Contest #263 winner 🏆

Petrified

Submitted into Contest #263 in response to: Write the origin story of a notorious villain.... view prompt

104 comments

Fiction Historical Fiction Crime

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

You would never have noticed it if you weren’t looking for it. That was precisely the point.


The instructions given in my embroidery group had been clear enough: After nightfall, take a stroll on the second lane past the bakery, look for the unlit lamppost and turn down that dark alley, they said in hushed voices, as the pianist began playing in sudden loud fervor, by coincidence. Then you will see a mossy stone staircase, which you will descend, and at the end of it there is a dim hallway. She lives through the set of green doors on the left.


The doors are tall and French like my husband’s mistress, but peeling and weathered. I can tell they were once painted a lovely shade of emerald green. Half of that green paint lies in small piles of flakes on the cobblestone. I debate knocking, and decide instead to reach with false confidence for the rusted copper handle. It turns downward easily. A small bell rings and echoes.


Welcome.


On the posters she is grotesque, an example of how time and sin turn a person sour, but in person she has the kind of enduring beauty you can’t tear your eyes away from.


Do come in darling, don’t be shy. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t bite. Although I can’t say nothing here does.


Her voice is like a wind chime, melodic and resonating, barely brushing over the crashing waves of her words. I wonder if I’m here too long if that voice will drag me out to deep sea. Or did that only work on men in the myths?


Take a seat, love. Yes, there is perfect. Would you like a cup of tea? Well, it’s never too late for tea, is it now? I enjoy it late into the night myself, but maybe you’ve been raised more proper than that. Here.


The cup is warm, not hot. If she noticed my shaking hands when reaching for it she didn’t say a word. It takes more than a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the warmly lit room after a dark and shadowy street.


Among her many talents, it cannot be said that she was a good decorator. The shabby boards of the walls are empty but for an assortment of faded newspaper clippings from the highlights of her anonymous career. Obituaries, mostly. A tattered blue curtain with tassels hangs behind the armchair she’s perched in, dividing off part of the room. Eccentrically painted shelves house arrays of books and bottles of objects my gaze prefers not to settle on. She would have been called a witch for her collections had she not already acquired numerous more colorful nicknames by the public. The only item of some value is worn loosely around her slender wrist - a heavy and ornate gold watch. The kind of thing that would make a petty thief's day to see glinting underneath a man's sleeve in the street. She catches me admiring it and smiles thinly, holding up her arm up to eye-level.


Isn’t it a beauty? It was my first husband's, this watch. On the tenth anniversary of his death, I’m going to smash it to bits and melt the gold into a necklace for myself. I deserve a little gift from him, I think.


Her laugh unnerves me, but I find myself too curious to be afraid. I politely say my condolences for her husband’s death.


Oh darling, don’t be sorry that that man is dead. The one good thing he did was to be the inspiration for the charity work I do. I haven’t always done this. I used to be an actress, you know, a leading lady of the stage. Men would come from all over the city to see my shows, for I was beautiful then. Sometimes after the shows they would approach me, usually blind drunk, complimenting my dress or what was underneath it, asking for a kiss or a drink or a night. And sometimes they didn’t ask. My husband became my husband not because he asked but because he damaged me, and he was rich enough to get away with it and clever enough to know that marriage was my only option.


She smooths down the skirt of her maroon dress, then looks up at me with a solemn expression I can’t fully read. It isn’t hard to believe she was once a sought-after woman. Though sunken in age, her cheeks are smooth and her face looks as though it was hand-carved out of porcelain by God. Her hair is twisted into a dark crown atop her head, secured with metallic pins. Her eyes are like a cat’s, but not a house cat, no, definitely not. Like those of a tiger that has been left to go hungry for far too long. I will her to continue talking and not look at me with those eyes again. We sip our tea in unison, upholding our masquerade as ladies. She takes in a breath.


He said he loved me, and at the beginning I believed it. He may have loved me. He certainly desired me. I think mostly he loved seeing the desire and jealousy of other men when he told them I was his wife. But that got old fast. So did I, in his eyes. When it had been a year and I still had not given him a child, I turned ugly to him and he acted ugly accordingly.


One night, he came home from the pub talking about how the other men’s wives had filled their houses with children by now. He spoke of babies like cattle. Then he threatened that he ought to tell the whole town that I was secretly a whore and leave me. I should have kept quiet and obeyed and smothered him in his sleep, like a good wife. Instead, I promised him that as long as I was alive I would never let a child be born cursed enough to have him as a father. I’m sure you know what happens next, or otherwise you wouldn’t be here, my darling.


