The wind screamed its snowy breath as The Stranger opened the door, approached the front desk, and asked Deacon's mom if they had any vacant rooms. Deacon peered between the railings at the top of the stairs to get a look at The Stranger's face, but his splotched fedora attracted shadows like a dying candle.

"I'm sorry, we're all full up. Perhaps The Ivory Arms in Hilltop will have some rooms. I can call them if you wish."

The Stranger shook the snow from his hat, revealing a moon of a bald head, craters and all.

"My automobile has unfortunately found itself stuck in a snow bank a half-mile up the road."

This was a lie. Deacon knew. From the attic window he had seen The Stranger emerge from the woods behind the B&B, not from the road as he had just said. Deacon had been rummaging through the young couples' baggage. The attic had been converted into a small cozy guest room. The slant of the roof and canvas carpet gave the room the feel of a tent. Near the bottom of the young couple's suitcase, under a pile of pants, Deacon found a small midnight blue velvet box with a diamond ring inside. He held the ring up to the window and let the light spread into a million colors. That's when the shadowy man stepped from the white capped evergreens beyond the yard.

Deacon had a game. His parents called it a troubling habit. The game was Treasure Hunter. His parents called it snooping through their guests' luggage. Deacon didn't mean to be a snoop, it's just that he was a curious boy. Deacon was marooned in his parents' Bed and Breakfast. He didn't go to school like the other kids and that made it tough for him to know anything more than what the grounds had to offer. He wanted to see and touch and discover. Each vacationer that resided at Snowy Valley B&B brought with them treasures locked within chests from the world outside. His parents called these treasures private belongings. But to Deacon, these were his to explore. The treasures he would uncover were actually never that interesting. Clothes, shaving kits, lady stuff, and pills.

It wasn't the contents that made his imagination swirl. It was the moment. That magic moment, achieved only once he crept passed his parents to sneak a spare room key. Hiding the key. Sneaking off when the coast was clear. Slowly walking up the stairs, avoiding all known creaky spots. Opening the locked guest room without making any noise at all. Tip-toeing to a bag. Opening his ears to hear if his parents were a safe distance; cooking in the kitchen or making calls at the front desk. Then, and only then, did the moment arrive. Just before he unzipped, unhooked, or unlocked the treasure chest. Lifting it ever so gently, letting the chests keep their secrets a second more. What could be in this one? Deacon had to know. His eyes would open wide. He'd stick his tongue in the gap between his teeth. Every hair on his head would lift. Then he'd flip the lid fully open to reveal... nothing much. The moment would pass, the adventure at an end. He'd put everything back, he'd return the key and a slight feeling of guilt made him promise to never play Treasure Hunter again. But when a new guest would arrive with their treasure chests in tow, his curiosity awoke. What secrets could this one hold? Deacon would toss and turn until morning. When the new guest would leave to ski a new game of Treasure Hunter would begin.

He had been caught on more than one occasion and the consequences went as so: His father would yank him out of the suite and march him to their quarters. Then father would yell and yell some more. He would make him sit in his room for a day without supper... well, a little supper, but no ice cream. Then father would explain that going through people's private belongings, especially our paying guests, is not only forbidden but is not a moral thing to do. This only made Deacon want to see more. Instead of stopping, he got better at being quiet, better at sneaking, better at knowing what times to go and how to look and touch, but also how to put back, so that it would seem no one had ever touched anything at all.

The large bay window in the attic had the best view of the grounds. The pool was an icy pillow, the field a white duvet, and the woods, with its cross-country ski paths was the baseboard climbing high. Deacon lost interest in the diamond when he saw The Stranger appear from the trees and make his away around the baseboard towards the front. Deacon squinted, summoning his hawk-vision. He could see the stranger carried a curious box under his arm.

"Perhaps we can call Jim Little, he runs the tow in Hilltop." Deacon's mom went for the phone.

"That would be very kind 'mam, very kind indeed." Said The Stranger.

