This was written in 10.2021 — 01.2022, originally posted to ao3 (Rattle)
There is a certain place in our world. Everything about that place is either ridiculous and stupid or a black void of horror. For someone meek with a pen and no sword, the only way to rob that place of a tiny bit of its evil power, is to make fun of it. Satire is a shield — and a warm blanket.
"Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet, but they are never lost for good."
― Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
All in all, her life is fine. A little directionless, perhaps, and at times Abigail gets very sad for no discernible reason, especially when it's raining, but she finds ways to divert her sadness. Ways like music, journaling, and arts and crafts. Her family is well off and secure. She helps her dad with the general store he owns and runs. Everything is fine.
There's just one serious problem: she doesn't have any friends.
It's not like she doesn't try. But good friends are hard to find around here.
Emily, for instance, is nice and perfectly—at times exceedingly—amiable, but they don't share any interests; plus, she's almost ten years older. Her sister is only slightly older than Abigail, but Haley is obsessed with several things Abigail despises, and seems to be paying more attention to what Abigail is wearing rather than to what Abigail is saying. Penny is okay, but Penny rarely wants to hang out with her, and when they do, Penny barely talks. Attempts to stir her up are tiring. Penny prefers books to people. Alex is fun at times. A boy, not a friend. Other times, he gets irritable and prickly like a cactus, out of the blue. Not fun. Not friends. Besides, his mad fascination with sports is getting on Abigail's nerves. And he keeps on saying that all girls are fragile, which is, to put it mildly, absurd.
Maybe if she wasn't friendless, she would have been a different person. More carefree, perhaps, or something of the sort. People say, having friends changes you; Abigail wouldn't know.
She tried here and there, but failed. Once in a while she feels very lonely and thinks of getting a pet.
She vaguely remembers having friends at some point in the past and yet, for the life of her, can't recall who they were, or their names, or even when she had them. It's not even real memories, it feels like a string of emotions she associates with having friends. Must be some kind of an illusion, maybe she is mistaking dreams for reality; Mom says that she has always been a loner and berates her for it.
Abigail doesn't want to be a loner, at least not all of the time, but what else could she possibly do? It's not even a little town, it's a quiet village (too quiet) and every day in it is almost exactly like the one before. Well, unless one finds distractions and challenges.
Recently Abigail has managed to find another one almost by accident.
There's a big farm just outside of town. A new owner—not that bad of a person—moved in over a year ago. Unfortunately, the two of them never have a lot of time to hang out. Farming takes a lot of effort, especially if it's a livelihood. And they don't share any interests either, so that's a no go.
However, at some point Abigail decided to learn farming and gardening, on a whim, and started coming over: at first just for theory and tips, and, when winter ended, to plant. She suspects that if it wasn't for this new hobby, she would have become completely lost, and miserable.
It's fun, it's gratifying, and it's challenging as well. She doesn't mind. She learns something new every day. For instance, how to till and rake and sow correctly, and how different vegetables need different soil to grow, and different amounts of water, and different types of other care.
Abigail even procured her own gardening shears. Started reading books on the matter. She doesn't read fictional novels often, not for entertainment because they bring her down, and she can hardly relate to anyone described, and people in novels always have friends, engage in a lot of talking, do things and go on adventures together. But non-fiction about gardening and plants is fascinating, as it turns out. The farm is a fascinating place, too: it's huge and, for the most part, wrecked and overgrown, but there's so much space, so many curiosities and so much to do, always. Her help is appreciated, and it feels nice knowing this.
Her mother Caroline does a bit of gardening, has been for years, but she mostly grows plants in a glasshouse in their backyard. There's no challenge in this and barely any effort: sturdy glasshouses safeguard from crows, and the plants inside don't get devastated by hail, or infested with vermin or various bugs, or fall prey to weeds; at least, not as much as plants in the open.
Outside, Mom only grows roses. Abigail hates roses with a burning passion, they smell so sickly sweet and are absolutely goddamn useless.
"Don't be silly, dear, of course they are useful as well as pretty! They can be, and are, made into delicious rose petal jam," Mom said once in response to the latter. Delicious?! How about disgusting!
Abigail tried it on only one occasion, as a personal challenge. In addition to tasting even more sickly sweet than the flowers smelled, rose petal jam creaked and squeaked on her teeth as if she was chewing through tiny living mice and unoiled door hinges. No, thanks!