She traces a scar on her chin that I hadn’t noticed before, extending along her jaw to the start of the delicate bones of her neck. I imagine it snaking around the rest of her throat in a ring, strangling her pale skin, and my breath catches. It looks as if lightning struck her. She was struck, though not by something as rare as lightning.


I instinctively touch my collarbone where I know without looking there is a ghastly bruise. My modest neckline covers it, but somehow it feels like she knows it’s there, my mark of pain. I hope it goes away quickly so my husband does not think me unsightly. But then again, perhaps that will not be necessary. I nod at her meekly to show that I do know what happens next.


I can’t say whether he truly meant to kill me. But to hurt me, to wound me, to make my thoughts and words disappear in flames, he meant that with all his heart. The funny thing is it was him who made my words true. Of course, he couldn’t have known that I was with child. Even I did not know then. After, no one would ever get to know. I made a gravestone, although there was nothing to bury. And then a month later I buried my poor sick husband next to it, marked only with a slab that did not bear his name. Wealthy and beloved as his gold in his life, in death he became only stone. The disease had taken him so quickly that there was no time for anyone to save him. Shame on chance to take him from this world so young. Got him like…well, like poison, essentially.


The porcelain around her eyes cracks faintly in amusement. I have nothing to say in response, my mind stuck on the picture of a crude gravestone smaller than it should be.


Now, love. How would you like your tragedy to occur?


The widows in my town all chose differently. Most agree that the worse methods are only to be used for the worse husbands, but sometimes there is no rhyme or reason to it. After all, all’s fair in love and war. Millions of second and third and fourth thoughts crossed my mind on the way here, but now those voices are silent and there is only mine. Mine, and hers, and the input of the hissing wind outside.


Well? What will it be?


In two weeks it will happen. On the way home after a day of work, my husband will feel a bout of hopelessness that gives him a nudge to hurl himself off of the local bridge. The river below is not a kind one, especially to those who never learned to swim. He will have been drunk, since he often is and everyone knows how he gets when he’s drunk. No one will discuss a death as taboo as taking your own life. My children and I will cry and wear black for weeks, though no longer than what is expected. At the same time the black of our bruises will fade.


He won’t be missed very much, really. Perhaps that French woman will miss him, but she would have met the man that I knew soon enough. I will decide to raise my children in the countryside alone, and we will be happy. I cannot say yet whether I will regret it. The final time I will see the woman’s wild tiger's eyes, she will tell me that not once has she regretted anything in her life. She will say that it was a pleasure to do it, and fearfully I will believe her.


Oh, it really is getting late, love. Your family must be at home expecting you.


I reply that they are, and I thank her for her kindness, nervously reaching to shake her hand. How much blood has coated it? On the posters they say she has killed three men, but I know these were simply the times she wanted it enough to make it gruesome. The posters also envision her as grotesque, which means that they have not ever seen her, or the mark on her jaw from her fall after being struck by lightning. The posters know nothing. The men know nothing.


We women must stick together, yes?


The image of my young daughter appears and consumes my mind. I would do everything in my power to ensure she never has to know the instructions to get here. There will be no scars for my girl to trace, I will make sure of that.


I nod and drop the woman’s unassuming porcelain hand. Beneath the sound of her wind chime voice is a softer noise I hadn’t paid attention to before, almost like a breeze rustling through dying trees, overlaid with the humming of the Earth. It is separate from the wind and the rushing of my blood. She notices my piqued interest, and rather than say anything, stands, chuckles, and regally draws back the tattered blue curtain behind her. In view now is a cage, filled with twisting and writhing scaled bodies, hissing and competing with each other for air. They move as one, a trembling monster of green. I step back in sudden horror. She isn’t looking at me, but I see her eyes flash ravenously.


You don’t have to worry about them, darling. Their venom is reserved for the venomous.

August 12, 2024 00:04

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104 comments

VINCENT FROST
08:47 Aug 26, 2024

You told this wonderful story with admirble conciseness—roughly 2,000 words, yet somehow I feel like I know each of the characters entire life stories.

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Liz Woloski
16:18 Aug 25, 2024

Your writing is beautiful and haunting. Definitely deserved the win.