She plucked the phone and clicked the receiver three times then hung up. "Storm must have taken out the lines. Well, we can't turn you out in this. It's only going to get worse. Not that we're complaining. Almost thought cross-country skiing would be cross country mudding this season..." The stranger received the joke with a pursed smile that looked painful. Deacon's mom blushed because of how badly her joke went sour. She adjusted her heavy wool sweater with an embroidered deer with Christmas lights hanging from its antlers and politely announced, "We can set a cot in the lounge. You'll have to wait till the other guests go to bed to get some privacy, but it's better than the snow."

The Stranger set down his box and looked to the top of the stairs, straight at Deacon. His face was sharp and ugly. His eyes burrowed in deep dark caves like gophers, nervously peaking out. His nose was wind burnt. He smiled a toothy grin not filled with teeth, but wood squares painted white.

The storm still shrieked, but inside the lounge it was warm and orange courtesy of the fireplace. The Hershfield family, who had brought the matching luggage for all five of its members, sat around a table playing Monopoly. The young couple who came with the matching neon snowsuits and the hidden diamond ring, snuggled on the sofa in the corner. Deacon's father, as usual, played the old piano. Everyone sipped warm cider and enjoyed the music and ambiance, everyone except The Stranger. He sat in the big chair in front of the fire, stroking his box as if it were a cat.

This box was not luggage. This was not a duffle bag or a suitcase. There was no way socks, shirts, pants and toiletries resided within. This was a chest. Deacon's heart raced. He wanted to get a better look. He wanted... no, needed, to see what was inside. He crept closer. He could see that the box was sided with old tin-plating, embossed with children playing. The dark cherry wood drank up the glow from the fire. Deacon reached out...

"Deac!" his father didn't miss a note. "Help clear some of the mugs please." Father continued a soft rendition of Moonlight Sonata as Deacon collected the mugs without taking his eyes off the man by the fire.

Washing mugs in the kitchen would earn him enough to buy some comics and candy when his parents would make the hour drive into Hilltop each week. When he had finished drying and placing each mug back in its place, he heard his father finish the last of his songs on the piano. Soft clapping of applause followed a louder clapping of feet as the guests climbed the steps to their warm quilts. Father was pleased with Deacon's cleaning job. He mussed his hair and told him to go to sleep sooner rather than later. Deacon had other ideas.

The main floor was dark and quiet. Only fire light from the lounge lapped into the foyer like a slowtide. The Stranger hadn't moved. His shadow reached well past the foyer and into the dining room. Deacon crept closer... was he asleep?

"A curious child aren't you?" The Stranger whispered. "I like curious children."

Deacon's gut said run, but the box by The Stranger's leg beckoned him. He came before the fire. The glow made The Stranger's skin look like drippings from a tallow candle.

"Children have always been curious about my box. Are you curious, child?"

Deacon nodded, keeping his eyes on the box rather than The Stranger's ugly tallow face. The embossed children on the tin plating had shadows that danced in rhythm with the flickering fire.

"Inside are wonders and marvels. Wondrous wonders and marvelous marvels. But you wouldn't be interested in that. It's not for you."

"Why did you lie to my mom?" His hands shot to his mouth. Why did he say that?

"Clever and curious. Very good, child. Verrrry good. But some things are best left unknown, no?"

Deacon felt uncomfortable. He searched for something to say when his father's stern voice called from the other room.

"Deacon! Leave this gentleman to get his rest. We need to have a talk." Father put his hand on his shoulder and guided him to his room like a prisoner. He knew he was in trouble and boy was he ever. Deacon's parents sat him on his bed and began a furious rant. They tried most unsuccessfully to rant quietly as not to disturb the guests.

"We've told you time and time again, don't go through the guests' belongings."

"I didn't!" Deacon lied as his tears welled up and betrayed him.

"Mr. Singer said he found his engagement ring on the window sill."

Deacon had forgotten to put the ring back. If only he hadn't been sidetracked by The Stranger.

"Mr. Singer's girlfriend found it, and while she said "yes" you ruined his surprise. Tomorrow you will apologize to both of them."

"I didn't."

"Stop lying! How would you like it if our guests went through your things?" His mother said through clenched teeth.

"I don't have anything," The tears flowed.

His parents gave each other a concerned look.

They moved in closer to console. Deacon pushed them away. Father stood up.