There's no roses on that farm, and Abigail appreciates all of the edible things that grow there, especially herbs and root vegetables. And pumpkins. She hopes to grow her own pumpkins come fall, she hopes they will be huge. That's months away, though; lots to do, lots to learn. Lots of distractions to occupy the time.
Everything is fine.
But not today. Something is wrong today. Namely, Dad is very late, which almost never happens, if at all.
Early in the morning he took a bus to Calico, promising to be back right after dinnertime.
He goes there relatively often, to buy various exotic seeds and other wares, to then resell them at the store.
He's not back home after dinner, he's not back home in the following hours. Suppertime comes and goes, and there's still no sign of him. He can't be reached. His business partner Sandy doesn't answer the phone. It's never happened before and it's really suspicious.
"Perhaps he got held up," Mom offers. They close up the store and sit down to eat without Pierre. It's not a pleasant endeavor, this supper. Even worse than usual. Mom pushes broccoli around her plate, keeps looking at the big clock on the wall, then at her jeweled watch, and says nothing.
"Do you know that broccoli needs a lot of sun? It's one of the most sun-loving vegetables, yet it despises high temperatures, so it—"
"Yes, very good, dear," Mom says and looks at the clock again.
Mom doesn't listen to her talk about this new hobby even normally, Caroline is not interested in growing broccoli and all that. Although Abigail now has so many interesting things to say about plants. And no one outside the farm to tell them to. In the confines of the farm, they are already well known.
Supper is finished, she washes the dishes and peeks into the living room. Mom is pacing.
It's understandable; Abigail is nervous too, although she suspects their reasoning might be different. Mom is scared that something happened to Dad, or that he's cheating on her, while Abigail is scared that he, in fact, simply got held up by something unforeseen, and when he finally arrives in an hour or two, he will be dismissive and irritated, and won't want to explain himself, and Mom will start arguing with him. She will accuse him of not caring about anything aside from the store, and Dad will shut himself off in the bedroom or the storage closet, and Mom will still be nervous and wanting to shout, so she'll shout at Abigail for something. For being directionless or being a loner; or will pick something else out of the expansive catalog of other reasons. Later, Dad might come out and join her, and they will team up—their previous disagreement forgotten—to shout at Abigail together.
"Maybe the bus broke down," Abigail mutters. She doesn't want to stay in the house, and it's too early to sleep, so Abigail decides to go to the bus stop to wait there, or to check if there's any news or if someone else is waiting, too. And if they could then chat. Anything. Mostly she just doesn't want to stay in.
It's almost the middle of spring, but nights are still chilly, chilly even for broccoli, so she puts on ankle high boots and a jacket.
It's a really good denim jacket, it has a lot of big pockets, not like the jackets they usually make for girls; and it's perfect for this weather. Abigail likes it very much and wears it as often as possible, although it's old, tattered in places, and artfully torn in others, and Mom keeps on saying that she needs to throw it out because it's a rag. Abigail doesn't remember where she got it. She's definitely not throwing it out until it really does turn into a rag. Or never.
On the way to the bus stop she pauses next to a blackberry bush. Maybe it's time she learned how to grow them. Sure, their thorns remind her of roses, but, unlike those useless stinky flowers, they deserve the thorns and are delicious. After considering it for a bit, she decides to get a cutting.
Luckily she always carries a pair of equally old gloves in one of the jacket's big pockets, and a small folding knife. The gloves are black, and tattered as well, and they're a bit too big for her hands, but thick enough to protect the latter, and that's what matters. The knife also comes in handy. Abigail can't recall where she got either of these items.
Then she reaches the bus stop and freezes in place. Did she and Dad miss each other on the way?The bus is right there, it's parked and locked, and the engine is off, although it's still emanating warmth. One of the tires looks a little deflated. Pam is not around. No one is, except for crickets. Weird.
"How's it hanging, guys," Abigail says to the invisible crickets. They do not react in any new way.
She has no other choice but to head back.
For a little while she considers going to visit Pam and asking what happened. Just to delay coming back home. Although it might be a little late into the night for this visit to be considered polite. Pam isn't normally polite either. No, better not.
Abigail braces herself for vague, but unpleasant things, like opening the front door and finding them in the middle of a fight. Except—no, Dad isn't home, and Mom is still pacing.
