For Mildred Who Lived Alone

This is a story I've been working on for about a month, I'm pretty proud of it. It was inspired by some of the drawings I've been doing recently, they are featured below to give an idea of what the creatures look like... Also featuring a fantastic song called "Paper Mill" by Robert Sylvain!!

Mildred had never felt a strong allure towards the world of humans, much less the world of men. She never much cared for what was “up”; she despised the idea of gossip and quickly became bored with talking about her problems. What Mildred really loved was imagination. For some reason, she was exceptional in the ways of grasping the impossible. Every thought she had was of new invention, and every creation of wondrous fantasy. More than anything else, Mildred was a dreamer.
Fortunate enough to have loving parents who made quite a bit of money, young Mildred was spoiled silly. Not the normal type of spoiled, no; she would not hear talk of toys, candy, new clothes, or trips; what little Mildred wanted was books. She demanded libraries stocked with folklore and a generous arsenal of notebooks and art supplies for documenting her ideas. While all the other children of the world were at play, Mildred created places of her own. They were vast and complex, filled with traps and mystery, riddles and rhymes muttered by witches and trolls under bridges. She shaped sweeping valleys dipping down from mystical, sprawling mountaintops of slumbering giants sprinkled with powdered sugar snow. Her carefully sectioned realms jigsawed together, battling for eternities.

These marvels that she invented in her childhood were filled with such fascinated wonder that visitors (of all ages) could not help but to fall into her descriptions and emerge into her world out of sheer jealousy of thought. But Mildred seldom showed her drawings. An unfortunate side effect of her sheltered, needless life; a blatant unwillingness to share. Though she did not know it, a bit of healthy interaction about her creative triumphs would have actually expanded her capacity. Poor girl. One can’t help but pity her, who was so obviously charmed by her fabricated existences to an extent where she forgot that the real world existed, too.

So was the beginning of her end. She retired immediately, because she could, and besides Mildred was not much enthused by the idea of the practical studies and social demands of college. Right after high school, she marched up to the burly, business-like form of her rich, gallant Papa and pouted sweetly until he agreed to build her a quaint cottage in the pretty center of nowhere.

She furnished her secluded hideaway with her favorite things; books, notebooks, peanut butter, sugar, more books, and art supplies. Mildred, at the ripe age of eighteen, had fully and happily decided on her life.

Mildred grew old. She placidly watched the years drift by her, glancing out the window every now and then to get a glimpse of how things outside had changed. Not for one second did her life choices bore her or make her pine for human company. Mildred was about the most contented old woman anyone could meet.

The one thing that she expressed regret to (and that was only then shown by shedding a few hasty tears, quickly wiped away) was never truly appreciating the gifts and efforts of her parents. This guilt stayed with her always, sitting smug and obstinate in the pit of her stomach.

If the pitiful woman could have apologized, perhaps that would have calmed her quivering spirit some; but her beloved parents were long deceased and unreachable. So Mildred lived with her guilt, sleeping beside it at night and waking up to it every morning. However, this never stopped her from being a jolly and energetic hermit. For she truly was a hermit; she had lived alone in the forest for more than fifty years with only a few periodic breaks to live with her parents in the real world for a year or two.

Age barely changed her. She may have been somewhat wiser and moving around was decidedly more difficult, but her soul remained young. She was far enough away from her youth the realize how spoiled rotten she had been.

Through the prime of  her life, and sauntering into her elderly years, her rampant fascination with the fantastic lingered. Nothing mystical could ever be boring, there would always be something new for her to create. Sometimes, Mildred felt that she should not act so childish still, that maybe her style of life was rather immature. Perhaps it was time to finally grow up and go back to the bustling industry of modern society. If ever this thought passed through the elderly woman’s head, she would simply chuckle heartily and think, “All the wonders of humanity may be more than a little disappointing compared to the lively characters I’m surrounded with. Imagine a petty human trying to entertain me as animatedly as a Funklefeeper could! What a notion. No, I think I am perfectly content with where I am. Besides, that’s a bit too exciting for my heavy bones.” Then Mildred, with her carefully greying hair and twinkling eyes sparkling keenly amidst a sea of folds, wrinkles, and pinches, would laugh aloud at the follies of others before going about her ways. For even though she lived quite alone, she was habit to let loose with a satisfied chuckle or beaming smile every once and awhile. Mildred found such awe and beauty in her own creations, it was only natural that she would want to express her joy. Though her pride was justified; her drawings were spectacular and writings breathtaking. Mildred knew this, and though she had not a person to brag to, the fact undoubtedly made her plenty prideful. Her pride hurt no one, so she could live just as serenely with her flaw.