"We'll talk about it in the morning. Until then, you will stay in your room." His father marched out. His mother went to give him a hug and kiss, but Deacon turned away. She left without saying goodnight.

Deacon did not stay in his room. If his parents were going to keep him cooped up for the rest of his life in this small little house surrounded by nothing, then Deacon felt it was his right to get to experience whatever he wanted to. What could his parents really do, send him away? That's exactly what he wanted anyhow, to be sent somewhere in the big world that held so much more than cross-country ski paths. His thoughts turned from anger towards his parents to The Stranger's box. If his curiosity normally whispered than tonight it was shrieking with the snow storm.

He peeked in the lounge. It felt lonely without the piano, roaring fire, the guests, the smell of cider, and laughter. The room was just shadows, screaming winds, embers struggling to glow and Him. The Stranger had not moved from the big chair, his hands no longer rested on the box. His breathing was shallow and harmonized with the wicked storm outside. He was asleep to be sure. The images of the children pressed from tin called to him to play. Play Treasure Hunter. See the marvelous marvels. See the wondrous wonders. And that was exactly what Deacon meant to do.

As a rule, Deacon never peeked in someone bag while they were still in the room sleeping. But this box was exceptional and exceptional things called for exceptions. The howling wind and shadows aided his stealth. Deacon peeked his head around the chair. The Stranger's face was slumped. Deacon's moment was here. And what a moment it was. His chest felt like a sea galley, a drummer pounding beats as oars pushed blood through his body, propelling him closer.

He placed his hand on the wood. It felt warm from the fire. He took another look at The Stranger, then lifted the lid ever just so, not realizing The Stranger had opened one eye, smiled, and closed it again.

Finally he lifted the lid and looked down. The bottom of the box seemed to open up to a dark cavernous space lit with an orange glow. The Bottom of the box was deeper and further away than it had any right to be. Beyond where the bottom of the box should have been, beyond where the floor should have been, sat crystals. They looked familiar. Deacon Finally he lifted the lid and looked down. The bottom of the box seemed to open up to a dark cavernous space lit with an orange glow. The Bottom of the box was deeper and further away than it had any right to be. Beyond where the bottom of the box should have been, beyond where the floor should have been, sat crystals. They looked familiar. Deacon knew those crystals, they were the chandelier, the one that hung right above his head. At first Deacon thought the bottom of the box was mirror, but where was his reflection? Then he realized he was not looking down anymore, he was looking up from the bottom. The Stranger's face was as big as a rising harvest moon as it crested the towering cherry wood walls.

"A curious boy." He said as he shut the lid allowing the absolute darkness to mute Deacon and the other curious children's cries.

Turnips. I'm not going to go on and on about how turnips are evil. Turnips are root vegetables, inanimate objects, hardly sinister. This story isn't meant to be a smear campaign on the turnip. Sure, this root is not as well loved as the potato, in fact I once read that humans didn't even eat turnips until some war when real food ran short. This however is the story of a particular batch of turnips, which were infested by evil of a vengeful nature, and in the case of Twig, possessed him to commit murderous acts.

Twig Felderman often complained to his mother that turnips were nasty roots that looked evil, tasted evil, and were for all intents and purposes, through and through pure evil; especially in salads. Twig was of course being hyperbolic, but he had no idea how right he was in this claim pertaining to the small crop of turnips currently growing in the garden in the front yard

Twig Felderman, who's real name was Harvey Felderman, but due of his thin prepubescent body, he got the name Twig. He was in ninth grade and while not every boy in his grade was big and bearded, Twig hadn't even received his first pube yet, which was an issue, a major issue. He blamed his vegan parents. Meat puts hair on a man's chest, not veggies.

Twig and his family had moved to Hilltop in early spring. His parents planned to open the small town's first Mexican vegan theme restaurant (Vegasaurus Tex) on Main Street. Unfortunately unlike the big city folk, villagers tend to be meat and potato people and don't much care for parsnip burritos as an entree served by a waiter in a dinosaur outfit.

The first thing the Feldermans did when they arrived in Hilltop (or as Twig puts it "left our friends who will surely forget I ever existed, including Lana Mitts, who I was finally making some head way with, to move to this hick town in this ugly hick house with the creepy apple orchard.") was to uproot those rotten old apple trees to make room for a garden. It is in this garden where the most malevolent turnips began to germinate.