"What?!" she yells. She's pressing a wet cloth to her head. "The bus is there?!"
"Yes."
"Well, did you run to Pam's place and ask her what's wrong and where Pierre is?"
Abigail shakes her head. Mom rolls her eyes and starts dialing Pam's number right away. No one picks up the phone.
"It's okay, I'll go."
It's a relief, really.
Penny is still up, reading a book, and she doesn't know what happened, and her mother came back half an hour ago and is now asleep.
"Sorry, she won't wake up until tomorrow morning," Penny says meekly, looking down.
Translation: her Mom is blind drunk and out of it all. Has Pam been drinking on the way, while driving? Or did she just down a bottle right after coming home, then blacked out?
"I see." Abigail shifts from one foot to the other. "Hey, umm, so do you want to, maybe—"
"Goodnight," Penny squeaks and shuts the door in her face.
Mom is on the phone, calling the highway patrol, and provincial troopers, and relatives, and Yoba knows who else. Relatives are sympathetic, but powerless to help, and troopers ask her to call back if Dad doesn't return in a day. Mom starts shouting at them, and they hang up, and she calls back … It goes on like this for a while.
After consulting one of the books she's borrowed from the library, Abigail finds an empty glass jar, fills it with peat mix from the stash in the backyard, adds water, then transfers the leafy stem cutting into it.
It's almost midnight, Caroline is still on the phone. Abigail should probably go to bed, but she doesn't think she will be able to sleep because the thought that something really did happen to Dad starts creeping into her mind as well, and she has no idea what to do with this particular thought.
Abigail is beginning to feel very alarmed, and now wants to pace, too, but that would be counterproductive, that would only worsen her state. Living without confidants has taught her that moping like this is pointless, it only leads to misery. Not the vague kind that arrives with thoughts of the vastness of the universe, for instance, and passes fast, but a lasting one, the kind that settles deep in your bones. She'd consider giving in to worry and moping, maybe, if she had someone to complain to, someone to discuss it all with, someone— She forces herself to take a shower and brush her teeth in the absence of other distractions.
If he doesn't come back until morning, Mom will raise hell and the whole town, of course, and they will mount a search, like in movies, and comb the fields. Or, maybe, Pam will wake up and offer a reasonable explanation? Because if something had happened to Dad, why did she just go to sleep without visiting? Actually, yes, that does sound like Pam.
Mom goes next door, starts banging on it, wakes Harvey up. Standing next to the open window on the ground floor, Abigail can hear them conversing.
"Have you called the troopers?"
"I called everyone!"
Doctor Harvey sounds sleepy and reluctant, but he invites her in. In a while Mom comes back with a soothing tonic that smells sharply of valerian root, and with sedatives, and calls Harvey a couple of unflattering nouns under her breath. That's not very fair. What else could he have done? He's got an early shift tomorrow, too.
Abigail wishes none of this was happening.
She thinks of taking one of the sedatives when the front door suddenly bangs.
"Oh thank Yoba!"
Dad staggers into the living room; he's disheveled, there's a few small and hollow cuts on his face, and his clothes are covered in dirt. In his right—and shaking—hand he's holding a rose. He doesn't say a word, simply stares at them, mouth opening and closing.
Abigail takes a step back into the doorway, but then composes herself and gets a first aid kit.
"For the love of God, Pierre, you've been missing for hours! What happened, where have you been? Have you been attacked?!"
"W-whiskey," he yelps in response. "I'd like some. Now, please. Give."
"What?!" Mom screams. "What are you talking about?! And where is your valise?!"
"R-right ou-ut-si-ide. W-whisk-key."
Mom doesn't give him any whiskey. She runs to the door, opens it, and drags the heavy suitcase in. It actually looks too heavy.
Meanwhile, Dad throws the rose on the table, strides to the liquor cabinet and engages in a losing battle with a cap of a very fancy bottle. Its contents are oak-matured and expensive, and he was planning on giving this bottle to the Mayor as a birthday gift. The Mayor's birthday is in a couple of days … Abigail helps Pierre open it; his hands are shaking way too much. Then helps him pour some into a glass.
Mom dropped the suitcase in the hallway and is now wringing her hands and asking questions to none of which she is getting a definitive answer. Knowing Dad, she probably won't.
