Christina Brett (Michigan)
3rd Place
Scared… but Not! ~ WWW Halloween Fiction Contest 2007
Velvety Wings of Death
It wasn’t a question of how she was going to die, but when. The family was going to be present for the Christmas holidays and Nigel’s engagement at the same time, and that made her plans a bit difficult. Difficult, but not impossible.
She checked on her notes, re-read the typed paragraphs, and after nodding a few times, she burned them in the merry fire in her bedroom fireplace. After that, she closed her eyes and got ready for a nap while a smile danced on her lips.
Christmas Eve was cold and heavy clouds hanged low, telling that the next day was going to be even colder and maybe snowy. She got up and started to get things ready for the big day ahead; an engagement party with dinner for thirty to take place in the large dining room of the mansion, maybe a bit of dancing later on and, for sure, lots of liquid fire to make the bride’s father quite happy, no doubt. She loved the old place, and those parties were always fun to attend, but not this one. Her lips tightened and, giving a last look at the room, she left it and went down to her breakfast.
Nigel and his chinless bride-to-be were there, sitting by the window nook, holding hands and whispering some idiotic endearment that both thought so adorable to the other’s ears.
Pl-eeeaaze!
Nigel looked at her and made a vague motion with his mouth, and his bride turned her head to stare. She tried a smile that never reached her small viper eyes and went back to what she was doing.
“It’s true, Nigel,” she was saying. “You may laugh all you want but nothing scares me more than a moth or a butterfly!”
“But darling,” Nigel’s voice was soft, like the voice he used to talk Mum into giving him an extra tenner when he needed it, “butterflies are gorgeous! I agree that some moths can be rather ugly, but they don’t hurt.”
“Well, you stick with that idea and let me stick with mine.” ‘Chinless’ even pouted a bit, maybe believing that it would make her look a wee bit cute. Right.
She shrugged and went on with her breakfast, lovingly prepared by darling Mrs. Potts, the only person in the household who unconditionally loved her.
The evening came and went, with the usual speeches and other crap that people verbally concoct for these silly occasions, and at one in the morning she heard everybody go to their rooms.
An hour later the first scream was heard, muffled by something, followed by two or three others and suddenly a silence that lasted about thirty seconds before steps were heard in the corridor that led to Chinless’ room. She waited a couple of minutes and opened her door, putting on her robe at the same time.
Nigel and Chinless’ father were running up the four steps that went up to the suite, each trying to outrun the other.
When Nigel opened her bedroom door, the first thing he saw was a tangle of sheets and covers on the disarrayed bed; when his eyes got used to the darkness, his blood froze in his veins at the sight of what was there. He snapped the ceiling light on and saw his fiancée lying in a pool of blood on the four-poster. Her head had been chopped off and rested a few inches from the rest of her body. On top of her, hanging from the canopied bed, was an enormous moth, its wings still flapping a bit.
Nigel screamed her name and ran to the bed, and at that moment he realized that the moth was made of soft velvet, with beads for eyes, and feather-like antennas. It had been hung above the bed from thin plastic thread that could not be seen. It was so well made that he had to look twice before he realized it was handmade.
Chinless’ father had stopped behind Nigel and had both hands on his mouth. That’s one sure way to sober up someone!
Blood was everywhere on the bed, and Chinless’ dead eyes were open in terror.
The next hours were mayhem. Father Christmas was forgotten and so was the excellent breakfast Mrs. Potts had arranged for Christmas morning. Well, not everybody forgot to praise the good cook. She was there with a large green package in her hands.
“For me?” the cook beamed at her and hugged her just the way she liked it, not like her stepmother’s lame squeeze. “Oh, you shouldn’t spend your money like that! You know the best present you can give me is to bring good grades from school! I love you poppet, and I love the jacket. Thank you!”
“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Potts. Enjoy it in good health.” She gave the cook her sweetest smile.
“I have something for you as well, start your breakfast and I’ll bring it.”
She was back a moment ago from her room, carrying an elongated box. “Here, darling. I hope you like it.”
The most beautiful Barbie was in the box, her dress a shimmery white voile that took most of the box, tiny crystal shoes, and a diamond tiara.
She gave a sigh. “Oh, Mrs. Potts! Cinderella Barbie! She’s stunning!I never thought I’d get one!”
“Well, it’s yours for being such a wonderful little girl.” She got another hug and kiss and her breakfast was almost forgotten.
Mrs. Potts had almost taken over her upbringing two years ago when her own husband had suddenly died. Step-mum Sheila didn’t have time for little girls, and as her stomach illnesses were always bothering her, Mrs. Potts became the family figure she had always craved. Nigel lived in London, so he didn’t count. He was all right before he met Chinless… Well, that would change now, right? She smiled while she looked at Barbie and her absolutely fabulous dress. When she grew up she was going to look just like Barbie and was going to have many dresses like this one.
The policeman was wearing a small snippet of holly in his lapel, and looked at her with serious eyes.
He had asked her how old she was, and when she said ‘almost twelve, Sir’ he had ruffled her hair. Then he asked her:
“Did you hear anything last night?”
“No, Sir. I woke up when somebody was screaming and didn’t dare to go out until I heard steps outside my door. It was Nigel and Mr. Tomlison.”
“I see.” He looked around the room but came back to her. “Did you know that Miss Tomlison was afraid of moths?”
“Yes. She was looking at my Science book the other day and she saw cocoons and she kind-a shivered, and then she said that she was afraid of butterflies.”
“Oh? And who was in the room besides yourself?”
“I think that everybody was there. Sheila, that’s my step-mum, and her family… but she was sitting with me on the window seat.”
“But everybody could hear her.” That was a statement, not a question.
“Well, everybody except Giles. He’s getting a wee bit deaf.” Giles was the butler, who was deaf only when it was convenient to him. The policeman thanked her and addressed the step-mum and the rest of the family. “We will be in and out of the house, Lady Sheila, and nobody can leave the district without our permission.”
There was a quiet mood in the room, so she asked to be excused and went to her room. Once there, she locked the door and, moving towards the fireplace, she moved down a lever that opened its left side. Only Father and she knew of that hidden panel and she had used it many times as it took her almost all over the house through a series of narrow passages. One of those passages went straight to Chinless’ suite, and that’s how she had set up the giant moth. Waiting inside the passage, she had gone into the bedroom, hacked Chinless’ head off, and ran back towards the passage before Nigel appeared in the room.
The moth had been Mrs. Potts’ masterpiece and idea after hearing Chinless’ childish pouting when they were talking about butterflies, but then it had been her idea also to get rid of her husband, and to put those shining crystals in Sheila’s tea every couple of days. She had said that after a few months, Sheila would start losing weight – she’d be happy at that! – and then one day… pop! That day the house and grounds would belong to little Anna-Beth, the sweetest child ever!
“Then I’ll have dresses like Barbie’s and Mrs. Potts will be my Fairy Godmother.” With a sweet smile on her face, she started to put the bloody bath wrap she had worn the night before to kill Chinless in the roaring fire, just as Mrs. Potts had asked her.
Copyright 2007, Christina Brett. All rights reserved. Do not copy without author's permission. Contact WWW, info@womenwritersworldwide.com.
