Forbidden Enchantment

𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓁𝑜𝑔𝓊𝑒

I stand by Papa's side, my small fingers clutching onto the end of Papa's impeccably tailored tailcoat.The parlor room of Mama's friend's home, now draped in mourning black and permeated with the heavy scent of cloves mixed with the smell of damp earth that seeps through the floorboards, feels both familiar yet transformed. The air is thick with grief and sorrow combined with the rhythmic drumming of rain on the rooftop. I avert my gaze from the casket of the late Mrs. Downing, unsettled by the sight of her lifeless form. Though there is quiet, sporadic chatter, the sound feels muffled by the misery that hangs in the air like a blanket.

Turning my attention to Mama, her reddened eyes tell a tale of sorrow etched across her dull and splotchy face, wearing her grief visibly on her face. She clutches a silk handkerchief tightly in her hand, the delicate fabric crumpled and damp with her tears. Witnessing my mother in such distress churns my stomach, prompting me to shift my focus to Vincent and Myra standing by Mama's side.

Myra holds her thumb in her mouth, something Mama would reprimand her for being any other day. However, it goes unnoticed by Mama, engrossed in her emotions. Her arms are wrapped tightly around Mama's leg and her eyes are wide with confusion, very clearly having no true sense of the gravity of this day, whilst Vincent stands with crossed arms. His boredom is palpable, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of mourning that lingers in the room.

Despite our collective desire to remain at home, Mama decreed the family's attendance, and none dared to contest her decision. Not even Papa dares argue once she has made up her mind.

Restlessly pulling at the black, lace cuffs of my sleeves, I seek a means of distraction from the solemnity to pass the time, my fingers tracing the intricate pattern of the lace.

My gaze continues to roam around the room, inspecting each detail closely as a means to distract from the oppressive atmosphere. I look at the family portrait hanging over the mantle, featuring the Downing family, including my best friend, Alice. The portrait only stands as a reminder of happier times, frozen in the form of a painting.

I look over at the oil lamps used to light the parlor, casting a warm glow that leaves an eerie shadow on the walls. I watch as the flames flicker and dance in the still air, and I marvel at the intricate curl of the smoke seeping from the top.

I glance at the window, offering a view of the garden outside. The garden is showered in mist, the flowers drooping over from the weight of the water droplets. I must admit, the pattering of the rain hitting the house creates a soothing backdrop to the somber scene unfolding inside. The sight is a clear reminder of the cycle of life and death, a poignant reflection of the occasion.

However, my reverie is interrupted when a sudden hush falls over the room, drawing my attention away from any small distractions around the room. Against everyone's collective movement to avert gazes, my gaze shifts, looking towards the entrance, curious about the cause. A woman enters the parlor, accompanied by a little girl no older than myself, cradling a book against her stomach. Despite my familiarity with nearly every villager, these two remain nameless to me.

Observing everyone yielding space for the woman and child, I can't help but fixate on the little girl, around my age and seemingly a potential companion. I tend to make attempts at befriending any young lady who crosses my path, having not fully gained social awareness yet. Her long, curly brown hair and striking violet eyes captivate me; a hue unfamiliar to my gaze.

Before I can approach and introduce myself, Papa's hand grips my chin, redirecting my attention. He forcibly guides my gaze upward, his forehead creased with irritation and lips tightly pursed in disapproval. "Esther, you mustn't gaze upon a witch. You should know better by now," he admonishes sternly, his voice no louder than a whisper.

"Yes, Papa," I reply softly in obedience, avoiding further ire. My eyes fleetingly return to the girl before settling on the ground, my internal struggle evident. Suddenly, the woman utters an indistinct phrase, drawing my attention back. However, regret instantaneously fills me as I observe a large, flame-like shadow engulf Mrs. Downing's corpse, eliciting a shaky gasp which I attempt to muffle with my hand and inducing a wave of fear and nausea that compels me to look away. My fingers tightly clutch at the lace of my black dress out of fear of whatever my eyes had just landed upon. Before long, footsteps retreat from the coffin towards the parlor exit.

Once the footsteps fade, the room resumes its previous activity, the earlier quiet chatter resuming. Despite my nervousness, curiosity continues to flutter through my mind, unanswered questions lingering in the somber air.