Finally, Dad downs some of the liquor, coughs, gags loudly, and pours himself some more, hands no longer shaking. A miracle follows: instead of locking himself up, he sits at the table, pushes the rose away in apparent disgust, and starts talking.
It was all going according to plan at first: he finished his business with Sandy, took the afternoon bus back, and most of the trip was uneventful. However, just as they were approaching their destination, the old rusty clunker broke down right in the middle of the road. It huffed a tired snort and refused to drive on. Pam got out with a set of tools. Dad got out too. Something was smoking under the vehicle. Pam set out to fix it while at the same time cursing aloud and not-too-furtively taking sips from a flask. The latter distressed Pierre, and he looked around, and figured that the town was no more than a mile from where they were, and decided to take a picturesque shortcut through the forest.
He got lost right away.
Now Abigail is the one to do the eye rolling, albeit sneakily. Dad's been known to get lost in the storage closet, what was he thinking?! For a number of reasons she says nothing. Mom talks enough for two anyway; and right now, as well.
For a while he didn't know that he was lost, he walked quite briskly in the general direction of the coast and the town, not looking back; allegedly there was no need. But at some point he realized that there was no discernible trail under his feet, and he was stepping on squishy moss and fallen branches, surrounded by wide trunks and complete silence, one uninterrupted even by birds or rustling of the wind.
He wandered through the thicket for who knows how long, he's unsure; maybe it was ten minutes, maybe two hours. Hard to tell with so little light. A very impolite bough slapped his face, and he stepped into animal manure, and so on. Eventually, however, Pierre came to a track. Nothing but a narrow path between centuries-old mighty trees covered in blotches of lichen; it might have only been used by deer and the like.
"But what else could I do? So I went that way! O what a fool I've been!"
Mom is panting.
The remains of the day were fading. Just as he was getting desperate and started considering if his unwavering secularism was generally a good idea or if it merited temporary discarding, the trail widened and promptly led him to a number of trimmed hedgerows which partially concealed a thick metal fence. Both the hedges and the fence extended to the right and left as far as the eye could see, and drowned in darkness. Ultimately, the trail ended next to a high and ornate metal gate with an inscription over it. A large—vast, in fact—manor house, painted charcoal black foundation to roof, loomed some distance away, with most of its windows dark, save for a couple tall ones on the ground floor.
His initial impression of the observable property had led him to believe it was a hidden forest getaway belonging to some rich businessman from the city; however, upon approaching the gate and reading the inscription, he immediately started doubting this theory.
"Ass?! It said 'ass'?!"
"Yes, it said 'ass'! Nothing but 'ass'! I just told you, Caroline!" Pierre screams in response, throwing up his hands.
"Maybe it's an abbreviation," Abigail mutters. Maybe it wasn't the name of the owner, but of his company, maybe he was just that eccentric. Obscenely rich people are often eccentric because they can afford to be whatever they want to be and behave in any way they want. Which is one of the numerous reasons why Dad secretly craves to join their ranks.
Her theory is ignored. Dad drinks more whiskey, then finally drinks some water too. "And, I daresay, what I found inside was nothing but ass! In a certain sense."
Desperate for directions, he halloed and called, and looked for a bell, a door knocker, or any sort of signalling device, but found none; not even a large stick to bang on the fence in order to attract attention. Indeed, there was not a single large stick in sight.
Gripped by deepening despair, he attempted to pull at the grating of the gate and discovered it unlocked. It swung open soundlessly; the lack of creaking, as he surmised, was due to the fact that the hinges had been generously oiled with a high quality and versatile rust inhibitor that sells at the retail price of—
"Pierre! Please!"
Still somewhat reluctant, but with eyes fixed on the lit windows of the ground floor of the house, he stepped inside, onto a pebbled path that led directly to said house in a straight line. The grounds, or what he could see of them, were sprawling, but empty, devoid of other buildings. With the corner of his eye he noticed an intricate glass mosaic made of black and white shards, but did not halt to inspect it further. As soon as he stepped onto the low porch, the arched double front doors of the house flew open as well. Well, one of them did. The left one. The right one, for some reason, remained tightly shut. But those doors, they were made of peculiar black wood, morbid beyond bel—
"Oh, I think I know what it was. It's called ebony, but the scientific name is diospyros crassiflora, it's really unique because it's completely black on the inside," Abigail says.