It was a few nights before Halloween when the turnips were harvested. John, Twig's father, had plucked them out of the ground, gave them a good wash and was slicing them into a salad. He was preoccupied with the financial disaster that was Vegasaurus Tex when he sliced his finger instead of the turnip. Never being a wasteful man, he re-washed the blood soaked turnips and into the salad they went.

Lots of inanimate objects posses evil spirits. This is fact. For instance, there is a chair in the New York Public Library that possesses the spirit of Lucifer's cousin Agmokorrial the Unholy. To this day the demonically potent chair has caused no evil or mischief of any kind. This is because the sequence of events that must occur for the evil to activate is complex. We're not talking chia pet here, just add water, no way, no sir. The sequence must be followed precisely. In our case, in the case of the turnips, the process goes as such: The blood from the father of a ****** must spill on plant life of which said plant life's roots had grown over an unmarked grave of an angry spirit that was murdered on the 20th of October as a harvest moon rises. This is the exact sequence to release the evil, causing terrifying events you will soon be privy to, where as the chair in the New York Public Library remains just a chair.

Twig complained as dinner was served that he hated turnips and that they were evil. This was no shocking declaration. Everyone knew Twig hated turnips, and besides, teenagers think a lot of things are evil; curfews, homework, chores, whoever the latest pre-teen heart throb happens to be. Twig shoveled the turnip salad in anyhow. He had a date. There was this girl, Sally Crickets, known to most as just Crickets. Crickets happened to be the coolest girl in school. Not the hottest mind you, though, she certainly was hot, but definitely the coolest.

Crickets' dad was the sheriff, which meant you probably weren't going to get in much trouble even if you were caught engaging in any trouble making, so long as you were with her. Therefore, Sally Crickets was in a good position as high school drug dealer, babe, mischief-maker and all around popular sweetheart.

Twig liked her and she had invited him on a date. Well, that's not quite true... Here's what happened. Crickets was walking past Twig's locker and said, "You should come to the park tonight, there's a park party." The "You" being plural, as Twig was sitting by the lockers with two other prepubescent minor-niners (They've got to stick together). Twig was going to take this as a date, whether it was or not. He swallowed the salad, kissed his mother goodbye and obeyed the voice in his head that whispered, "bRiNg tHe kitcHeN kNiFe."

For guys like Twig, park parties are complex events. You can't just be in the moment. Most everyone is older and cooler. Twig does his best to fit in, but the harder you try to fit in the further away you are from accomplishing the goal of fitting in; fitting in is shitty like that.

He circled the party a few times before building up the courage to start to weave through it. He said "Hello" to a few familiar faces, "I'm so drunk, man." or some permutation of such was the most common reply. Finally he noticed Crickets. She was perched atop the walkway of the dam, which sat like a crown at the top of the park. Its messy waters rushed over a falls, congested by old branches and garbage, and spilled into a river splitting the park in two.

Crickets smoked a joint with some other "cool kids". Twig stared... impressed, in love, in awe, only breaking from the trance when he noticed the beginnings of an erection. Twig tucked up and decided now was the time to make a move.

He didn't make his move right then. He continued to stare for a long time. He revised many versions of the script that would play out. He settled on "Hey Sally..." and would improvise from there. He finally took his first step towards his destiny.

He walked up the steps of the dam and made his way over the walkway. It felt like slow motion. She turned her cute head, her short pigtails sticking out from her knitted toque. She smiled.

The water was loud, thunderous. Twig yelled "HEY!!!" perhaps too loud. Crickets and the other stoners laughed. Damn! He'd over estimated the volume of the water. Twig felt his skin tighten and his lungs fill with embarrassment. In a very cute and within a much more appropriate volume, Crickets said "Hey, man." Her friends tossed the finished joint over into the still collecting pond behind them and watched it get sucked into the falls. They got up, distracted by something further on down the dam. Twig couldn't believe it. It was just him and her.

"I'm glad you came out tonight, Harv."

