There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle.
Source: Neil Gaiman
Photo: George Hodan
It rained three solid weeks, filling the little town with the soggy sound of car tires on wet pavement, the unrelenting drip of water from dying leaves and the kind of chilled damp that seeps between cracks of locked doors, and shuttered windows in flagrant mockery of fireplace flames. Weather like this happened in Washington state not the sunny beaches of the east coast. Even so, the weather wasn’t responsible for the gloom within the Victorian home at the end of the cul-de-sac.
No, it was the certain knowledge that the oldest son was going to kill his mother when he learned his nine year old daughter stepped within the ring of toadstools behind the house, and vanished.
Source: Inky Fingerbee’s Glen, (fairytale for my grandchildren)
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