In a dark, dark corner of a dark, dark lair 

behind a dark, dark door down some dark, dark stairs 

sits a pale and handsome woman with some dark, dark hair…

‘Good evening,’ she purrs as you pull up a chair 

‘Can I be of help in my humble abode?

Are you scared? Are you lost and all alone?’

Her eyes are quick and her fingers are cold 

her skin is plump but her soul is old 

And with one soft word she’ll make you fold 

but beware! 

she’ll eat you whole 

steamed, succulent and sweet 

she’ll pick her teeth 

with your bones –  

‘Hush… the wind moans,’ she speaks, do you hear? 

‘The witching hour is near…’

You gulp nervously and look into the fire,

it twirls and dances as you lift your gaze higher

and let your eyes adjust to the dark, dark room.

Candlelight bleeds slowly, softly, in the gloom. 

The room is cluttered with trinkets of old,

forgotten lockets accented with gold,

leather bound books and secret nooks

filled with decayed and curling pages –

photos of clung lovers lost to the ages 

‘So.. what do you say…?’ she smiles and cocks her head,

a coquettish smile on those red raw lips,

a seductive curve to her black satin hips.

‘Would you like to stay? Or shall I send you on your merry way?’ 

Silence.

You are less scared than expected. In fact, a part of you feels even slightly tempted by the whet of her lip and the gleam in her eye –

Don’t do it!!!

Although she may look like a treat she is far from sweet.

She’s hungry for life, so she’ll eat and she’ll eat ’til her belly is swollen and her greed is halted.

She’ll roast you n’ toast you – your flesh hot and salted – 

‘You’ll never win!!’

She hisses poison onto my skin, and throws me down to the hearth with a crash, my face burns in the ash and I bite my tongue and bow my head… accepting my wrong… 

For you see – I am just the humble narrator, I have no place in this story.

I’m afraid I can’t stop it being gory. I let life pass me by in the blink of an eye for I am helpless to help, and helpless to be any more than just a pale mimicry

of the person I see before me 

you, a tragic victim, protagonist no more 

you’ve stepped into her story, the villain’s whore,

your fate is sealed, and that I cannot undo 

you’ll say yes like the many before you. 

I am a player in someone’s else’s tale,  

a shadow that watches, a shadow that waits 

A shadow that sits silently beside the grate 

of her fire

Though it cannot warm me

I despise her 

Though you must abhor me 

For my inability to act.

Instead, I sit back

and watch it all play out…..

Over and over again.

This place held colour once, under blankets of dust and cobwebbed crust lies a red velvet sofa, yellowed and stained silk curtains cover a grandfather clock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, TICK TOCK… 

You pick up a rock and knock her on the head. Hard. Bloody. Her brains spatter and congeal against the floor, against me, and onto your face. Metallic. Sour. 

Huh. Wasn’t that easy?

I bend forward. 

She still bleeds the same..

Strawberry heart jam on toast.

I straighten up. I look at you. 

Well, dear reader. What are you going to do?

Editor: Erynn Crittenden