Inkwell 2018-2019

scraping had ceased when she spoke. Surely it was her Aunt making a racket beyond the threshold, possibly in distress. The woman had long been infamous in town for her addled mind. Bessie could still remember waiting in the garden on the clear sunny day of her Aunt’s 40th birthday celebration at which Nora had appeared in front of the crowd and delivered a veritable soliloquy on the proper care and breeding of Yorkshire Terriers. Ever so slowly, Bessie rose and began to walk across the mauve carpeting. Of course the carpeting is horridly mauve, why wouldn’t it be? She thought, attempting to distract herself from the sense of disquiet building in her chest. The room was cramped; the distance from her chair by the window to the door, where she would be forced to investigate the source of that horrid noise, was only a few steps. Almost as an afterthought, Bessie grabbed an ornately crafted silver cheese knife from where it lay amidst scattered pear slices and wedges of brie. As she felt the cool metal against her palm, she reflected that she had never before held something that she thought of as a weapon, though this was not entirely unusual for a woman of her station. Feeling a bit foolish, she held the blade in front of her and walked as calmly as she could towards the door. Quiet still hung in the room like an uncertain mist, making each breath sound a gasp, and each footfall a thud. She was about to turn the knob when she noticed that the key was still in the lock. If she wished it, she could lock herself in to keep out… whatever lurked on the other side. But Nora could’ve gotten herself into trouble. Before she had much time to consider, the scritchety scracheting returned with a hellish force, and Bessie felt sudden resistance against the knob. After a stunned pause, she locked the door and backed away, key in one hand, knife in the other. It was very loud now, a din unlike anything Bessie had ever had the displeasure of hearing that seemed to reverberate throughout the room. A

clattering began to her left, the direction of Aunt Nora’s towering display cabinet of tea implements: bulbous, diminutive pots, hand painted filigree cups, and saucers and spoons of every sort. Each implement quivered behind the glass, a clink clank orchestra made up of the phantoms of countless teatimes past. The room was more alive than Bessie had ever seen it; everything vibrated and shifted with the battering of the door. Whatever was behind that door, it must be immense indeed. She was trapped in a shifting nest of noise, a tiny cabin in a boat tossed back and forth by stormwinds. And the storm had come knocking. Needless to say, nothing remotely like this had ever happened to Bessie. She was a creature of quiet drawing rooms and carriage litters, and the occasional soiree if her Aunt was feeling particularly adventurous. As little porcelain cherub statues shuddered atop dressers, tears began began to well up in her eyes. Panicked, Bessie glanced around for some avenue of escape. The window! She rushed to its sill and grimaced at the gardens a good 20 feet below. She had expected the drop to be infeasible but never realized quite how galling it was. Could some sort of rope be constructed from the velvety mauve drapes? From the tablecloth? Perhaps… The sound of the finest mahogany splitting and fibering apart made Bessie freeze. She summoned all the rules of courtesy that had ever been drilled into her. There was a chance , however slim, that whoever or whatever she was about to encounter had no further desire than a tête-à-tête , or perhaps a spot of tea. Bessie turned around and let forth a horrified shriek. A troll stood in the doorway. It was hulking, greenish, and slimy. Its body seemed a twisted

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