This time, Dad rolls his eyes.
"Sorry. I just, I read that in a book a couple of weeks ago. Thought you'd be. Interested." She sighs and looks away.
—morbid beyond belief. Expecting to find someone behind them and already preparing a speech in his mind, he, nonetheless, discovered no butlers, servants or housekeepers, only a dimly lit corridor leading deep into the house. He halloed again, got no reply but for flickering of lights along the corridor's walls, and dared to venture further, oblivious to any potential danger, perhaps due to his exhaustion and hunger. He felt famished. His stomach rumbled mournfully just then, so it was a welcome sight when—mere seconds later—he entered a spacious dining hall, with fire crackling in a high hearth; a place at the head of a long polished table was neatly and invitingly set for one, with dinner already served on a large porcelain dish and a drink already poured into a silver goblet.
"What?! Burger and fries?!" interrupts Mom, eyes wide and bloodshot.
"Yes, and a sweet carbonated beverage of an unnatural color."
He ruminated on the matter for a little while, but, being very hungry, he made a decision quickly and sat down to eat, intending to reimburse the owner for the meal if the need arose. He disliked the drink strongly, but the fries were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, evidently cooked in high quality oil, served with premium ketchup of the kind that comes in glass bottles and sells fast despite its high price; and the burger was a cheeseburger, very fresh, perhaps even black angus, broiled medium well, with sufficiently aged yellow cheese from the mid-tier pricing range, a not too excessive amount of chopped onions, a pickle slice; and the mustard wa—
"Pierre! For the love of God!" Mom screams.
Abigail distractedly thinks of how burgers are something you're supposed to eat with friends. You go out together, sit in a booth, share fries, maybe. She can never finish one portion on her own, so she doesn't order this.
Sufficiently satiated, Pierre stood up and considered leaving a bill on the table, but decided against it in the end. Valise once more in hand, he went to investigate the house, but no other doors would open for him; then around the grounds, to look for the owner or a groundskeeper in case said owner or groundskeeper was out there and could point him in the direction of the town. Numerous lanterns were lit next to the garden, and he finally noticed the abundance of roses. Indeed, aside from the hedges, no other garden plants were present except for rose bushes, and all of them, despite it not being the appropriate season, were in bloom. Thinking of his dearest wife, who by that time must have been worried sick about him ... Yes, I understand, honey, I'm sorry, it was out of my control, what was I supposed to do, yes, I really did think of you, I swear, and that's why I did it! Yes, well, maybe I shouldn't have because wait till you hear what happened when I cut that rose, well, not precisely cut it, I tried to kind of nibble it off, yes, Caroline, that's how I got the cuts, and thank you very much for offering me an antiseptic and some band-aids—not! I swear, it's—
Abigail opens the first aid kit again, then thinks better of it and just puts the whole box on the table in front of Dad. This distracts him.
Thinking of his dearest wife who loved roses so, he procured a flower of a rich pink hue and was about to insert it into the front pocket of his tweed jacket for safekeeping when he heard horrifying otherworldly howling and was promptly attacked by a ferocious monster. This monster jumped over the garden fence with no trouble; hereinafter it walked and stood on its hind legs. It was wearing clothes, as a man would, but it was no fewer than seven feet in height, had long and doubtlessly sharp claws, and a maw open wide to show rows of fearsome fangs. Every inch of the wild creature was a thick furry mane that stank insufferably of wet canine. As an insult to injury, it had distinctly human eyes.
"It must have eaten a man!" Mom exclaims, clenching her fists.
Dad nods in agreement. "Certainly, Caroline. Or several. I am very lucky to have survived!"
The monster faced him, barred his way out, and, for taking a single flower from his precious garden, threatened Pierre's life.
"Umm, he said, 'hey what the hell, man'?"
"Yes, as I just told you! Those were its precise words! Why do you keep on interrupting me!"
Abigail frowns. "Well, where's the threat in that?"
"It was a monster, a beast! Seven feet tall, with claws, teeth, and fur, and. It was a beast! What else was it doing if not threatening me? Anyhow, this wasn't the only thing it said!"
"It wasn't?"
"Of course it wasn't!" Dad shouts, red in the face. He looks like he's about to explode. "That beast has some nerve!"