One day, after a long, meandering walk through the forest and a lunch of oatmeal and almonds, Mildred sat deservedly in her favorite chair with the intention of some sort of artistic pursuit. Her slightly shaky (but still capable) hand hovered over the page for a few minutes as she waited for inspiration to dawn upon her. Usually, her brain was swirling with so many ideas that she could hardly capture them all on paper. It was not uncommon for her to be stuck, either, as it sometimes took some time to relax and think. Then, though, Mildred’s mind was blanker than the clean page in front of her. She was patient, and was perfectly pleased to stay put. She did not have any plans, she only had the time from that point until when she died.

In that ridiculously lavish red velvet chair, Mildred sat for the rest of the afternoon until dinnertime. She was wildly fatigued; the mere effort of doing nothing took the life out of her. Mildly perplexed by her sudden inability to find her creativity, she racked the recesses of her mind for anything, but there was not a trace of an idea to be found. She turned in early in hopes that the new day would refresh her.

The morning dawned, bright and cheerfully draped in soft pinks, warm oranges and cool blues. Crisply chirping cardinals prettily ornamented the trees, whistling of carefree virtues in the pale light. Mildred, like the birds, went about her morning duties. She had been visited by the most spectacular dreams of fancy, and therefore she had surmised that the day must evolve into a more imaginative one than the day before.

Hours passed “as usual” - because the leaves still rustled on their branches, the sun still rose and set, gravity still existed, and the air was still breathable. Hence, “as usual”. Inside the cogs and gears of Mildred’s head, though, there was nothing more than one would find in the brain of someone who never bothered to think outside of their present situation. The unfortunate woman was quite beside herself with anxiety over her impotence. For her, it was something like spontaneously losing one’s ability to hear.

She tried her best to go about her routine as normally as possible, but she was minutely followed by a nagging worry, such that not a thing felt normal. Though her anxiety may seem petty and unwarranted, remember her sheltered life. Mildred had never faced adversity; she lived a quiet, solitary life and never met any impediments between her and what she wanted. Her predicament could hardly have been called hardship, but set upon Mildred’s spotless scale of misery, her situation was horrendous.

To pass the time, the old woman fondly leafed through old drawings, some from when she was only a child.

“What a stupendously different mind,” Mildred murmured to herself, smiling lightly. What’s wrong with a bit of egotism once and awhile? She mused, appreciating her work.

That night, in sleep, she was surprised to meet many of her fantastical imaginings. She was young again; joyously keeping company with a tumbletum. Her world came to life before her aching eyes, in all the splendor and majesty that she could have ever concocted. All night, she danced next to her monsters. It was everything she had ever wanted; the impossible.

When she awakened, she wept. Mildred cried for her sore old joints who never could have romped so freely as in the dream; perhaps decades since, but not then. Her tears were for the beasts which she had so loved. They were the tears of a child, woken by a splendid dream who mourns because it’s over.

Throughout the day, Mildred felt like she was simply waiting to be tired. For herself, she knew that it was the desire to be where she was understood: among her people.

She dreamed again; this time whirling along on a cloud, playing an aerial game of something or other with a band of weepers. Pitiable Mildred had such a fine time in this fantasy world that she resolved to stay in it as long as she could.

Every waking moment was filled with boredom and restlessness. She hated being awake. Of course nothing real is remotely interesting if one expects to be whisked away on a magic carpet or take part in a faery coronation in a moment.

While she slept, her pens and notebooks became dusty and forgotten. Paper creations seemed useless and intangible to her. A month passed like this. That is, until one pleasant summer afternoon, she stepped into her garden.

Mildred walked lazily next to peonies and morning glories, barely appreciating or even noticing their beauty. It was one of those sultry, useless days in the thick of the season where the inhabitants of earth strove to do anything but stand still and risk sweating to death.

