Ashes to Ashes
(based on a dream)
When you think all is right and true, just wait.
Things can be broken. And things can be burned.
Past
Flames licked the dappled wallpaper and slipped between the floorboards. Something crashed in the room over, sending shudders through the floor; the master bedroom sizzled in the heat. The white farmhouse was engulfed with the little girl inside.
In her nightgown and bare, blistered feet she stumbled down the stairway, fleeing the burning room and running straight to another. The halls she thought she knew so well she now questioned. The rooms she passed no longer looked like home.
Through the beating fire, she heard someone call her name. Whoever had ventured in to rescue her, sounded desperate. They didn’t believe they could save her.
At long last, through the smoke, she could see an exit. A light to the outside, an escape from the terrible burning. With one last surge of energy, she sprang towards the gap in the wall. The crowd outside screamed and retreated under the branches of the large oaks. The little backhouse, once sturdy and proud, collapsed, sending sparks flickering into the sky. The rescue had been in vain.
From the shadows, the big gray barn watched in silence.
Half the house burned to the ground, the main building only just saved from the furious fire. The family would no longer live there. The house would wilt further into the ground, and the grey barn would be lonely for a while longer.
Present
Sharp gunshots ring through the air, ricocheting off the trees and dissipating into the woods. On the rutted dirt road a grey Ford ambles by. The sky is a deep indigo and a thin, silver moon sneaks onto the horizon. On the small patch of yellow grass are the remains of a rambling white farmhouse. In its heyday, it would have been lively with children and chickens and the smell of fresh baking. Now, all that is left is half a house with peeling paint, crumbling charcoal, and a gap through which you can see the forest on the other side. The three oak trees have been cut down for lumber and only their wide flat stumps remain. The gray barn nearby looms over the road; its jagged windows stare down like hollow eyes.
It is a peaceful afternoon in the countryside, the sound of birds and cicadas only broken by the BB guns. Another shot and a window shatters.
Five children stand at the base of the barn; their BB guns loaded, cocked, and ready to litter the ground in splinters. The dark-haired girl steps forward and pulls the trigger. A third-story window falls like rain. More shots explode and the kids cheer at the damage they cause.
The oldest girl, with long curls and a single, silver earring of stars, dangling from tiny chains, raises her weapon and aims at the weathervane. The shot hits the east end and careens into the forest. The rusted weathervane screams in complaint, spinning recklessly atop the barn.
The day ages and the sun begins to set. A cold, hollow wind echoes through the trees; their branches scrape together and the tall pine trees sway and creak in an eerie orchestra of whispers. The sky darkens and the dirt road no longer throws dust as the minimal traffic has now ceased. The gray barn stirs to life and stares down at the children. They are no longer alone.
The children are quiet now, aware, as children often are, of a presence unlike theirs among them. Their shoulders have relaxed and their guns are pointed down. It seems they are waiting for something. They shouldn’t wait, they should run. But, as children often do, they amuse their frightening curiosity. They stay.
It’s silent, and then it is not. With a piercing scream one of the two young boys falls to the ground, clutching his leg to his chest, his face crinkled in pain. Bright blood soaks through his jeans. The girl with the earring rolls up his pant leg revealing a lacework of gashes. Thin lacerations through the skin, in an even pattern, as though drawn with a sharp blade and a careful hand.
Behind the group examining the bloody leg, the younger boy cries out and he too falls in agony to the ground. His shirt is torn and the same pattern swathes his shoulder, reaching up to his throat where blood pools and spills through his hair. He is tossing back and forth as though from the pain but the movement seems only to make it worse. He would stop if he could but he is no longer in control. He is thrown from side to side as invisible blows are hurled at him.
The littlest girl, in a lime green jumper, drops her gun and walks in a daze to a stump. She sits and stares blankly out over the bleeding boys and out into nothingness; her eyes are clouded over but glow dimly in the dark. She is only hidden, not completely gone.
The older girls kneel by the boys; they have stopped crying out. Their curiosity has turned solely frightening and is now dominated by despair. There is nothing fun about this game anymore. The boys are quiet and still. The boys are no longer in the game.
The girl with the earring does what she has seen people do in the movies. She closes their eyes. They will be more peaceful that way, and she can’t bear to see their empty eyes stare back at her. She stands. The dark-haired girl is softer and cries for the boys. They didn’t deserve to die so soon. She cries, as well, for the rest of them. They could be gone too, within the span of a few moments.
Dusk creeps in from the forest and blankets everything in deep, dark shadows. The moon’s cool, white light does little to illuminate the desolate farmland. The girl on the stump still glows. The dark-haired girl dries her tears and together with the girl with the earring carries the boys’ bodies to the deceptive shelter of the stumps. Stay together; gather the weapons. In the grass, in the dark, side by side, they look as if they are only sleeping.
They lean the guns in a row against a stump, ready for action, if any is needed. The dark-haired girl heads for the remains of the old farmhouse. If anything, she might find something to cover the bodies with.
The girl with the earring sits cross-legged on the grass, her back against a stump, her gun resting in her lap. In her shock she stares into the shadows, hoping for the glare of headlights but hoping in vain. No one will come. No one will come for a long while and when someone finally does it won’t be who they need.
A long time passes before she thinks about the dark-haired girl in the house. Her friend still hasn’t returned and the thought sends a chill through her. She rises and walks across the grass to the blackened, gaping entrance to the house. It is dark, inky, and buzzing like live wires. A gust of wind cries shrilly out of the house fluttering her curls and making the stars by her ear chime together.