Dad pours himself another finger of whiskey, drinks it in one gulp, grimaces, lets out a dry sob, and finally continues with the tale.
Horrorstruck, he fell to his knees and begged for mercy. He implored the beast not to eat him, for he was naught but a lonely traveler lost in the woods, and he had a faithful wife and a young daughter who both depended on him and would go mad with grief if something were to happen to him. And would also call the provincial troopers who would absolutely find this forest dwelling and the beast, too, and bring it to justice.
The monster interrupted his pleading and demanded Pierre send his first-born daughter in his stead, otherwise there would be lethal consequences.
"Hold on, he demanded you hand me over or he will kill you?"
Oh no, it didn't demand directly, the beast was sly and shifty, it declared it was merely looking for company, it even gave Pierre directions for a maiden's delivery: a ruse, no doubt, to eat said maiden, for it must have gotten tired of medium well-done beef and wanted to devour a human once more.
"R-right," says Abigail.
Mom pours herself some valerian root tonic, downs it, and says, "The. Horror."
She makes the sign of Yoba three times.
Pierre noted that his first-born daughter was not very nutritious, then inquired if the monster simply needed a virginal sacrifice to some kind of pagan god, and added how unsuitable his daughter would be for this because he had reason to believe that she was no virgin, in addition to being unladylike in every other regard.
"What the shit, Dad!" yells Abigail.
"Language!" both he and Mom yell in response.
How is this fair? They just said the word "ass" half a dozen times, without batting an eye. Or an ass. "You seriously go around telling strangers things like this about me?! As if it matters!"
"I was trying to protect you! Anyway, it said it didn't need a virginal sacrifice, and that it wasn't in the habit of sacrificing anyone to anything, generally. Another lie, no doubt!"
"Well, what did he say? Did he give you an explanation?"
Indeed, the monster, still standing on its hind legs, proclaimed that it had been. Been. Umm.
"It said, 'Hey, I mean, it's just so awesome that you have a daughter, think she'd be interested in coming over to, like, just hang out and stuff? 'Cause I swear we don't bite and we'd love to have someone to hang out with, but someone, like, our age 'cause it just gets mad lonely here, man, and there's just the two of us, and there's no one else to hang out with, and also, my back is itchy sometimes and I can never properly reach it, I tried rubbing against that pillar over there, but it just never hits the spot, you know," quotes Pierre in a detached and emotionless tone, reaches for his glass and takes another sip of whiskey before continuing with the story.
Noticing the gate with the corner of his eye, Pierre took his chance. Through a feat of enormous courage he sprang up and ran for it as fast as he could, with his heart beating wildly in his long-suffering chest, to which he was, incidentally, pressing his naught forgotten valise. Miraculously, there was no pursuit, and, upon reaching the fortunately still unlocked gate, he left the grounds. He had no idea if he would perish in the forest, but anything was better than staying there, next to that macabre black house, in the company of a monster. Luckily, after some more wandering, he found his way out with no trouble, with that rose still somehow clutched in his hand, and here he is.
Abigail's mind is racing. This Beast sounds like an interesting person. And Dad sounds like his normal self: ate someone else's dinner, didn't say thanks, started making assumptions based on someone's appearance only. And the showing-his-fangs thing was obviously just a big smile, but Dad didn't recognize it.
"You said he gave you directions," whispers Abigail. "What were the directions?"
"It mentioned something about 'get lost in the forest and you will find us' and that if I wanted, it'd 'put the directions right into my suitcase'," Dad mumbles, doing air quotes, not looking at her. "It is insane, in addition to being a monster. Utterly insane!"
Doesn't sound like it.
"So. He also said. Us. And. Their age? What is their age? And who's they?"
"I don't. Know," whimpers Dad and immediately starts sobbing.
Mom starts fussing properly. "You're in shock, Pierre, you need rest! Oh dear Yoba, this is completely unacceptable, this needs to be dealt with. A beast? In our forest?! I am going to call the troopers first thing in the morning!"
"You will do no such thing, Caroline!" Pierre booms, unexpectedly loud, and even rises a little. Abigail notices that his face is dry and not tear-stained. "Not a single word of this to anyone in town either! If this gets out, and if my sanity is questioned for even a second, it will undoubtedly reflect on the store's turnout! No one will want to buy wares from a madman!"
