A Monster Escapes

by Lewis Wolfe

  Ellie moved through the door opening and found Mary and two of the maids moving frantically around Arthur’s bed. The old man was pale and sweaty but he seemed unharmed.

  Arthur whispered to Mary, “Was I….Was I dreaming again?”

  His assistant nodded. “It’s okay now, Arthur. You’re back with us. You’re back with us now!”

  Ellie heard the relief in Mary’s voice and only then did she dare to make her presence known. “What’s going on here? I… I heard noises?”

  Mary turned toward the door and it took her exhausted mind a few seconds to register who the tanned, tear-stained face she saw belonged to.

  It was Arthur’s weak voice that asked, “Is that… Ellie?”

  Ellie saw the kindness in Mary’s sweaty face as the woman wiped a lost strand of brown hair from her eyes. “So you finally came checking, huh, sweetheart?”

  Mary walked toward Ellie as she instructed the maids to take care of Arthur and took her by her shoulders.

  “Come downstairs with me. We’ll have some tea.”

  Ellie’s walk through the mansion was much more pleasant now that she was accompanied by an adult and the lights were turned on. It helped that Arthur’s horrible screams had subsided, of course.

  Together they walked downstairs and into the kitchen.

  As she sat at the kitchen table Ellie watched Mary fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove. The woman looked exhausted in her wide pink robe.

  “The water won’t be long,” Mary said as she sat down next to Ellie. She was quick to put her arm around the young girl.

  Ellie had difficulty admitting it but the warm arm around her tense shoulders felt like a sudden relief. The act of care, almost motherly in its execution, triggered a complicated mix of emotions. She decided to ignore it and asked with a voice tinier than she wanted it to be, “Mary? What’s wrong with Arthur?”

  Mary took a deep breath and sighed. “Do you know what night terrors are?”

  Ellie nodded; she did.

  “Ever since Arthur’s accident a few years back, he has had them. They’re horrible episodes that can last minutes.”

  Ellie was confused. “Arthur had an accident?”

  Mary looked sideways at the girl as if what she was about to say felt like a transgression. A kind of rude betrayal. “Arthur doesn’t like to talk about it, but he was in a pretty bad car accident three years ago.”

  Ellie said nothing.

  “They come and they go, these episodes. But they haven’t been this bad in a while now. And, of course, you know how stubborn old men can be. He doesn’t seek any help for them!”

  A deep sadness rose up from inside Ellie’s stomach and she couldn’t stop the tears from running down her cheeks again. This time they weren’t from fear but from a deep, dark despair that told her how absolutely worthless she was.

  Ellie cried as she turned away from Mary. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? It’s my fault! It is! It really is!”

  She loathed herself for causing the one person who had ever been good to her so much suffering.

  Mary’s voice was soft but warm. As warm as the arm that refused to let go of the girl it was holding. “My dear…. Why would any of this be your fault?”

  Ellie sniffed as she tried to choke down the tears. “He worries about me too much! He does! That’s why the night terrors are so bad now!”

  Mary pulled the girl close to her chest and whispered, “None of this is your fault. None of it. He is happy that you’re here. We all are. You are welcome… and wanted… and loved here.”

  Ellie heard words coming from Mary’s mouth that nobody had ever spoken to her. They filled her at once with both happiness and anxiety. Were these words true or were they just another cruel lie that would ultimately wound her?

  Ellie couldn’t be sure anymore and as the water boiled over she decided that she would do better. She would be better.

  And someday soon, she told herself, she’d be so good that Arthur wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.

  MEMORIES

  A LOOK INTO THE PAST

  1

  (1712)

  Beyond what would one day be the town of Brettville lay a field stretched out between the pines. Trees would not grow there, only around it, and wildlife avoided the luscious green grass in favor of the safety of the woods. Birds would sometimes flock over the field but they always dispersed quickly, the air drawn from their lungs by the stale and oppressive atmosphere. Not even the insects dared to venture very far from the shade of the pines toward the grass; whenever they did, their tiny exoskeletons got crushed underneath the invisible weight that lingered across the field.

  The only sign of life was a massive oak tree that stood in the middle of the sea of grass. Cherokee legend said that the tree had never grown there. It had always simply been.

  Some believed that the oak was as old as time itself. That it had seen the creation of the earth, and of the oceans, and that it had watched from a distance as the first lives were born from the primordial soup. As a silent watchman on an eternal duty of private judgment.

  Whenever the sun graced the peak of the sky the giant oak would cast its terrible shadow across the field it called home. Reminding the grass surrounding it that it stood forever as an unwavering and terrible master. Betraying to all that had eyes to see that the field would never belong to them. The oak claimed its silent dominion without any effort, and no living creature would ever dare to contest its understated power.

  And then came Man. The one species arrogant enough to consider itself immune to the extreme and untouchable by the laws that predated its own conventions. A species unapologetically drawn to the dangerous and the macabre, even if only to prove its own superiority.

  When French settlers arrived they lumbered the pines surrounding the mighty oak’s field for their own use. Wood to build and wood to burn. Powerful swings of countless axes broke the pines and obliterated the field’s once mighty borders.

