I Do Not Want To

500 words | Horror | Flash Fiction |

I embrace her on the Dane Hills, a whimpering foundling clinging on to the strange mother’s waist. She is not a stranger to me; she is of this world, and so am I.

Her nose, angled upwards to inhale the crisp night, points her focus south. In the south, a hushed hamlet sleeps.

She pays me no mind as she clambers down, the earth set beneath her long claws. They are iron, forged by who, I do not know. As she moves I writhe. I do not want to. I try to kick myself free, but my legs have lost all bone.

Run, little children I hear on the wind. Behave, or she’ll get you. The children. So many of them. This mother that bears me grinds her teeth. Their bedrooms twinkle like tiny square stars in an ebony sky. The skin of my ears creeps, bitten by the thunderous slam of doors along the brow. Still, we go down. I do not want to.

My wrists are twisted around her enough to hear her belly rumble. Her nature, I understand.

I am weightless in the breeze, swinging on her skirts. I must hold on. I do not want to.

The windows are tiny, but she reaches in and swipes. The iron claws clang against the stone walls. A yelp. A whimper. The small shapes cower in the corner beneath the coverlet. She tries again, scratching my skin against the jagged edges of this house as her body leans into me. Perhaps we’ll go away. I do not want to do this. I want to go home.

She loses vigour, and eventually interest. No luck. She turns us around and goes to the next one on all fours, her teeth champing. My skin is cold, the gooseflesh stinging as I’m dragged across cool, freezing blades of grass. She lunges and climbs, her coal eyes peering into the window.

The bed, made only yesterday, remains uncreased, unbundled, its slats unburdened. No candle flickers at this bedside. I do not want to see this. I do not want to.

The broken toy is where I left it.

Black eyes blink. She doesn’t remember why she is there. She wordlessly admits defeat, and returns to the cave. I do not want to.

She will make do with bones. I will watch her suck the marrow out of the big ones until they’re dry.

She unfastens me and hangs me up beside the other tanned hides who were not so well behaved. We watch, but we do not want to.

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This story was brought to you by the legend of Black Annis. In English folklore, she stalked the Dane Hills of Leicestershire. This blue-faced hag had iron claws and a taste for human flesh (especially the flesh of children who didn’t behave). She would reach inside houses to snatch people, taking them back to her cave where she’d skin them and tan their hides. The threat of Black Annis probably worked wonders in the previous centuries, but these days we can just threaten to change the wi-fi password. Thank goodness for that.

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Thanks for reading. If you like my fiction, I currently have three novels out in the world. You can see them here.