Abigail attempts to slowly walk out of the room as they argue, almost backwards, hoping they won't notice. Unfortunately, they do.
Dad points a finger at her. "I hope you are not getting one of your stupid ideas right now! Of course you're not going anywhere, Abigail, no one is going there again! Ever!"
"Okay," says Abigail.
Then they get to the suitcase that should be full of tulip bulbs for sale, and nothing else, but Dad is baffled and appears to be on the verge of crying again because as soon as they open the suitcase, they discover that it's full of various bobblehead dolls. Full to bursting, in fact: some tumble to the floor, some break, and Dad starts screaming and howling. Something else falls, too, and rolls towards Abigail's feet. She lifts it up. It's a ring with three tiny jewels: one is purple, the other, bright yellow, and the third one is so dark it looks almost black. Nice colors. Mom's roses don't come in these colors, thankfully. Abigail sneakily brings the ring closer to a table lamp to inspect it further. It's not made of precious metal, and instead of a hallmark there's an inscription on the inside. And it says "ass" … Abigail giggles a little, despite herself. The ring doesn't look expensive, and the jewels seem to just be pieces of polished glass. But it's cute.
"Hi," she whispers to the ring and pockets it.
"I'm going to bed," Abigail says much louder, to her parents. They ignore her, continuing to rummage through dozens of bobbleheads and making distressed sounds.
In her room she transfers the ring into one of the big front pockets of her denim jacket.
Alright, so if Dad told the truth, there might be a magic curse involved. He said the Beast had human eyes, and that he was wearing clothes and, evidently, liked burgers and soda. He must have been a human once, but something's happened to him. Hmm, or it could all be a result of a secret government experiment, should never rule that out. But most likely magic. Maybe there's some way around the curse, this might be fun, Abigail is very interested in things like that. Also, yes, the Beast sounds like a nice person. And he did say he was lonely and was looking for someone to hang out with. There is also someone else living there, with him, if "two of us" is to be believed, but that person probably doesn't talk much, or doesn't want to hang out, or both. Or maybe it's just a visiting cook which is even sadder.
Abigail manages to get some sleep, although the dreams that overtake her as soon as she dozes off are really odd. In one of them she walks among castle halls with high frescoed ceilings, wearing old-fashioned rustling skirts made of silk, accompanied by a classically handsome—chiseled jawline, broad shoulders, and everything—prince, who is also dressed in silks and gold, and, frankly, looks like a pompous and boring guy who'd be way into jousting and would call her fragile. Tsch. These clothes are not very practical, and "classically handsome" is not that attractive, and princes are overrated, as is the entire concept of monarchies, thinks Abigail, very confused by the dream.
The other one has more sensations than images: she feels very young and helpless, very scared, ill; she is bedridden, and someone tells her not to be afraid because they will go and fix everything, and take away the thing that scares her. She wants to tell that mysterious someone not to go, but can't force a single word out. This dream is even more confusing, but also very sad. Abigail wakes up in a foul mood, feeling lonely and unappreciated. For a while, no distractions help rectify this state.
Dad is jittery and fearful, and Mom is out in the garden, tending to her roses. Abigail goes to the farm to check on her beds, but at this point there are no parasites and the sprinklers are doing the job for her, she just needs to wait. She'd ask for more space to plant, but Abigail is reluctant: this isn't her farm, after all.
Then she assists Dad around the store. She keeps thinking about yesterday's events, and is feeling restless, and can't help but ask him various questions. Dad sounds irritated, but answers them, albeit rapidly and distractedly. How long did it take him to find his way out of the forest? In which direction is the estate, well, from where they are now? What exactly was the Beast wearing? What color was his fur? Were his claws retractable? His eyes, were they—
"Eeeenough!" Dad whispers gruffly at some point. "I am trying very hard to forget the whole ordeal, why do you keep reminding me of it, do you want me to get a heart attack?! Or, even worse, for someone to overhear?!"
She's been careful to only ask things when no one was in the store. But Dad is very paranoid. The Mayor came over to purchase truffle oil and asked Dad where he got the cuts. Dad invented a convoluted story about how he wanted to hang a hammock in the backyard, but tripped over a rake and fell face first into a rose bush. Of course, in this story Abigail was the one who had left the rake lying around.