She takes a deep breath and then steps into the house. The brittle floorboards sag when she enters. Despite the dark outside, the old kitchen glows, as the littlest girl’s eyes had. The light inside is strong enough to show the girl enough of everything she doesn’t want to see. In a corner of the old kitchen is a mess of chairs and silver, sparkling cords; the source of the unearthly light. In the jumble, twisted and stretched, is the dark-haired girl, like a spider at the center of its web.
The chairs are tipped over her body but barely touch her. The silver cords tied to her pull her limbs in different directions. They crisscross over her face and dig into her skin, staining the cords red with blood. Her hair is tied in bunches, stretched around chair legs, and pinned to the wall. Unmoving and compliant, she is suspended with the chairs, only by the sharp cords beneath her.
The girl with the earring falls to her knees beside her and begins working the knots from the cords. The dark-haired girl’s head is released and falls back limply, her mouth slightly parted. She unweaves the cords from around the chairs and the girl’s body; trails of blood run down her face, arms, and legs. The girl with the earring slides her arms under the other’s shoulders and knees. She picks her up and stumbles out of the house onto the grass.
In the chilled night air, the littlest girl has collapsed and fallen behind her stump. She is stiff, her skin gray and molted, and her eyes are wide open and black as spilled ink. She no longer glows. The girl with the earring places her friend down beside the boys and hopes she won’t have to close her eyes as well. But no, her cuts are shallow, the bleeding light, and after a moment, life returns.
Something tugs at a loose curl from behind the oldest girl but when she turns no one is there. The presence of some other thing, like fog but with more life, grows beside her. She can’t comprehend the idea of a real ghost, but the smell of musty linens and smoke makes her pause. Then, a voice resounds, like a fog horn that slowly melts into a cackle.
The girl with the earring stands and faces the dark, her friend at her feet and BB gun clutched tight in her sweaty palms. A warm breath of air sways her earring making the stars sing again. She spins around. Her eyes search wildly, terrified, in the dark. Her finger rests dangerously on the trigger.
The dark-haired girl is beside her, holding her own weapon. The lines of blood across her skin are still vibrant and her dark hair is crusted with red. The two of them stare into the dark, waiting for something to happen. When the dark stays still and silent they leave the stumps and make their way cautiously to the side of the road.
The moon is dipping low in the sky again when the distant sound of a motor rumbles down the road. Headlights round the corner making shadows flicker like slim dancers between the trees. The two girls jump up and wave their arms, crying out for the yellow pickup truck to stop. It slows to a grinding halt and a short bearded man in gray overalls leans out the window, questioning.
The dark-haired girl is about to speak. She has so many things to say but no idea how to say them, but the old man’s wide eyes stop her from trying. He isn’t looking at the two bloody girls holding guns beside him, he is looking behind them.
They turn, terror mingling with dim curiosity. Hovering over the three bodies of their companions is a glowing figure. Her hair and gauzy nightgown billow out around her and the outline of her body is visible against the dark sky. Her arms hang limply by her side and her pale hands look like they have been dipped in blood.
The man curses under his breath and gestures wildly to the back of the truck. The girls scramble over the side as he shifts gears. The tires grind beneath them and then they lurch away. They leave their friends in a cloud of dust and gravel.
But this isn’t right. This isn’t how the group left every evening after their romps through the hills. The dark-haired girl yells at the driver to stop but he only speeds up. She leans over the pile of wood chips and bangs on the glass of the cab. He won’t listen but they need to go back. They can’t abandon their friends so traitorously. What were they thinking?
The girl with the earring will go back, the other will stay. She is too injured. She protests. Two will be needed to carry their friends back. She won’t be left behind.
With a nod and a clasp of hands, the girl with the earring pulls the other out of the back of the truck. They land together, with a wind-knocking thud, in the middle of the road. There’s no time to recover. They scramble up as the truck disappears and hurry down the road, hands still locked, back to the grey barn and burnt house.
The girls almost pass the place where they left their friends; everything familiar to them has changed. The farmhouse, hidden behind thick, wild brambles, is only a skeleton of wood beams covered in velvety moss. Thin saplings and ivy grow from between the composting floorboards and the barn is only a pile of old lumber sinking into the ground.
They stand, side-by-side, looking over the old farm ruins. The dark-haired girl moves first and pushes forward through the tangle covering the yard. The girl with the earring follows. They search the grounds until their arms and hands are cut by the thorns and their confusion is as tangled as the bushes. Blackberry brambles and ivy don’t grow that fast in a few minutes. Nothing makes sense. They had just been there.
The dark-haired girl shakes her head as they stare at the stumps, each rotting and sprouting seedlings from their ringed surfaces. Her tears return and she leaves to retrace her steps back to the road.
The girl with the earring stays. She can’t bear to leave. Leaving means never coming back and never seeing her friends again. That can’t be right. Before she finally turns away something catches her eye. Something white.
She bends down to pick it up and gasps at the skull in her palm. It’s small, so small, and pieces of rotting flesh cling to the jaw. In her fright, she drops the skull and something flutters off it. A small scrap of fabric. It’s bleached from days in the sun but she can tell that it used to be bright lime green. She knows there’s nothing she can do. They tried, but they are gone. In one whirlwind of a night they left.
She pockets the scrap of fabric to keep them close, and walks back to the dark-haired girl, leaving the ruins in shadows and ashes.