100 Morbid Themes

9. Good haunting

81. Smoke

She had never realised how hot a fire could be if you stand too close to it. It should have been obvious, but this wasn't her cooking fire, flames barely moving. This was a true bonfire. The kind people would put together for festivals. Although this was entertainment too. A shame she couldn't see anything.

The orange wings stretched out like a phoenix aiming for the sky. She half wished she could fly too. Escape from this. The fire was merciless, and she heard anguished screams around herself. How many people were being burned today? She didn't know and had no strength left to think or cry for help.

She did want to catch at least a glimpse of a familiar face. Just one, maybe a horrified one, or kind eyes or pity in the curve of the eyebrows or a shadow of a smile.

Something, anything but this smoke that made it impossible to see.

82. Caving in

It is easy to ignore his own shadows. They slither around, perched on the walls behind him. Unseen by everyone. But easy to ignore, to discard. Go away I don't need you.

And he doesn't. For now, his life is alright. There are no assassins hired by his stepmother. They had all run off, terrified. The evil queen had neglected to inform them Snow White was more of an abomination, than just a nuisance from the King's previous marriage. And so, they ran, and he called back the shadows, their urge to maim burning him instead. One day, he was sure, they'd turn on him. They were evil, after all. And it's not like he could control them. (And of course, they weren't a part of him, a manifestation of his weakness, and fear, and desire to carve out the hearts of these assassins. How preposterous).

His stepmother seems to have given up. She smiles at dinner, and he smiles back. Of course, she's not an Evil Queen. Just the Count's new wife, a smart woman who knows her young child is in danger. Snow White is after all an actor, who dons humanity like a poorly fitted suit.

And she might be right, he thinks to himself later, as he cuts down another batch of wilted hydrangeas. His shadows curl around the flora pityingly then jump away, as he swats at them. Assassins make good fertilizer. They had told him mockingly, and he wonders. When had they developed speech?

83. Sack Man

These people are dull.

I know, I know. Shouldn't be surprising. They are all peasants. And yes, true, they don't stay too long for a stimulating conversation to unfold. But they could at least try to be more entertaining. How do they not get tired of each other's aridity? There's only so much that I can stand before I go insane.

Maybe I already am. Sitting here, days on end, I do feel angrier by the minute. But patience is key in this business. That I have plenty of. How else have I endured these pesky crows sitting on my shoulders, my head, poking my eyes. These creatures are the first I'm going to eradicate. Then those peasants. Well, only the grown-ups. The kids I need, especially those with vivid imaginations. Sooner or later, one is bound to come closer. Preferably at night and unsupervised.

Well, maybe not at night. Then my bright clothes and sunflower hat won't catch their attention. Attention is key. Then curiosity. Then a little courage to reach out and poke the face of an ugly old puppet. And then – the end.

84. In the Name of the Lord

There are too many cathedrals in the capital city. All of them scraping the clouds with the dark spikes of their crosses. They are impossible to escape. Every corner he turns, there is a new one. Only the number of towers varies.

He cannot go outside the city, but he can hide in the old part of it, with its stone slab roads and little rundown houses. There is more green here, nature reclaiming its land. He wanders around a garden that surely must be abandoned, and yet here and there are people. What a nuisance.