Behind a clump of daisies, she glimpsed a flicker of something red passing by. “Just a trick of these ancient, weary eyes fading in the heat,” she concluded, mopping her brow unceremoniously. She turned to move away, but as she did so, what should she see but a miniature hand reaching out to pluck a daisy! The old woman shrieked in worry. “How on Earth did a baby get here?” She thought frantically. Mildred hurriedly groped though the flowers to find the child. Her mind was racing - “How long had it been here?” “Was it hurt?” “How will I find the parents?”

Over the tops of some forget-me-nots, she spied a small red cap. Pushing the blooms aside, she found a tiny person curled over their stolen daisy. The baby turned it’s face towards Mildred to reveal a thick, long white beard and bright green eyes rimmed with wrinkles. Mildred gave a start. Was she dreaming? The gnome stood up, brushed himself off, and gave a bow before scampering away.

The elderly dear was left in such a flurried state of confusion that she sat down heavily, right then in the middle of the walkway. She puzzled until she had a strong headache and more questions than ever. She pinched herself, told herself to wake up, even tried to manipulate things around her (as one may often do in dreams). Thoroughly convinced that she would not wake up and plenty frightened, Mildred sat there, completely dumbfounded. What else could she do? Her eyes were wide with alarm as they feverishly roamed the garden. She was terrified lest she spot a red cap among the leaves, but at the same time she was anxious to confirm her sighting.

Mildred slowly shook off the experience. It passed into memory and waned from her mind. She was no longer afraid so much as unsettled. Her creaking, complaining joints bore her to a standing position. She regretted sitting on the ground rather than a chair as she tenderly supported her back. Her age showed in every corner of her withered being as she cautiously made her way back to the house.

If someone, perchance a hiding gnome, had seen her then, the agitation creased into her expression would betray to the observer the truth of her beliefs. A gleam in her eye showed secret delight, while the soft folds of her face wrenched up or down and furrowed into a visage as perplexing as it was perplexed. But no eyes followed her, not while she walked, nor when she pushed aside the dinner that she could not bring herself to eat, nor when she dragged her exhausted spirit into bed.

Nothing else bothered Mildred for the next few days - nothing palpable, at least. The woman was pestered by a growing curiosity that rendered most activities tedious and boring for her. That is, save for long walks, particularly in the garden. An annoying amount of things in her house were also often misplaced or completely missing, but she blamed it on the follies of her wasting memory.

Two days served to help Mildred (rather dejectedly) forget the incident. She dismissed it under the pretense of her advanced age, cloudy eyes, even sanity; anything than accepting that something real had hidden in her flowers. Life went back to being “as usual”. The only remotely exciting that that happened was that Mildred noticed that she had lost an impressive amount of socks in the wash in the past week, though that was more annoying than dramatic.

Washing dishes was one of the only things that had remained entirely unchanged over the past month - she could be compelled to dress differently, rearrange her house, cook new recipes, etc., but cleaning up was always the same. Standing at the sink and scrubbing away, Mildred absentmindedly hummed a harmless tune from her youth. The sounding clack of plates against each other and the droning of the rushing water were barely helpful accompaniment; she could barely hear herself over the clamor. Remembering her solitude in the forest, she burst into loud, shameless song.

“She wakes up every morning, every day feels the same

And the same things keep falling in and out of her brain

She’s blowing with the wind, she’s got nothing to believe in

Nothing to lose, nothing to need, nothing to gain…”

Halfway through her song, she finished washing and was left as a solo singer. Or so she expected - minus the ruckus of the dishes, a high-pitched voice pierced the air. Mildred snapped her mouth shut in terror-stricken silence. Her duet partner ceased with her.

“Who’s there?” Her trembling voice whispered.

“Who’s there?” The other echoed in a shrill tone.

Mildred put a knobby knuckled, fragilely transparent hand over her quickening heart. Her underused words caught in her throat and she could say no more.

A rustling sound emanated from behind the sugar jar as a fist sized ball of colorful fluff rolled into the open. It was the muted color of strawberry cotton candy. The sphere blinked open large, curious eyes, which seemed to be the creature’s only facial feature. It quietly tumbled on the countertop, pausing every few rotations to glance up at Mildred. The aged lady stood, staring with her creaking jaw hanging open, not daring to blink.

The ball of fluff stopped and opened it’s little mouth, which had been previously hidden by fur. A single, wailing note screamed out from the tiny being. Mildred clapped her hands over her ears in shock.

