Note:Blair Witch-esqu. Written when I turned 16. Stoned.


The light cuts through the blinds and casts images carved from butter onto my floor. I stare as the sun crosses the sky and they melt, leaving a sticky residue as the moon takes shape through the hole in my roof. The wind blows, the leaves turn around and around, dancing maybe, on the tides of air. The moon leaves and the sun returns to the stage, the figures of butter laughing merrily as they move across my floor.

So days fall from the sky like raindrops, ripples through my mind it seems. I know, in this old house in the woods, with the moss growing on the walls, and the plants growing up through the old wood boards – I know, that no one will find my body. The moon returns once more, my thoughts become sluggish as I hear the children laughing and dancing from below. The sing to me, and cry for me, and scream my name in pain when they’re hurt.

It’s so cold now; it’s always so cold when the moon rises from behind the trees. I wish I could reach across the room and grab my jacket from the wall, but my arms are pinned underneath my body, and I can’t move anymore anyway. My legs are crushed, the bone shattered. I can feel it, my bones, crushed into a fine milky powder beneath my flesh.

Well, it won’t be long before someone finds me. Someone is bound to come searching for me in these woods. Somebody is bound to come for us. I know my mother must be worried, my father should have half of the state looking for me by now. For us, all of us here in this house. This old house in the woods, I’m here in this house, with the children.

God, I can hear them now.

They’re so young, but so wise all of them. I rarely see them anymore; they used to come visit me all the time. The older ones at first, the braver ones used to creep up on me, their little deformed arms touching my skin, poking and prodding my cunt, licking the blood and the dirt from my face. “We couldn’t love you more,” they whispered to me in silent prayer. “You have such a beautiful taste.”

They would leave when the sun came up through the window, and I would watch the butter melt onto the floor, and the figures dance and move. But at night, when it got so cold that my toes turned blue and tongue froze to the insides of my mouth, that’s when they came to me. Kissing my mouth and warming it with their own. Sucking the dirt from my flesh, curling and uncurling against my body.

Soon the others came, the smaller ones who used to stand in the corner. Their little feet turned up toward the sky, their lips broken and puffed out like giant fleshy cotton balls. Their fingers like burnt wood, their whole bodies bruised, cracked, broken, bleeding. I wanted to hold them all, they were in so much pain. I soon found that they relished this pain, they caused suffering among each other, and others, the ones who walked through these woods at night.

It was a week before I realized I was dead, and trapped in this decaying flesh. They giggled at my fear, and laughed when I struggled to move.

Somebody will come, I know they will. At night I hear them walking, calling my name. I don’t know if there is someone outside, searching for my body, or if it’s just the children, laughing at me. I don’t know anymore, I don’t think I ever did.