Punzel: Behind the Tresses

Gothel

Gothel.

On a fine day, it would've been just a name. On any normal day, it'd have been just another face you see on the streets.

But the name was more popular than its bearer.

Gothel never left the house, but somehow, she was everywhere. Her ghostlike existence in Mordia is only partly why everyone fears her, but it still contends strongly with all the other reasons.

And standing in front of the Victorian monster of a house I once called home, memories try to push past the wall I've built around my mind.

Memories of a young blonde child longing, with her hands pressed to the window pane, that she could go out and be free like the wind. Memories of her breath making fog ghosts on the clear glass.

Memories, memories, memories. Of  padlocked doors and cemented secret doorways in the basement. Nightmares of  graveyard full of bones. The bodies calling my name from the backyard.

Childhood was haunting. And the chills of it are still traveling down my spine.

I lift my foot up to the first porch step and I'm immediately regretting it. The cringe-worthy creak seems to warn me to "turn back now, Punzie" and drive back to   Dawnford, pretend I was never here.

But I am already here, aren't I? My own voice seems to say in my head. I take a moment to breathe, and it's then I truly notice the house. Vines are snaking all over the wood walls. The porch is a mess, which is extremely surprising considering how much Gothel loves that darn area. It's her best in the entirety of this old house.

Back then, she'd walk out the front door, at noon, and lower herself into the red pine chair, whip out a smoke and cloud the air until it was evening.

She'd do the needful, smile at strangers as if to say, "nothing out of the ordinary here, carry on." She'd tell Mrs. McCormick how lovely her rose garden was coming along.

Tell her how Roger, the kid from the next street, was becoming a nuisance these days, abusing her lawn with his "stupid bicycle tracks".

But of course, Mrs. McCormick would only smile and nod back. Because that's what you do when you're trying to be nice and you've got nothing to say. Because Gothel was scary and no one likes scary in Mordia.

Gothel was just playing neighbours. Playing ordinary to blend in. And we were anything but ordinary.

The front door creaks loudly and I jump. It parts a little and I half expect to see her there, leering at me as if to say, "So you've come back. Well, well."

But there's nothing but the wind letting out from this ghost house. My heart thumps inside my chest so loud I can hear it in my ears. Enough lingering, Punzel. Let's get this over with.

The doorknob is as cold as her love, the room as empty as her heart. Believe it or not, there used to be a time when I thought Gothel would do anything for me. But I came to realize, eventually, that she'd do anything to protect her secret. The one I never found out.

The one that tore us apart.

White sheets cover all the furnitures, even the great Victorian table mirror Gothel obsessed over. If she could, she'd hoist a shrine around it. Dust cakes to the surface of everything. It almost makes me sneeze.

I step further into the middle of the living room to get a good look at it all. A picture of young Gothel leans against the glass. A woman unsmiling, yet captivating with a captivating face. She stares back at me like she can see my soul.

Then, there's suddenly an uncomfortable quiet in the room with me. It begs to be disturbed, begs to be put out of its misery. And so do I.

"Rapunzel?" A faint, whisper of a voice calls from behind me. I whip around and my eyes meet its owner.

The woman standing close to the stairs is a corpse compared to the one in the picture. But still, the same person, nonetheless. My heart increases its thumping.

"G-gothel?" I manage to say.

There's this funny thing about fear. It cripples you, yet you can still stand through it all. It forces you to confront its cause.

Here, staring at the woman I called mother for years, there's nothing I want more than to bolt out the door and never look back. And as if on cue, the door slams shut. The brown drapes fall loose. The room is shrouded in darkness.

"Welcome back."