Halloween I.F. – “Going Dark” – Day 23

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Fern headed back into the spare room, but stopped short after taking a step inside. It was dark, and the lights refused to come on, which might be a power issue with the breaker, or it might be something more haunt-related. They didn’t like either option. 

Either way, there was still just enough fading sunlight through the window for them to see what they were doing. They sat outside the wardrobe—abruptly reminded about the position they’d just been in with Bannick, though this cast them, uncomfortably, in Bannick’s position: the one holding the power over the other who was locked in, the one who had more answers than not.

“Hi, Miranda,” they said softly. “I’m back.”

A soft groan came from the inside, followed by a slow scratching sound that set Fern’s nerves on edge. They gritted their teeth.

The desire was to get through this as quickly as possible, ripping off a bandage to avoid hurting themself more. But they couldn’t possibly do that, and knew it. That would hurt Miranda more, even if it spared them the emotional work of it. They had to be slow, cautious, sympathetic, delicate as a surgeon. Were surgeons this tired when they worked?

“I hope I didn’t come back too soon. I didn’t want to leave you waiting all night in case you needed more information.”

No answer. 

“I was thinking I would tell you more about yourself. About myself, too, and the situation I’ve found myself in,” Fern said slowly. “And then I’ll let you free. Okay?”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Fern tried not to jolt away from the wardrobe doors at the sound. Trying to calm the frantic pace of their heart, they wondered if she was answering aloud less so she could save her energy for what was coming, or she was simply too depressed to speak.

“I need to tell you what I know about your life,” Fern began.

They tried not to leave anything out, providing details as they knew it. That Miranda’s father had been kicked out of a town. That Miranda, a loyal daughter, had gone with him, but he was cruel and absent, and she was bored and lonely, and the spirits he had bound to obey him were her company. That she and another had…

Fern didn’t want to overstate it, and didn’t want to shame her. Just tried to approach it gently, softly. 

…had found some comfort in each other as lovers, had tried to find things to enjoy even in these circumstances. Unfortunately, it got Miranda with child. Her father disapproved, and forbade even those pleasures. Miranda was reduced to caring for the child alone, and then, when the child was weaned…

Fern had been pausing throughout for questions, but wasn’t getting any. Occasionally they heard a sigh, or a gasp, or a groan, or a sob, and, when they hesitated too long to see if Miranda was okay, if they should stop, instead they got a sharply hissed, “Go on.”

So they went on. “And then when the child was weaned… he killed you, Miranda.” Soft and sympathetic. Hurt. Hurt for her, hurt for the life she could have had and never got to experience. “He sacrificed you for greater power to keep harming others, using the spirits he had bound to him like weapons. I am so, so sorry. You deserved so much more.”

That got a reaction, a sob that raised into a shriek, hands slapping on the other side of the wardrobe. Then a few gasping breaths, as if she’d been left strangled by the realization of her own death, her own victimhood. 

Fern swallowed around their fear. “I have… a picture of you and him. If it helps.” They hesitated, the photo in their hands. “I’m really so sorry,” they added. “I didn’t know about any of this before… I’m a guest, I was invited to stay here. And now I’ve been trapped the way you were. He wants to hurt me too, I’ve been told. I’m trying to survive it. I wish you could have. I want to help you however I can now.”

“Like me…”

“I think… if he has his way… if I’m not dead, I’ll very much wish I was. I don’t think much of me will survive whatever he has planned,” Fern said softly. “I’m not doing this for your help, but if you’ll help me, or at least spare me… I just want to live.”

“To live…”

“Here’s the man who did this to you.” Hands shaking, Fern slid the photo of Miranda and her father through the wardrobe door. They didn’t hear it slide down. After a moment, the wardrobe rocked so hard that Fern thought it might fall onto them, sending them scrambling back in a panic until all sound and movement ceased.

“Miranda…?” they asked.

A long, ragged breath. Then, almost on the edge of actual hearing, painful while still nearly inaudible: “LET. ME. OUT.”

They weren’t going to disobey a direct command, not and risk redirecting that rage back on their own head, not and ignore her begging the way her own father surely had. With fumbling, trembling hands, they took out the key they’d found under the bed and unlocked the ornate lock on the wardrobe.

The moment the key had turned, the lock snapped off with violent force. Fern fell back, covering their face as the metal was flung past their head with the speed of a shot, as the doors slammed open with a crashing sound. Their ears throbbed with the intensity of the scream that emanated from within. The world was shaking, crashing around them; they tucked themself as small as they could as glass shattered around the room.

Then all was silent.

Slowly, Fern uncurled. It took another moment for them to dare look around themself. 

The room had been trashed in an instant, belongings thrown everywhere, mirrors shattered, bedding rent and torn. In front of them, the wardrobe doors gaped open. It was empty, but for a far-too-large bloodstain soaked into the wood at the base, and scratch marks all over the inside.

Fern’s eyes were stinging. Their breath was coming irregularly, tight, hard. Those scratches were burned into their vision. They couldn’t stop imagining the slow death it implied. Their throat felt thick with screams they didn’t dare let out.

Slowly, they got up and backed out of the room, shutting it again behind them. The “OWNER’S STORAGE, NOT FOR RENTERS USE.” sign fluttered as they shut it.

The sense of fear and oppression faded once they were out, and they felt a spike of… maybe hope, even, though if they focused and listened, it sounded like they could hear someone searching through room after room.

Trying to find her father, maybe. Fern hoped she did. Hoped that by letting her out, this was all over, with no more input needed from them.

They weren’t sure what to do next, anyway. They were so tired, running out of steam. Not hungry, but they knew a good part of how they were feeling had to be from how little they’d eaten today. They should probably eat something, and—and then what?

Have a conversation with Bannick again, who was hanging out in the living room right next to the kitchen? It’d be weird to ignore him, but maybe they could feign a headache and just take their food elsewhere. Go out to try to communicate with Aris again? 

Or go down to the cellar to try to find those journals, and some kind of ward they could use in it to protect against Bannick, if needed?

Or maybe just sleep. God knew they needed it.

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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