Macabre Beauties

Hollowed

"I have cake."

Gwen's lips twitched at the lie. She took a decisive swig of the wine, stepping over the threshold. A familiar electric buzz danced along her skin but she ignored it. It was a shit day and she was lonely. There were worse ways to spend her birthday than talking to a handsome mystery boy, even if he was dead.

***

Gwen was four years old when she found the Burning Man.

Her mother was a bit of a hoarder, stocking up on her favorite cosmetics whenever there was a sale. She kept a box of make up in her closet, dozens of tubes of vibrant lipstick, compacts of blush, and other assorted goodies. Sometimes Gwen would sneak in and nab a few, painting her face like a grown up. Mother didn't seem to notice them missing and Kathy always had her cleaned up by the time either of her parents returned home from work. Usually they didn't make it home before Gwen was in bed.

This time though, he was waiting for her.

She didn't notice him, not at first, not until the cough full of ash and phlegm that rasped from the dark corner beside her. She froze, a tube of Plum #57 falling from her fingers as she stared at him, his charcoal skin like flaking pasty. Once, when she begged Kathy to curl her hair, her nanny left the iron on her a little too long. The same smell teased her nose.

He stared at her, hunger is his watery bloodshot eyes as they roved her face. She didn't understand it, that desperate look, not until much later, too much later. She was too scared by his expression to scream, afraid something bad would happen if she drew attention to him. She inched away, slamming the closet door shut behind her. Kathy didn't believe her. Her parents didn't believe her. Overactive imagination, they said. Too much television, they said.

That night the Burning Man was waiting for her in her bedroom, whispering to her in a voice of cinders and smoke. He whispered to her every night after, his wet choking voice hovering at her ear.

Kathy was worried about the dark circles under her charge's eyes. She worried about Gwen's change in behavior, the shouting and shrieking. Her parents worried when she stopped eating, stopped smiling. Neither of them worried enough to believe her. No one did, not even after the house burnt down while her parents slept in their beds.

***

"What's a pretty girl like you doing wandering the grounds late at night?" He smirked at her, dark eyes wandering over her bare legs, propped up on the coffee table. Gwen sank further into the plush cushions of the couch, mindless of her soaked dress, watching him over the rim of the wine bottle.

"What's a pretty boy like you doing lurking in a gingerbread house like this?" Her playful banter brought out the wicked glint in his eye. Her mystery boy liked her backtalk.

"I live here, well, not here," he jerked his head over his shoulder. "In the big house." He winked at her.

Gwen pursed her lips, sensing she would not enjoy this next bit of information.

"What's your name, pretty boy?"

"Daniel Fey," he nodded at her, his eyes wandering to the low neckline of her dress. "What about you?"

"Gwen," she murmured, the truth of her miraculous adoption clicking into place. That old bitch. It made a sick sort of sense now, the garden party at the edge of the 'forbidden maze'. A steaming pile of temptation laid at her feet after enduring the cutting embarrassment of all those empty seats. Another sour swig of wine eased the sting of her anger. She should have known.

There was a reason no one adopted her.

***

The first to try were the Steins. Gwen thought she found a new home in Mrs. Stein's flour scented arms. The woman held her close, stroking her hair as they sat in the orphanage office, finalizing paperwork. There was a room waiting for her, painted in light oranges and pinks, filled with new toys that still carried the plastic scent of the store. The Steins had a beautiful home, with a yard and great big oak tree complete with plank seat swing.