Holy Crap! One, She called him Harv. Twig couldn't believe it. He was under the assumption that she didn't know his name, and even if she did, he assumed she knew him only as Twig. This was major. Two, she was "glad he came out tonight." Gee, Ell, Ay, Dee. Glad!

I mean... yeah! "Glad I am too."

"Okay Yoda." A choice Star Wars reference, was this girl perfect or what?

"This dam is cool..." he sputtered. "Yeah, it's fun to watch the party from up here. I always feel weird at these things. To me it's more fun to sit up here and watch."

The conversation went on splendidly. Twig concluded that talking to girls was like starting a car in the dead of winter, it's hard to get it going, but once the engine starts to run, no problem-o.

After talking about the upcoming Halloween plans Twig asked, "Do you have a boyfriend, Sally?" "Sally? No one calls me Sally, Harv." "No one calls me Harv." "Would you prefer Twig?"

"Not really, do you prefer Crickets?"

As he said "Crickets" he could feel something inside him wake up, something insidious, something with the after taste of brimstone and turnips. Before she could answer another voice came from Twigs mouth but it was not his, "cRiiiiCkets?"

This voice reverberated off walls made of lost souls and crackled forth like burning flesh... Twig had heard the voice in his own head earlier that night when he had finished dinner. He remembered the kitchen knife in his backpack. The voice forced out another "cRiiiiicKeTs" followed by a disturbingly evil laugh.

Crickets was thoroughly creeped out. "Are you alright, Harv?"

"Yes... fine, cool party." Twig felt his arm being pulled by an invisible marionette wire towards his backpack.

"You sure? You kinda look like you're tweaking out." she pulled out another joint.

"I'M gUnNA CUT YOU" said the voice from inside Twig.

"Not funny." Crickets kept up her cute smile, but there was fear behind it. "Sorry, that wasn't me, I think it's indigestion. I ate a turnip salad really fast for... i'll Bath iN YOUR BLOOD, SLUT."

Twig went to turn around totally embarrassed, but was forced to swing right back around by the marionette wires. He grabbed the knife.

"how'S JERRY??" Twig felt his tongue lick his teeth. "What are you talking about?"

Crickets' eyes caught the knife.

"I think... I think there's something inside me. i'm going to SeE iNsIDe you."

Crickets had nowhere to run. The top of the dam only led towards the falls. The only escape was blocked by Twig. The turnips salad, specifically the turnip part, radiated a command to lift the knife.

An ongoing echoing of "Shit! It's the cops." came from below. The teenaged revelers scattered like bees from a shaken hive. Twig did not run though he so desperately wanted to. The second Crickets saw the cops below she cried out "Dad!"

This excited the spirit within the mostly digested turnips even more. Twig was forced to turn and look below, Sheriff Jerry Crickets and his deputy were clearing kids out of the park. Sally cried out for her Dad again. The Sheriff pointed his flashlight to the top of the dam. When Twig's eyes landed on the Sheriff the light from the flashlight blinded him, fully consumed him...

Like a Polaroid shapes began to appear more clearly as the blinding white fog dissolved from Twig's vision. He was immediately aware of two things. One was that he was no longer, in any way, in control of his body. He was pretty sure it wasn't even his body anymore. The second thing was that he was no longer on the walkway of the dam above the park, uncontrollably threatening Sally Crickets with a German kitchen knife by the power of evil turnips. He was now in his high school gymnasium locker room, which he recognized from the layout, although

it had a newer paint job, and the mascot was not the Hilltop High Hornet but the Hilltop High Hawk.

Twig was peering into the showers, watching two boys clean themselves. His eyes were focused on their privates. A sight Twig would usually try his best to ignore, because usually everyone's were hairier and bigger than his, and also because it really didn't interest him that much. But Twig no longer had control of his eyes. They were staring, unmoving. He felt his hand reach inside his pants when, "Hey, the queer is watching us again."

Twig's legs got up and bolted. He could hear the guys chasing behind, luckily for him they were ***** and needed to scramble into their clothes. Twig kept running. He pushed out of the locker room into the gym, which also looked completely different than it had early that afternoon in third period. It was new, and basketball team running drills all had hairstyles that looked as if they were in the 70's. His legs took him toward the backdoor and out into the night. He ran.