  The men that first stumbled upon the field felt its oppressive atmosphere and only barely mastered their dread in the face of the mighty oak that towered over them.

  They sullied the bright green grass with their filthy boots as they approached the powerful tree. One of the men touched the oak’s beautiful bark and proclaimed that she’d make the finest wood he had ever seen.

  The wildlife screamed and the birds roared through the sky as the first ax struck the oak. The men chopped as if their lives depended on it. The sweat on their forehead driven by a desire they themselves could barely understand. As if the fall of the mighty oak somehow underscored their dominance over the area they claimed as their own.

  But the oak never fell. Whenever an ax struck it the bark would quickly regenerate itself. The powerful tree drew from a life force so ancient and deeply rooted beneath the earth that no mere man could ever touch it, let alone claim it for himself.

  If the oak could have laughed it would have mocked the frail attempts of these mindless workers with a violent snicker. As it was, the oak’s disdain for their blatant weakness quietly took hold of the men’s minds and hearts.

  As the night fell the men turned their beaten backs toward the oak and knew that they would never return. All but one committed suicide over the failure that kept echoing so brutally through their tired skulls. The one that survived his inner turmoil made sure that no man would ever try to bring down the oak ever again.

  The pines, however, had all been cleared and there was no longer a border surrounding the oak’s quiet domain. Now boundless, the oak’s silent call spread through the air and through the earth, and contaminated the waters. Whatever the oak was, and whatever it wanted, had been freed to do as it saw fit.

  In time the oak’s call would reach the ears of those that should never have heard it.

  2

  (1808)

  Margaret wasn’t crazy. She kept telling herself that she wasn’t crazy. Even when the townsfolk had kicked and beaten her and she h
ad run for her life, she knew she wasn’t crazy.

  She was right. Not crazy.

  Margaret had first seen him in the pale moonlight when she was but a girl. His perfectly sculpted body. His flowing dark hair that reached all the way to the middle of his back. That beautiful smile, and the dark gaze he had directed at her as she watched him through the window.

  “I am Baal,” the raspy voice she heard inside her little head had told her. “You will one day be my bride.”

  Little Margaret had believed him then and prayed that ‘one day’ would arrive very soon.

  It hadn’t.

  She had waited for years as she kept herself clean and untouched for the man she knew was waiting for her. Waiting for that one right moment to claim her and take her away from the town she hated. The town that hated her right back.

  It had shown its hate in its mockery, and in its contempt. It had not believed Margaret’s stories of the stranger in the night. Her stories of a fate that was far greater than the lives the others in town could ever imagine.

  When Margaret got pregnant by the drunk that raped her, but that swore he never touched her, the town was quick to cast her out.

  Margaret could still remember the beating that almost killed her. That would have killed her had she not run blindly toward the woods that called out to her.

  She roamed the woods aimlessly for days, her desperation growing with every passing moment as she had not only herself to feed, but the child inside of her as well. Perhaps the woods could have provided to those knowledgeable enough, but Margaret knew nothing of such things.

  It was only when she was at her hungriest that the man she had seen all those years ago appeared to her. He was warm and beautiful and she wanted to embrace him but he kept her at arm’s length.

  “Not yet….” The voice echoed through her skull and subdued her.

  Quietly he took her hand and guided her out of the woods and toward a bright and open field. There Margaret found the generous oak.

  The man’s voice sounded through her head. “The oak will feed you, and will provide you with all that you need to build a home for you and your daughters.”

  Then the man vanished and left her in the safe embrace of the towering oak.

  Every day Margaret came back to that oak. Every day the oak provided her with fruit and mushrooms and sometimes even a loaf of bread that would hold for days. It gave her wood and tools to use so she could build herself a small home in the woods.

  When Margaret confessed to herself that she didn’t know how to build anything, the oak even whispered the instructions in her ear.

  This became Margaret’s life. She visited the oak during the day, where she would sit and eat and sometimes converse with the oak’s silent voice lingering through her head. It would whisper truths to her that she had never known. About the origins of the stars and the moon and how they all danced in a beautiful and cruel balance. Nature was about destruction as much as it was about creation, the oak confided in her.

  At night she would retreat to the safety of her home, only to sink into wild and vivid dreams of dances around the fire accompanied by a deep humming tune playing in the back of her head that guided her dreams along a predetermined path.

  Margaret’s latest hours were colored with visions of warm and naked bodies piled up into a frenzied orgy. Every early morning, right before she woke up, the dreams granted her a loud and powerful orgasm.

  The day Margaret gave birth the sun refused to rise. The animals in the woods surrounding her home did not leave their dens. The birds did not dare to spread their wings, not even to flee. The insects, always so resilient in the face of nature’s cruel demands, did not buzz or crawl. The essence of nature, that is to eat and to fight and to fuck, was denied on that dark day abandoned by the sun.

  A circle of deep blue flames drew itself around Margaret’s house and from it stepped the man that had appeared to her all those years ago. Soft yet powerful steps took him to her door and he walked inside without announcing himself.

