The wind rips at her torn clothes, lashing her face, dragging the tears away into the frigid air. Rain drizzles, dreary, dragging the chill deep into her bones, jarring against the burning in her thighs and her feet as she runs. Bloodied and muddied, she’s barefoot, but seems not to notice as she races through the fields towards the house. This region is sparse. Mostly fields and woodland, with only the odd house every few miles. Where she came from, it can’t be said, her dishevelment such that you couldn’t tell if she had been lost out in the darkness for minutes, hours or days. Though it is dark, a faint light at the house from an upstairs windows acts as a beacon, drawing her nearer. The grass gives way to paving and she stumbles under the new, unseen terrain. Slowing only a little, she throws herself towards the heavy door, hands scraping across the splintered wood, hunting, searching, wild and desperate. Her finger catches on a loose screw, and she cries out in pain. In frustration she throws her frail, exhausted body against the door again, and once more, throwing everything she has at it in the hopes it will be enough to attract whoever lives within. Panting hard from her exertions, she slumps against the door, close to falling down, before a crack of pale light trickles out from around the edge of the door. A shuffle, a thud, a scrape of metal on metal and the door opens slightly. It unbalances her, and she falls, catching herself on her knee as a soft gasp sounds, the door opens wider.Suddenly warm hands are on her arms, steadying her. A short, pink woman, emerging from the relative warmth of the old stone house to help her, guiding her back onto her feet. Babbling, all the time babbling, worry trilling in every word. Indoors now, she sits on a threadbare armchair, eyes squinting against the light that illuminates her sorry state. The pink woman fusses around her, babbling all the while, trying to help, to find out, to do something. She doesn’t react to any of it, slowly blinking the water from her eyes, her breathing slowing down to match the rhythm that pulses through the pink woman’s touch. Slowly as the panic and the flight leave her, she begins to process the feelings in her own body, as it defrosts in the warmth of the pink woman’s home. Her wrists and ankles burn with blisters where they were chained. Her eyes, tired and struggling with the light after so long in the dark. Her lips are dry, her mouth parched, her belly empty. It has been so long since she fed. She licks her lips, eyes fighting the fatigue to lock on to the pink woman’s bare, tender neck. It has been such a very long time since she fed.

A House of Strangers Angie stood waiting. In another hour or two, they would arrive. Gathering without a choice. It is said the lost find each other. She found a dry patch of grass and sat. The, before, memories came. A white wraparound porch, green swing seats and ice-cold lemonade on a lazy summer’s evening. Her brother chasing her and their three younger sisters with a pitcher of ice cubes, intending to pour them over the girls. Laughing as they squirmed when the chilly cold hit their skin. A happy memory. Her father singing and her mother rocking on a seat, smiling at her family around her. A happy memory. Tucked up in bed, reading a story to her little sisters. Through the open window, the horse neighing in the barn, an owl hooting out in the big chestnut tree. Comforting sounds of a day’s work done. A happy memory. A rustling nearby caught her attention. A rabbit, soaking up the last of the day’s rays. She wanted to scare it away, but what good was it? Still, she knew she would try. “Don’t go in, little bunny. Go away, go, go, go. Hop it. Go back to your family.” *** Townspeople whispered. Haunted, they said. Filled with evil ever since the… the massacre. Twenty years it lay empty. Abandoned. Whatever wild animal needed shelter, the odd homeless person who sought cover, once inside, remained. Tied to it forevermore. Angie watched. Her long hair wet from the earlier rain, her dress, light cotton, clung to her tired body. She was tired, tired of all the searching, the wandering, looking. Alone, she combed the surrounding landscape, travelling miles seeking shelter. Yet she always ended up back here, back where it all happened, back to where she was forever destined. The sun was almost set; not long more and it would begin. The night brought it to life. She saw the first of the shadows sweep by her, the light wind scurrying along, the shuffles of footsteps, a tickle of laughter and then… Its door swung open, and all who travelled entered. Never again to know freedom. Each enduring whatever quenched their lives. Like Angie, her family bound to relive the swiftness of death thrust upon them. Gunshots. Scarlet walls. Flesh-splattered windows. Moaning with their last breath for each other, calling their Mama and Papa. Their screams hurling across the fields, scattering wildlife, waking children cuddled up in bed. Angie stood up. Her footprints from the night before still evident in the damp grass. There tonight, there tomorrow night too. She pushed her way inside and took her place by the open fire. Where she stood, the warm fire drying her after the evening’s rain. Where she stood when the stranger burst through the door and blasted her family into the hell of forever reliving their death. The home now filled with lost souls with nowhere to go, just like Angie.

Her shredded, dripping-wet nightgown clung to her pale, decaying skin. Her fingers were broken; nails separating from nail beds. Her frail body: bruised, with cuts all over. But Lucy felt no pain; she was hollow. A steady haze of grey hovered over the lake she awoke in; trails of white lines blew with the wind toward the isolated farmhouse on top of the hill. Withered steps planted by her bare feet left puddles trailing behind her. Water dripped from what little dishevelled hair remained on her head. But she knew she longed to be in the glowing room on the second floor. She wanted to merge shadows with the figure that projected itself on the walls inside. “Mama!” She cried with shivering hands reached up towards the house, “M-mama help me!” Weeping voices whistled through the wind — voices, much like her own. Lucy dragged her broken feet behind her as she limped up the hill; lake water weighed heavily on her bones. The wind pressed harder on her back, nudging her closer to home — nature’s momentum. She left trails of puddles behind her. The trees of the near forest hummed, the leaves: a drone of white noise. Lucy wept with mounting desperation — as did the voices in the wind. Maybe her mother would sense her, seek her, run to the window and see her dear Lucy’s frailty limping her way home. Her terrified little Lucy with peeling skin, pale grey like the fog she’d emerged from. Maybe mother would barge through the front door; open arms — a mother’s embrace. Maybe … she’d be sorry for what she did. But the shadow in the window did not move. Lucy, hand on banister, climbed the veranda steps, yelping, “Please Mama! Mamaa! Let me innn!” The voices yelled with her all the while. The house swayed and groaned with the wind’s increased force, bursting the front door open on her approach. Shattered wooden fragments projected forwards into the darkness that corrupted the corridor within. The hallway: a cacophony of shivering paintings, crashing glasses, and floorboard screeches from the moving furniture in each room. Candlelit flickers danced from the bedroom door. Lucy stepped closer to her sanctuary, and with each step, the winds’ whispering cries softened to silence. A lullaby echoed from the glowing room beyond. Her mother’s soft timbre stilled the sadness within Lucy; tears ceased to fall. She muttered “Mama, I’m home now” to no avail. The doorway loomed over Lucy, her legs gave way beneath her, and her fall was broken by sudden grips on both arms. Decaying hands and broken fingers, similar to her own, held her. To her left, a girl, a near-perfect reflection of her own; on her right, another girl, much similar — they both stood smiling. Behind her, the landing was crowded with more reflections of her own, ten, twenty, perhaps more; each a different depth of deterioration. “Who, who are you all?” Lucy asked. The lullaby from the room continued, oblivious to the voices from the landing. Each girl met Lucy’s gaze with missing-toothed grins, dragging their broken bodies closer. They whispered, “We too awoke in the lake, Lucy. Just like you.” Their hands pointed to the bedroom. “Shall we see mama now?”