Despite not having any control of the situation, Twig would have kept running even if he could command his body. He was scared. As he continued down the lamp lit streets he could hear his pursuers catch up. These boys were big. Three big high school boys chasing him through utterly familiar yet foreign streets. The lamps were different, so were the cars and the mailboxes. The entire town looked like it was dressed up for a Saturday Night Fever theme party.

His legs took him off the sidewalk and through the ravine. Splashing against the flow, which would eventually feed the dam. He could feel the dirty water splash on the feet he was not in control of. He felt his lungs burn, the taste of metallic acid in his mouth hurt his teeth. The boys gained on him.

Finally he ran up a hill and onto the front yard of his house, well, what would be his house. Now it was even more run down. An empty cocoon. The windows boarded, the paint peeled. The garden he and his family worked so hard to dig had been erased and there stood the ugly apple trees that they removed that spring.

He stopped running. He wasn't sure if he was stopping from exhaustion or who ever was controlling his body. Either way he was happy to catch his breath, despite the horror of the oncoming maniacs, despite that he was in someone else's body, despite that he was most likely back in time. A happy thought raced through his brain. The turnips. This must be a hallucination. A fungus or something must have been growing on those turnips and now he was hallucinating. Twig was relieved, until he was punched in the face by one of the big boys. That punch was very real and very strong. Definitely enough force to knock him back to reality, but he wasn't back in reality, he was curled on the earth, his tongue fumbling with a severed tooth.

The first boy yelled "Hey, queer!" Twig recognized him. The boy was only a bit older than he was, a junior at the most. His eyes! Twig thought they were so familiar. He was reminded of Crickets' eyes. The name Crickets rang in his head like a bell. He knew who the boy was. It was Crickets' father, Jerry, the Sheriff, though now he was only 17.

Crickets' father looked pretty much the same at 17 as he did in his 50's. The resemblance to his daughter was amazing. Though Sally didn't have a moustache, their eyes were the exact same, but his eyes weren't warm, they were mean. It's a wonder that two things that can look so alike can transmit such different emotions.

Twig wanted to run into his home, it was just a few feet away, but he couldn't, not that it was his home now, when was now anyway? Crickets' dad pushed Twig to the ground. The other boys circled around Twig and began the worst beating of his life. Crickets' dad, the future sheriff of Hilltop, brutally, mercilessly, and literally beat the snot out of him, not to mention other liquids including urine and blood. The only reprise from the beating was when they stopped to shout homophobic remarks.

Jerry called to his buddy to get a shovel. Buddy ran over to a shed near the house, which no longer existed in Twig's time. While Crickets stomped Twig's face with his runners, Buddy dug and dug deeper. A memory occurred to Twig. When they first moved to Hilltop and began to dig up those old apple trees, the ones which silently watched his current pummelling, the ones which would be chopped up and replaced with the garden which would eventually grow turnips amongst other veggies, Sheriff Crickets would stop by often. It didn't seem weird at the time, small town cops would stop by and get to know new citizens. Twig remembered that the sheriff was very curious about the garden. He visited almost everyday, drinking rhubarb lemonade Twigs mom made, until the garden was complete, then the Sheriff stopped dropping by. Twig had a good idea about Sheriff Crickets' visits now and decided it wasn't just neighbourly curiosity.

Finally the hole was complete. It was just a conical negative space with walls of dirt and gnarled apple roots. Although not a neat rectangle, Twig knew that this was a grave. The boys rolled Twig in. His bloody and bruised body bounced down and landed face up. Twig couldn't figure how many bones were broken. He had a ruptured eyeball, but from his good one he could see the stars and the rising harvest moon partially obstructed by branches. What a fate, to be buried alive in some else's body. The future sheriff Crickets looked down, whipped out his **** and hollered, "Just so you remember what brought you here." After his piss he scooped up some dirt and tossed it down. The dirt showered Twig's face, but it didn't feel like dirt, it felt like a splash of water.

Twig was no longer laying face up deep in a hole with a broken body. He was no longer being buried alive. Now he was leaning over the edge of the dam. His eyes readjusted. He wiped the numbingly cold water from his face. Just below him he discovered the cause of the splash. Sally Crickets, the coolest girl in school, floated just below the chilly October water. She was dead. Gashes and slashes checkered her face and arms. Her blood bloomed off her in fractal patterns only to be sucked down the rushing water of the dam. Her body followed the blood and through the chute she went.