  Margaret lay on her bed, frightened and confused, with only the vaguest idea about what her body was supposed to do. When she saw her prince enter the house all those fears abandoned her and she was at once enthralled by his presence. The pain seemed less, the anxiety fell to the background of her busy mind, and she again noticed his soft and divine beauty.

  He gently put his hand on her sweaty forehead and whispered sweet nothings into her mind. His other hand he placed on her bloated belly, rubbing it carefully.

  Soon a deep blue light appeared from his presence and extended from his body to Margaret. It bathed her in a hypnotizing warmth and for a moment Margaret thought that she would lose consciousness. Her eyelids grew heavier, her breathing more relaxed, and she no longer felt the tension than ran from her shoulders all the way down to her toes.

  And then she screamed because the blue light wasn’t kind. It didn’t take her pain away, nor the labor that was her womanly duty to perform. She screamed and she pushed and she huffed, and she huffed, and then she screamed and she pushed again.

  Her body felt as if it would tear apart underneath the pressure of the child that needed to be born but tried its hardest not to. The child that knew that moving toward the light meant moving away from the dark and warm comfort of its old home. The womb where it floated, where it was heated and fed without any effort. Its tiny fingers desperately reached for the walls of Margaret’s insides in a last attempt to resist its mother's force. Its mother’s denial. Its mother’s rejection.

  But Margaret’s body was stronger and the loud wailing of the child that she had birthed told her that her suffering was done.

  Relieved that she had succeeded, she allowed her sweaty head to rest on the mattress. Her breathing was still heavy, but at least now her body could recover from the terrible pressure that had previously tormented it. Her sore muscles and her eyes burning from the sweat that dripped down her eyebrows finally found their salvation.

  The voice of her prince spoke directly into her mind. “It’s a girl. You have given me a girl.”

  For a moment Margaret was truly happy. She had given him the child he wanted from her and now the terrible labor was done. They could be a family now and live their wonderful lives together in their private little forest.

  Then the pain inside of her roared up again and terror once more mastered her mind.

  She would birth two more daughters for her prince that long, dark day.

  3

  (September 17, 1824)

  Men thought she was the prettiest.

  Her mother had explained to her and her sisters that men were simple and vile creatures and that their idea of beauty was very limited.

  That was why men thought she was the prettiest. Because she was the tallest, and her breasts were the biggest, and her blonde hair curled freely as the golden frame for her dark blue eyes.

  Her sisters looked different from her. One had fiery red hair that she refused to cut; it now almost ran to her ankles. The other had short black hair and she refused to let it grow out any further.

  They didn’t have names, she and her sisters. Her mother had told them that naming the children was a father’s privilege and that, sadly, he had abandoned them shortly after birth.

  Her mother’s voice always went soft and bitter whenever she spoke of their father, something she rarely did.

  The girls had named themselves, in a way, to at least be able to distinguish between each other. Black, Red, and Gold. Of course, their mother referred to them simply as ‘girl’ and let their understanding of the context do the rest. In time they had gotten quite good at understanding exactly which girl their mother meant.

  Gold shared a bedroom with her two sisters but they were out right now, either gathering in the woods or stealing from the town nearby, so she was free to study her appearance in the mirror Black had stolen years ago. It hung eye-level from her and was just big enough for Gold to see her own chest. She studied her nak
ed body as she traced the muscles gracing her belly.

  Gold was naturally endowed with well-defined muscles and had never worked for them. Something Black, who had gained her muscles from years of hunting, silently resented her for. The jealousy of her sisters was something Gold both dreaded and enjoyed.

  Her sisters complained from time to time that the mirror hung too high for them to properly see themselves, but it was Gold that had a job to do that involved how she looked. It was only natural that the position of the mirror suited her needs.

  She still had some time before the sun set and darkness covered their small home in the woods. Their mother had told Gold once that they lived here to escape the cruelty of the civilized world. A world where pretty girls, like herself, were never safe and served only as instruments to fulfill the uncontrollable lust of men.

  Men were disgusting creatures. That was why Gold didn’t mind her job.

  She reached for the stolen dress draped over her mattress and held the soft fabric against her sensitive skin. Gold liked how the sensation hardened her nipples and sparked a warm feeling in her groin. A strange feeling that she instinctively kept to herself. Sometimes she would run her fingers down there and force the warmth to escalate into an even deeper sensation. One that shook her body and forced slight panting from her lips.

  But not today. Gold told herself that she had to focus today. She had a job to do, and if she failed at it, her sisters wouldn’t let her hear the end of it for days. Red in particular would give her a hard time about it, with her strange sense of humor that bordered on the aggressive.

  And if she failed, her mother would not love her and that was the worst punishment there was. To not be loved.

  Gold slipped on the dress and gave herself an appraising look in the mirror. She quickly brushed her hands through her hair, which fell naturally around her face. Her appearance truly was effortless and Gold had long since stopped wondering why she was blessed in such a way.

  All of them were blessed in some way.