred to Sylvie that none of this could be seen from the outside through the doorway. It was as if she had walked through a black curtain to enter this room.

  Still furious, she lunged for the old Hag. The deep rumble became louder and turned into a rolling growl. A black shape slithered, paused, and leaped to the tabletop in a fluid motion. Its feline shape revealed itself to be a large, black panther- with glowing red eyes. It turned its head to Sylvie, studying this new prey.

  “That’s Zozo,” croaked the hag, “He doesn’t like you. That’s not a good thing.” She continued, “He won’t attack you, at least not right now, but be careful. If he changes his mind there’s nothing I can do. He’ll eat you right here and I’ll have to pick up the bones,” she turned and stirred the bubbling pot.

  Sylvie glared at Zozo. Zozo returned the favor by jumping off the table and slinking towards Sylvie in a crouched hunting position. Instinctively, Sylvie backed away. She bumped into the chair behind her.

  “Sit quietly, you fool,” warned the Hag and Sylvie sat.

  Zozo crept up to Sylvie. He leaned into her face, his red eyes burning with hate. He flattened his ears, narrowed his eyes, growled and opened his mouth revealing startlingly white, large, sharp teeth. He snapped his mouth closed, turned and started to move away. Swishing his tail he stopped and looked back at her. In a single lithe movement, he jumped back onto the table, faced S
ylvie, and gracefully sat in the sphinx position.

  “What do you have that is mine?” Sylvie demanded, still seated.

  “I have something you want, and I will give it to you in exchange for you to do something for me,” said the hag.

  “Why would I do something for you? If you have something of mine give it to me right now!” Sylvie’s voice raised. Zozo growled.

  “I have a potion for you that will improve your circumstances. If you take it, a man will enter your life, fall in love with you and take care of you. You will never need to sew another stitch”

  Humorlessly, Sylvie chuckled, “A love potion? You drug me out here because you want to give me a love potion?”

  Sylvie stood to leave.

  “SIT!” the hag commanded, and Sylvie sat. “This potion will solve your problems. It has been made especially for you, but I ask one favor. The favor is easy. I need you to perform certain tasks that I cannot do anymore. They are physical and my old bones are not as quick as they used to be. That is all I ask.”