Twig, now in control of his body, and it was his body again, looked to his right hand and saw the bloody knife. He turned and looked down over the dam to the park below. The party revelers looked sick, stunned. Sheriff Crickets a man in his 50's again, aimed his gun. More screams rose up as Sally's body came through the chute and got caught on an old branch half way down the falls. She was propped up like a puppet, water rushed over her body. Sheriff dropped his gun. He fell to his knees and wailed. The voice from within Twig bellowed. "hELlo CRickEtS! rEmEMbEr mE? JUST A LIttLe sOmEtHinG SO YOU CAN REMEMBER WhaT BROUGHT ME HERE" The voice shook Twig as it laughed an unholy putrid laugh.

Twig was in control of his body and decided to act upon the first thing that came to his mind. He jumped into the chilly water, it took his breath, then funneled him towards the chute. He went over and got caught in the branch in the falls. He was stuck over Crickets' dead body. The icy water squeezed him all over, but all he could think about was the root of evil. Turnips.

Through the glass panes of Mulligan and Rides Toys and Other Fancies, the doll's button eyes watched with wonder at the outside world's comings and goings. Passing horse-drawn carriages, old crones, beggars, children, lovers, and businessmen smoking cigars. The doll was pleased with her view of the street; after all, she could be in the position of the doll behind her with nothing to look at but the stitched brown strings of hair on the back of her head.

The doll often wondered who would buy her, for it could be anyone. She hoped it would be a little girl who would play tea and throw wonderful parties with all of her other toys. She dared not even imagine a doll collector who would encase her for eternity in some showcase. No, the doll wanted to be swung around, dressed up, played with and loved. Maybe I won't be bought at all. This unhappy thought went in and out of her cotton stuffed head as she felt hands grasp her and lift her from the window.

The doll spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped in tissue paper, being jostled about on her way to her new home. The doll wished she could fix her dress and primp her hair so that she might look as smart as possible for her new owner, but of course, as she was a doll, she knew such things were impossible.

As the red tissue paper was ripped open, lamplight fell onto the doll's button eyes. The torn tissue paper revealed a chubby face with a missing front tooth, rosy fat cheeks, and bright blond hair that curled like big ol' twisters that descended from a pink bow like octopus tentacles.

"Papa!" The fat little girl squealed as she dropped her new present to the ground. The doll's face hit the wooden planks of the floor. She heard her chubby new friend cheer, "Oh Papa, thank you, I love it, Papa."

The doll was lifted from the floor and squeezed in a tight embrace then twirled around and finally thrown onto a mountain of other toys on a plush sofa.

The doll saw that she was in a great room with many people gathered around. The fat little girl in the puffy white dress attacked another present. For She's a Jolly Good Lady was sung, cake was devoured, and finally, the satisfied and stuffed guests (Children filled with treats and adults marinated with brandy) had all left.

"Can I sleep with my presents tonight Papa?" She pleaded, getting down on all chubby fours "Oh, please." She oinked. Her father told her that she could choose one toy, the rest she could play with in the morning.

The girl paced back and forth like a drill sergeant about to pick a private to assume the worst detail. She lurched forward and grabbed the little stringy-haired button-eyed doll by the arm and headed up the grand staircase, hitting the doll's head on every step. The doll didn't mind though, she was chosen, she felt loved.

That night the round little girl hugged the doll tightly in her warm embrace under the duvet and whispered that her name was to be Lillian and that she would be loved forever. The doll believed her and that night considered herself the luckiest toy that ever was. That warm embrace was heaven. This was the way it would be for always.

