Consuming the day,
But the little girl sits still
On the windowsill.
And watch, watch, watch,
On the next morning,
When papa and mama wakes
The little girl is, gone.
Gone, gone, gone,
And when night comes again,
The people in the vale scream,
As two pair of eyes,
From behind rot and moss,
Watch, watch, watch.
A Monster, on the hill,
Lived all alone,
Hiding, grinding, and never smiling,
Until the little girl,
joined it up there, and was,
Gone, gone, gone.
The Tale of The Great Monster and The Girl Inked with Magic. All of them, once stories, now nursery rhymes with a sinister heartbeat.
“Can you sing this one, too?” I asked, handing the book back.
Myra nodded, smiling faintly as she tucked a brown curl behind her ear. “My mum used to sing me rhymes like these all the time.”
She began again, softly, and a strange quiet fell over the room. The melody turned the air heavy. The small hairs on my arms rose. If I closed my eyes, I could see our small flat, my mother moving in the kitchen, her voice curling around the words as I traced the chessboard edged into the table.
“Do you want me to sing another?”
I startled. I was drawn into the memory so intensely I didn’t even hear her finish the song.
“That’s okay,” I murmured, the edges of it still clinging to my voice. “Thank you though.”
She rose, gently setting the book down on the bed. She was nearly at the door when something tugged at me.
“Myra.” Her name left my lips like a question. She turned back, arching a curious brow. I hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever heard the name Varden Aldridge?”
Her head tilted slightly, her brows drawing together in thought. I watched her closely, hope tingling the tip of my fingers.
“I can’t recall,” she said after a pause. “I’m sorry.” Her tone shifted, like she was elsewhere too, caught in a memory like I had been.