Apparently noticing Mildred’s dislike for his song, the pink puff muted. A rather sheepish look betook his tiny features, and he began to roll away, crestfallen.

Suddenly realizing that he had just wanted to sing along, Mildred frantically gathered the courage to hum. The weak rumble of her voice made the creature turn around and regard her with hopeful eyes. Mildred slowly began to get over her shock and hum with more heart. The miniscule beast let loose with a screaming peal of laughter before joining Mildred in song.

Though her outsides may have seemed surprisingly calm, her train of thought was off the rails during this bizarre encounter. She was thinking at such a pace that she thought her head might go spinning off. The gnome she might have shrugged off; it had been a split second, it could have been the heat; but this was real, in focus, there. How had the tiny being gotten into her kitchen? What even was he? Was she going insane? Why was it visiting her, then, there? Were there more? Mildred was hit with all of these questions at once and had not the faintest idea as to how to begin answering any of them.

Mildred’s seldom used voice quickly tired and crumbled into silence. The puff quieted as well, but was seemingly somewhat more contented than glum. Mildred reached a tentative, crooked hand towards him as slowly and peacefully as she could muster. At first, he shied away from her touch (as any animal with a shred of sense would), but once he realized that wizened old Mildred meant no harm, he snuggled comfortably into her offered palm. His warm, furry body began to emit some form of high, piping purring. The woman took an instant liking to the pink ball of fluff. She scooped him up with both of her knobby-knuckled hands, feeling his long, silky smooth fur. She considered how she would call him. Eventually, she decided on Florence; it seemed the right mix of fruity and charming for the curious creature.

Following the discovery of her new friend, Mildred spent almost all of her time with Florence; playing with him, studying him. He had so many delightful habits! He began singing every time Mildred did the dishes, and had abounding natural norms besides. He was afraid of the color yellow, and after innumerable tries, Mildred discovered that his diet consisted entirely of pastries. (Perhaps this was just what he wanted to eat rather than what he could eat.) When he got wet, his fur slicked down in a way that made it look like he was melting. With this, she could see that his body was simply a ball of muscle with two eyes, a mouth, and a whole lot of cotton candy fur. Mildred was so engrossed in Florence, she barely felt time pass by. She forgot meals, but still slept a great deal in order to meet with the lovely beasts that pranced through her dreamscape. And lovely they were; the creatures were becoming more complicated, more fantastical than ever before. Some glowed like incandescent jellyfish as they swam through the atmosphere on wings of quills. Others bounded on seven snaking limbs and flaunted hair made of live plants. There were formless blobs of mercury-like substance that had eyes and organs, hulking monsters with sparkling starry night skin. She secretly hoped that they too would emerge into her real world.

Slowly, they began to do so. First, it was the sprites. These, Mildred did not particularly care for; they spoiled the milk and upset the order of her unmentionables. Florence was perfectly petrified of them; they pulled his hair and kicked him around like a soccer ball.

Next came the flumps. They were no better than the sprites; they were grumpy, solitary, irritable little nuisances. They monopolized her sugar jars, stole the maple syrup, and spat most ungraciously on the counter when it pleased them.

She found murples in the garden, eating all the dirt; foggles perched on trees whimpered their pathetic songs; and she was fairly certain she spotted a pharslamp in the lake. She presumed it must have been a fresh water variety, since pharslamps live exclusively in coral reefs, and the murky, algae-filled lake water was about as far from the salty vivacity of a coral reef that one could get.

Mildred loved this emergence of beings. She was helplessly captivated by each and every one of them. She could barely keep up with documenting all the different species. This was her paradise. There was no way she ever had been, or could be, happier.

Mildred lived in her fantasyland in rapturous joy for three full weeks. She was surrounded by her creatures, she would tell herself. Often, she found old drawings that matched tangible beings with suspicious similarity, such that in the back of her mind a dangerous spark of immense pride as ignited. She had created these amazing works of supernaturality! Mildred thought in gloating awe. “But they’re not mine,” She resolved, smiling softly as she petted Florence lovingly.

One morning, she took a walk in the forest. A stroll in the woods was infinitely more interesting than it had been in the past; impossible, unidentifiable things whizzed musically through the air and rested on branches, hid in knolls and peeped out from behind bushes. Florence sat contentedly in a small pouch that she had made specially for him. He was quite proud to be her favorite, and rode in his spot as if it were a throne.