"The youth these days!" grumbles the Mayor.
Some bobbleheads sell; people say they look cute, so at least Dad is no longer lamenting the loss of the tulip bulbs.
It's very hard to stop thinking about it all. As hours pass, Abigail starts relating to the Beast more and more. His life seems to be fine, just as hers is, he's got delicious burgers to eat, and a large house with a dining hall and a fireplace, and a table big enough for ten, but no one to keep him company. He seemed so excited to learn of her existence. And it is, in fact, very inconvenient when your back itches and there's no one to help with that, it must be even worse if you're a furry Beast.
Also, she can't stop thinking about the roses. The garden was huge, and the lawn was well tended to, according to Dad, yet not a single thing was planted there except for useless roses. It's such a waste; there's space enough for so many root vegetables, and herbs, and berries, and even other flowers if the Beast likes them. Lavender, for instance, is not something Abigail is opposed to; according to one of the books she's recently read, lavender attracts bees, so it's a good idea to plant lots of it around a vegetable garden. When dried it's an efficient clothes moth repellent. Very useful flower. Nice color, too.
The Beast probably doesn't know a thing about gardening, she could teach him a lot. With claws like his, he could help her rake the soil and dig.
As evening approaches, Abigail starts earnestly thinking about venturing into the forest to find the Beast: at the very least, to talk to him and ask him questions. She even gets her big backpack out, fills it with packets of various seeds, stuffs in her shears and a trowel, too. And a change of clothes, and waterproof matches, and a bottle of water, and granola bars, and even tampons and band-aids. She hides the backpack, along with the jar that holds the recent blackberry cutting, in the wardrobe, and covers it all with her favourite jacket.
Then she dials the farm. No one is picking up the phone, so Abigail leaves a message stating that she might not return tomorrow—or for some time after—to check on her plants; and if she doesn't, it means that she left to investigate the forest because there's something weird going on there. Apologizing hastily, she adds that her pumpkins are well fertilized for now.
Not that she is seriously thinking of going … Or maybe she is. It's a decision in the process of forming. Of course, she is doing her best to rationalize, too, but it just doesn't feel like the Beast means any harm.
They're having supper, and Mom and Dad continue berating the Beast, and talking about how ugly and ill-mannered he was, and that they need to install a thicker fence around the house, and an alarm system. She does her best to keep silent, but it's very hard; at some point Abigail feels so angry and frustrated that she blurts out, "But what if he's not evil? What if he needs help?"
They both look at her, and frown.
"Please tell me you're not thinking of going there, dear," Mom says.
Dad shakes his head. "The youth these days," he proclaims. "Constantly getting stupid ideas and doing stupid things; no rationality, no morality, no respect!"
Later on, as Abigail is flipping through a gardening manual in her room, she hears footsteps, and the lock on her door clicks. She springs up, runs to the door, and tries to open it—to no avail. She starts banging on it and screaming to be let out.
What is this nonsense?! She's too old to be grounded, they have no right to lock her up like this!
"This is for your own good!" says Dad from behind the door. "Your mother and I know you all too well, and how you get your stupid ideas!"
Huffing, she sits back down on the bed and crosses her arms and legs. Well, now it's not an idea in the process of forming, it's a plan made. Maybe if they didn't lock her up she would have stayed at home, but right now this seems unthinkable. She is of age and perfectly capable of making her own decisions!
Abigail lays down, fully clothed and very angry; she listens for footsteps and waits till her parents go to sleep. As soon as Dad starts snoring behind the wall, Abigail gets her backpack, stuffs a gardening almanac and the jar into it, and takes a flashlight and some batteries from a box under her bed.
No point waiting for daylight; it will be much easier to get lost in the forest at night. For a little while she's intent on simply bolting without leaving a note, but thinks better of it, finds a piece of paper, and quickly writes, "went to help the beast he really sounds like he needs help i'll be ok you shouldn't judge by appearance and sry you shouldn't have locked me."
Luckily, her boots are right here. She puts the jacket on, too, and—out of habit—checks the pockets for the gloves and the folding knife. The latter might come in handy on the off chance the Beast will actually want to attack and eat her. Very carefully, Abigail unlocks the latches on the window and lifts it up, and climbs onto the narrow fire ladder, trying very hard not to make too much noise. Success.