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Rue Se
17:43 Aug 26, 2024

I couldn't stop reading! And the twist of snakes at the end !!! I love how you compared something unassuming like the breeze to the hiss of a venomous snake. It's vividly described how I felt as the reader.

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Eliza Entwistle
20:54 Aug 26, 2024

Thank you!

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Story Time
13:49 Aug 26, 2024

I think the way a character deals with the conflict in their path is where the technique of the author really shines through, and that was certainly true here. Wonderful job.

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Graham Kinross
03:51 Sep 03, 2024

“tall and French like my husband’s mistress,” that’s a hell of a line. The story about the actress’s first husband is awful. It’s ridiculous that it happens all over the world to this day. The idea that a woman is broken just because she’s been abused by a man and then that it fixes it by marrying them. He sounds like a horrifically clever man to trap her like that. I half wish there were witches like this in the world. Too many move from abuse to abuse without facing any form of justice. This is revenge I know but for the woman it must be...

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Eliza Entwistle
23:14 Nov 08, 2024

I agree, and I’m glad the culture is a lot better than the past and victims can find help and support, but it’s sickening to think about how it does happen to so many people :(

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Mallory Jones
17:59 Aug 30, 2024

Really beautiful. I love your style so much, and I can't wait to read more. I loved the lines: "She was struck, though not by something as rare as lightning" and "I would do everything in my power to ensure she never has to know the instructions to get here." Thank you for this powerful story.

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Eliza Entwistle
17:11 Nov 04, 2024

Thank you!

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12:04 Aug 29, 2024

This is so beautifully, hauntingly written. Not a word out of place, such tight and wonderful narrative. I really enjoyed this.

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Philip Alexander
03:18 Aug 29, 2024

Scary but beautiful.. Great job.

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Chris Sage
17:52 Aug 28, 2024

Excellent villain concept! Building of tension and back story was done well.

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12:21 Aug 28, 2024

A very beautiful and well-written story girl! Hoping to see more of your stories soon. The way you've managed to describe the plight of women in the society is just phenomenal. Themes like abuse and helplessness of women have been carefully handled through the use of non-cliche, creative phrases and descriptions. This definitely has the potential to be a book (DO MAKE IT A BOOK PLEASE!!!!!)

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Eliza Entwistle
17:11 Nov 04, 2024

Thank you so much! (we'll have to see about the book haha)

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Maribel Linares
01:59 Aug 28, 2024

This was a haunting yet beautiful story. “There will be no scars for my girl to trace, I will make sure of that.” Fantastic work. I really enjoyed it and look forward to reading more in the future.

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Eliza Entwistle
23:14 Nov 08, 2024

Thank you!

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Ana M
20:37 Aug 27, 2024

Outstanding story, a well-deserved win.

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Crymes King
20:17 Aug 27, 2024

Such a cool entertaining story.

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Rose Of Hope
15:24 Aug 27, 2024

Thank you for, the beautiful work, you have given ideas to broaden my descriptive scope

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Anna Fothergill
17:58 Aug 26, 2024

So amazing great lines! Haunting stuff, loved it!

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Rozmarin Ideas
08:33 Aug 25, 2024

This is so amazingly good, holy... like, depressingly, inspiringly good! A thousand careers could be started off the back of your prose, freaking magnificent! MORE than deserved win, Bravo!

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Eliza Entwistle
21:17 Aug 25, 2024

Stop I’m gonna cry 🥹💕

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Greg DeLaurier
20:09 Aug 24, 2024

Amazing story. Congratulations

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Jamie Bass
19:49 Aug 24, 2024

I like it

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17:48 Aug 24, 2024

Awesome job, Eliza! Your atmosphere was so chilling and eerie; I was in a sunlit room and still it seemed to get cold :) My favorite line was definitely "Beneath the sound of her wind chime voice is a softer noise I hadn’t paid attention to before, almost like a breeze rustling through dying trees, overlaid with the humming of the Earth." Congrats on the win!

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Eliza Entwistle
18:13 Aug 24, 2024

Thank you! :)

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13:44 Sep 18, 2024

Really a good line,

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Ruby Thoryn
17:24 Aug 24, 2024

The imagery in this piece is so amazing. There is so much I enjoyed that I cannot comment here in this limited space. Just want to say, Thank you! I enjoyed your story very much.

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Eliza Entwistle
18:14 Aug 24, 2024

Thank you! 🤗

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