A low, threatening growl emanated from a nearby grove of trees on their left. Mildred froze instantly. She began to count the reasons why she would die if there was a cruel beast amongst them. “I am over seventy and have not truly run since I was eighteen. I know nothing about this beast, so I cannot counter attack. The animal might be able to kill even from a distance, using magic. I have to protect Florence, he cannot get all the way back home on his own…”

It was this last thought that spurred her trembling body into action. Another more menacing curl of warning sounded from the trees, shaking Mildred’s resolve. The little round of fluff had become very attached to her over the past few weeks, and some hidden motherly instinct requited.

Turning her heel, she hurried off as quickly as she could, her breath coming fast. Soft padded footsteps deliberately followed her as she scurried with Florence clasped protectively to her breast. Mildred could not bring herself to turn around. She kept up her pace as well as she was able, struggling along on her pudgy legs and groaning bones. Mildred did not turn her head until she was safely inside the walls of her own house and behind a locked door. She was glad she had installed the lock, though it had seemed ridiculous at the time and had not been used until then, it served a mountainous purpose. She checked on Florence, who was shaking in terror so that his frizzed out fur waved joltingly. He was frazzled, but unharmed.

Peeping frightfully out the window, half-hiding her face in the curtain, Mildred’s eyes searched the forest beyond the garden. She had not the foggiest idea as to what she was supposed to be looking for, perhaps something to recognize in the future? What use would that be, to realize that the animal was this same one if it decided to do her in? The beast seemed slow enough not to catch her; she was still astounded they were able to get away. It was, however, possible that the thing had been merely following them. Mildred’s lungs jumped up into her throat at the idea, and she was very close to the resolution of never venturing outside again.

There! A terrifyingly large form creeped through the brush, carefully staying behind the tree line. It passed into the sunlight for only a short second, but the image was seared into Mildred’s brain. The spiny knobs of its’ spine pushed up against its’ thin, grey, hairless skin; bony spires spiked out of its’ back as if they had just broken through. The ghastly thing stealthily moved along as if afraid of raising an alarm.

Mildred had not realized that she was holding her breath until blue spots blurred her vision and she became immensely dizzy. She tore the shutters closed and plumped ungracefully onto the floor with a thud. It took longer than expected for her to catch her breath. It occurred to her that she spent an awfully large amount of time sitting on the ground, hyperventilating in response to a magical creature. With the fright and uncommon exercise combined, her heart was beating like a rabbit’s.

Florence tumbled over to her hand and rubbed the top of his head against her lovingly, as if in gratitude. Mildred then knew that her efforts had not been in vain; Florence was safe. She felt a strange devotion towards the creature, a new emotion for her. It was a rather pleasant feeling, that she had someone to live for other than herself.

For a full week, Mildred did not leave the house. Terror kept her trapped within, fueled by the occasional sighting of movement in the brush. What eventually drove her out was a want for food. She could see her garden from the kitchen window, and she was sick of the luxuriously ripe vegetables mocking her grumbling stomach as they rotted away.

Tentatively, she sneaked out of the house, bearing an empty basket. She immediately wished she had brought a rolling pin, or a crowbar - anything that might serve as a weapon if need be. The old woman felt frail and exposed, her years resting heavily on her frame. The woods seemed to watch her every move, looming formidably only a few yards away. The vegetables flew into the basket as her panic increased. As soon as she could, she waddled quickly back into the safety of her house. Never had Mildred felt so relieved to be locked somewhere. Some time afterwards, she thought she spotted a hiding, hairless head mixed in with the leaves, but it might have been a trick of the light.

Of course, the measly basket did not last forever. Especially with the sprites, who inconveniently stole more than their share. Poor Mildred was forced to risk another venture into the garden.

The beast had not made another appearance since the first encounter. In fact, the entire forest had barely stirred. It was dead like midnight in the woods all the time; the breeze barely blew, as if it did not want to take cursed air with it.

Accustomed to the peace and a bit over-confident due to her past success, Mildred was not half as careful as she had been. Of course she still kept a wary eye in the way of the forest, but her gaze did not fall there as often as was wise.

