The Wicked Woods

Chapter One

My mother used to tell me the moon sang when I was born; that the stars danced around it and the ocean cheered. The leaves rustled and lifted from the ground to spread the joyous news to the trees and the animals, and the animals whispered it into each other's ears, and my grandmother who could talk to the birds heard when a raven sat perched on her windowsill and squawked three times. She wrapped herself in a colourful shawl she had knitted herself and made her way through the forest to our house and smiled at her new-born grandchild, covered in blood and wrinkled and blue, screaming her little lungs out upon perceiving the world she had been placed in.
My mother used to tell me that the waves screamed and the wind howled like a wounded animal when my sister was born, only a few minutes later. The leaves hid under tree roots and tried to ignore this new life that came like a thunderstorm; the animals dug themselves into their holes and covered their little heads with their paws. My grandmother took one look at my twin sister; took one look at her eyes like mine, the single cry she uttered after which she was silent, and at the bright green snake coiling around my mother's bedpost, and turned around. She left and was never seen again.
My mother, by the way, was quite the dramatic. I didn't believe her story - not at all. My father actually used to wink and whisper to me, tell me that my mother had been feverish with birth and was just confusing my grandmother's actions with something that had meaning instead of the actions of a confused old woman. He said my sister was not wicked, nor was I some holy being that could do no wrong. I was nine at the time. It was the last time I embraced him. My father was warm, so warm, his own personal little oven. In the winter my sister and I curled up against him and fell asleep, and he had to carry us to bed, careful not to wake us.
As I wander around our parental house now I realise that even if we were, it wouldn't matter, not at all. I love my sister, she loves me. We have each other. That's all we have; that's all we need. I didn't think I'd ever come back here. This house holds good memories, sure, but it holds much more pain and screaming and blood than it does happiness. I carefully put my suitcase on the worn wooden floor. My old bedroom. It still smells of lavender - I used to burn the purple candles every day.
Some things never fade.
Before I can stop myself I wander downstairs, to where my sister stands, and stare like she does. Years of neglect have done little to wear away the dark stains in the wooden floor and walls. Blood, so much, though in my mind it was much more. A child's memory. A tendency to exaggerate. It seems like so little now, when in my mind the blood covered the entire floor and ceiling like a gruesome fresh coat of paint.
"Suppose we can't wash this," my sister mumbles.
I smile. "It's a little bit too late."
"A little bit." She kicks the wall. "I hate this."
"So do I."
"I want to leave."
"So do I."
"Why don't we?"
I sigh. "Because we have nowhere else to go."
"This place is haunted."
"Well, if it is," I say, turning away from the dark red stains, "we'll have a great chance to talk to our parents again."
She smiles, but doesn't laugh. I'm sure it's a tasteless joke, but our way of dealing with loss has always been... inappropriate humour. It's weird. It's hard. It's who we are. But moving into our old home, well... it's harder than I had imagined. All these memories flooding back like a tidal wave.
I push them away for now.
It's an old house, a strange house. The children who live in the village down the mountain used to break in before we came here As soon as they see cars they leave, angry at the unexpected presence and the theft of their chance to show off. I understand why they break in - the house looks positively haunted, a gothic masterpiece, with large pointed stained glass windows and a huge old wooden double door which creaks when it opens. The wood it's been built out of is dark and worn, and the porch looks like it can collapse any minute when you look at it for too long. It has tons of strange little towers and ornaments and roofs that don't go anywhere and seem out of place. Some doors just open into nothing, some open into empty rooms. Deep red roses cover most of the east side of the building, smothering the walls like an overbearing mother.
It is strange to be back here.
We moved in today. Carrying our suitcases up to the front door is one of the strangest experiences I've had. I was afraid of strange looks from our neighbours, but they don't seem to be home, though several cars line the driveway up to the crisp white modern building, a stark contrast to what my sister and I own. Our house is on one side of the hill, their house on the other side, but we can see each other's driveways. That is all we share.
"We should go say hello," I offer.
My sister shakes her head. "No way. Not in the mood. We've just arrived in the house in which our parents were brutally murdered. I'll need a few days."
She's right, of course. We need time, more than just a few days. Perhaps a few weeks, a few months, a few years, perhaps. A few lifetimes. A few lifetimes that are happy, and careless, and without worry or care. I can hardly recall days that were like that. Don't get me wrong, I'm not completely depressed every single second of every single day, but happiness is more of a happy coincidence rather than a fact, or goal, or way of living.
I can't remember much from my childhood. It's mostly the standard haze, snippets and polaroid pictures jumping around and suddenly popping up when you smell that certain vanilla smell that reminds you of your aunt's perfume. The vague recollection of the colour of your favourite swing in the local playground. The warmth of your old, bad television and the poor graphics that dance and pop and crackle like embers in the air above a summer campfire. I care very little for those memories, though many cherish them. My childhood is a taboo topic somehow. Even the thought of the feeling of my father's arms around me, warm and kind, and the vague smell of coffee and old paper that always surrounded him, is enough to make my eyes fill with unwelcome tears. My sister - she's different. She's hardened over the years. She was the one who talked at their funeral. I couldn't even stare at the coffins because I knew my parents were in there, in pieces. I just buried my head in my aunt's jacket and cried.
This isn't a very happy beginning of this story - I'm sorry. I promise, there are lighter bits to come. Think of this as staring up at the night sky. First, it seems dark, but the longer you look, the more stars appear, and before you know it the Milky Way clouds most of your vision and the universe dances before your eyes.
But first, the dark things. Let us dive in.