The weather had taken a cold, humid turn as summer became autumn. Mildred’s bones and joints ached and moaned in complaint, making it even more difficult to get where she was going. Gingerly, she moved about, plucking flawless tomatoes from their vines. She hummed as she worked, her subconscious self straining not the be afraid of the beast she was certain she couldn’t outrun. “To meet it now would be to meet death,” Mildred winced grimly at the thought. She wasn’t ready to die, she still had so much to explore. There was a whole new world that had just opened up to her; there was no way she would consider abandoning it.

A deep roar like an angry thunderclap rumbled powerfully from the wood’s edge. Mildred froze. Every weak muscle in her body was stock still and tense. Her core trembled and shook with a mighty fear.

Trying to gauge her own speed, Mildred debated whether or not she would make it inside using her odd, hobbling walk. She felt movement in the chest pocket of her shirt, and the furry pink puff that had been sleeping there slowly blinked his eyes open. He wondered why she had stopped humming.

Cradling her hands around Florence’s body, Mildred abandoned all calculating thought and forgot her basket of tomatoes in an instant. Her joints popped and cracked as she hurried along, proclaiming her inevitable failure. Fat, salty tears spilled mercilessly onto the ravishing peonies that lined the walk. Mildred did not see them. The tears blurred her vision and clouded her goal, but she endured.

Behind her, branches snapped and leaves crunched under a cumbersome weight, musically announcing the beast’s arrival. A dark, laughing snarl hurtled through the air and hit Mildred’s ears. Ten steps from the door.

Sharp sudden claws swiped across her back, shredding her shirt and slicing her soft flesh. She cried out in surprise and fright rather than pain, but almost instantly recovered and pushed through the last few steps with adrenaline-filled veins. The beast chuckled. It’s breath was hot and rancid as it blew past her. One hand was on the door, the other still enveloping a confused Florence.

“Why is it locked?” She cried, twisting the stubborn handle. Sprites demonically smiled at her through the window.

Accepting her fate, Mildred turned slowly to face her end. She made sure to discreetly slip Florence into the flowered mailbox before she surrendered.

Her curiousity to behold the beast was washed away in an instant when she stared into it’s hard, black eyes. Yellow froth dripped from it’s sneering maws and countless sharp grey teeth. Four piggy eyes peered out greedily, surrounded by greasy, hairless folds of skin. It’s eyes were filled with brilliant flame while being utterly colorless. It’s raised claws were nearly a foot long (she tried not to imagine being impaled by them). Ears eagerly slicked back, gaze fixed hungrily on the old woman, mouth bubbling with drool - Mildred, surprisingly calm, noted how ready the beast looked to eat her.

“So eat me already!” She fumed, hating it’s disgusting visage with a passion. It opened its’ gaping jaws in a kind of smile as it chortled; it was then that Mildred saw the cat and mouse. It was playing with her - this nasty, petrifying beast was mocking her.

Furious, Mildred spun and slammed her shoulder against the door. Her wrinkled body easily fell in through the doorway. Apparently the sprites had seen it fit to let her in.

Mildred was triumphant for only a moment before the beast descended upon her.

---

“It’s goin’ to be alright ma’am. Just take a deep breath. You’re in a hospital,” Officer Mike Peters gruffly assured the elderly lady to the best of his ability. She seemed mighty hurt (he thought) and had a sort of fear in her eyes.

“Where’s Florence?” She frantically demanded.

“Calm down, ma’am, there was nobody else found in the house with you. You’re goin’ to be fine.” Mike was nervous. He could interrogate a killer with perfect serenity, he could get a confession from a ruthless drug lord; but he could not ask this woman a few simple questions. To him it seemed wrong to ask while she was so unwell. She was in a bad way, this… “Mildred Martin” (he read from the hospital clipboard). Mike felt terribly to bother such a sweet old lady with his stupid investigation. Or, at least, he thought it was stupid. Orders were orders, though, and Officer Peters had to work.

“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re ill,” Mike apologized, “but I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

“O-Okay.”

“Did anyone else live with you in the house?” He inquired as gently as possible (which was still, regrettably, pretty aggressively).

“No, just me… well, there weren’t people… I lived with beautiful beasts,” Mildred said dreamily. Mike thought she might fall asleep.

“Um,” the officer tried to think if he had been prepared for something like this during training, “...beasts?” He stood dumbly, holding his notebook and feeling strangely out of place.

“Yes, my magical monsters. O, how I wish I could see them again! How I can imagine them now in my mind!! Dear Florence, and the flumps, even the sprites. I miss them so! Are you going to bring me home?” She asked Mike abruptly. Up til then, she seemed to have been talking to herself.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to stay here for a while,” Officer Peters replied. He thought it was weird that she didn’t feel how injured she was. She already wanted to go home even though she was bedridden in a hospital. He wondered if maybe she was one of those hermit-people who were afraid of the outside world. That would explain it - she just wanted to get back to her house so she could be alone.

Getting back on task, Officer Peters signaled a change in topics by clearing his throat loudly. “Erhm, Ms. Martin, is it? I’d like to know if you know what it was that attacked you?” the officer cursed his awkwardness under his breath.

A look of pure terror come over the elderly lady. “It was the monster,” she whispered. Somehow, her quiet voice scared Mike more than if she had screamed.

“Do you mean a bear?” the officer tried to steer her in a logical direction.

“No, no, no. Something else, a creature that has no name with eyes like night and a frothing mouth. Ah! I see it so clearly!” Ms. Martin squeezed her eyes shut. Mike was alarmed for her - she seemed unstable to him, mentally. The ripped claw marks on her face and (according to the hospital report) on the rest of her body reminded him that she wasn’t necessarily physically stable, either.

The officer saw that he wouldn’t be getting much more useful information from the patient, so he thanked her for her time and left.

He still needed to file a complete report, so Officer Peters drove to Ms. Martin’s house to see if he could find anything to resolve the case. Though he wouldn’t professionally admit it, Mike was interested to see a hermit’s house in the middle of the forest that was allegedly full of “beautiful beasts” and “magical monsters”. He wondered what he might find - the house of a madwoman? A quaint cottage? Or, just maybe, he would find the impossible?

Officer Peters had been trained to expect the unexpected. He was ready for anything that might’ve turned up at Ms. Martin’s house. The officer was thoroughly disappointed by what he found.

“It’s just a normal house,” Mike thought, walking around the perimeter. From what he could tell, there wasn’t anything unusual about the area. He couldn’t see any “beasts”. The front door had been left open, just as it had been found (obviously for his examination). He made a mental note to close it before he left so that no wild animals would get in. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow when he saw the long, slashing claw marks carved into the wood of the floor. Possible, but not probable; a bear wouldn’t miss it’s target that much unless it had impossibly long claws. He half-considered Ms. Martin’s claim of a beast - but no, that couldn’t be possible. He shook his head. Entering the house, he searched for anything out of place. The home looked strangely normal, decorated with floral patterns and kept neat and tidy - it reminded Mike of his grandmother’s house, when she had been alive. Officer Peters flipped through an open book lying on the table. It was filled with drawings and descriptions of mythical creatures - Mike wondered if these were the monsters that Ms. Martin had been living with? “If that’s the case, then she must live with her nose in this book,” Mike thought to himself. One page caught his eye. “Florence,” it was labelled. The pink, hairy thing in the drawing made Mike think of the stuffed animal he had given to his daughter for her last birthday.

“Huh,” he shrugged, closing the book.

The officer finished searching the house. He had (reluctantly) concluded that Ms. Martin had been attacked by a bear with bad depth perception, but that the lady was additionally very senile and had mental problems that made her imagine that she lived with magical things. He guessed that this was probably due to being alone at an isolated location for so long. Mike almost wished that the magic had been real - he would’ve liked to meet Florence.

He was on his way out the door when he heard a quiet, high-pitched noise and a metallic slam. Officer Peters reached for his taser and carefully walked towards the door, where the noise had come from. Outside, there was nothing of interest. He searched extensively, but the only thing he could find was a piece of pink hair sticking out of the mailbox.

---

Three days later, Mildred Martin died. She passed peacefully in her sleep. She was quite the talk in the hospital for some time afterwards, since she had been well on her way to physical recovery before she met her sudden death. The doctors had been certain that she was insane, due to her ramblings and claims of magical involvement. It  was never confirmed was had attacked her, but speculation ran wild with her story and there are now countless theories about the incident.

Her last words were recorded to be sung, and ran like this:

“And she’s capable of anything, capable of love, capable of hate,

Maybe not capable of feeling free…. ”