The next morning the fat little girl sat Lillian beside her on the kitchen table as Hector, the head of the house, prepared breakfast. When eggs and bacon weren't delivered to the doll, the fat little girl scolded Hector for being a terrible butler. Her father and mother laughed, and Hector spread politeness over his contempt and said, "Very good Miss Emily." The doll sat proudly beside her friend and wondered what the day held for her. That glorious day did not let the doll down, not one bit. There was a tea party with the other dolls as she had always hoped. During the affair, she felt as though she was favored above the other toys. This filled the doll with joy, but she also felt pity for the others who would spend the night in a chest and not in the luxurious bed gripped tightly by Emily. Later in the afternoon Emily went down to the river and splashed her sausage legs in the mud while the doll watched from her button eyes on a grassy patch. Later, Emily sat with her doll on the staircase and watched Hector clean the muddy footprints from the floor on hands and knees. Finally, the doll joined the wonderful family for dinner, followed by a story by the fire from Father, then off to bed.

Again that night, the doll thought that Emily's warm embrace would last forever. Unfortunately for everyone involved, it would only last a mere hour more. Emily's pig nose sucked in air. It made the sound of a broken auto until she awoke. Emily rubbed her eyes and whispered to her doll that she needed to go "wee." She got out of bed, slipped on her slippers, grabbed the doll and a lantern and made for downstairs. Emily opened the back door and tip-toed quietly to the outhouse. Emily grimaced as the smell enveloped her. She held her breath and shone the lamp in all the darkest corners looking for daddy longlegs and other creepy crawlers. As she was fumbling to get the lantern on its hook, she accidentally dropped the doll down the deep dark disgusting hole.

The doll fell down and down and further down still. Her button eyes looked up as her friend's fat face got smaller and smaller and the darkness around the hole got larger and larger. Finally, she landed on her back in a soft, semisolid pool. The doll began to sink into the sludgy waste, but stopped short when her face and the top of her hands were still exposed. She resembled someone sinking in quicksand holding out for some saving grace that would probably not come.

Emily started crying and ran, forgetting the lantern. The glow from the lantern made the top of the hole glimmer like an orange harvest moon. She just had to wait patiently. Her friend would save her.

Eventually, the door to the outhouse opened and Emily and Papa looked down. Papa rolled his eyes, and although they were far up, the doll heard Papa say, "...we'll get you another one come Monday."Emily nodded, a little tearful.

Before the doll could contemplate the repercussions of her fall and the conversation above, Emily sat on the seat, her rear eclipsing the orange moon. She let it rain onto the dolls face. When the rains stopped Emily did not look back down. She took the lamp and left. The door creaked shut, thus signaling the end of the rescue mission. Lillian was left in abysmal darkness.

The doll's cloth skin absorbed all the rank fluids. Her white cotton skin turned blotchy and brown and saggy. In the complete darkness the doll wondered if she would ever return to that warm embrace.

The doll could tell it was morning. She could see the faint glow of light breaking through the wood panels. Now only her button eyes were above the filth. By the time breakfast completed it's digestion she was completely submerged.

It could have been days or months, the doll could not tell, she was a prisoner, suspended in a cold, vile, gelatinous cell. She remembered what Papa had said to Emily. "Even if we did fish your doll out, we couldn't bring her into the house, not now." The doll would have stayed there until she dissolved and became part of the slime, but Lillian knew she was special, she knew she deserved that warm embrace, and if Papa wouldn't let her back to Emily's warm embrace then maybe she could bring Emily to her.

Feelings of betrayal turned to hope and it was hope, perhaps the most magical thing that exists, that let the doll move on her own accord. The doll pushed her down, using her arms for the first time to propel to the surface. This was no easy feat. She was not designed for locomotion and she was heavier than normal, waterlogged from absorbing too much excrement and urine. But again, the magic of hope and love makes the impossible possible.

Emily snored. As she inhaled deeply, she was awoken by the most hideously pungent smell that had ever wafted into her snout. She opened her eyes and saw Lillian staring at her, sitting in a brown wet spot on her bed. The doll was no longer that cute, little, brown stringy-haired present from Papa. Now her cotton skin drooped and dripped and melted off; distorted and demented. Before Emily could scream she shoved herself away in a knee-jerk reaction, falling off the bed onto her head. She was out.

The doll conjured magnificent strength and grabbed Emily's curly twisters and began to drag her down the great stairwell, hitting Emily's head on every step. The doll was so proud and full of dreams of warmth and love. The doll dragged Emily into the outhouse and hoisted her head first down the hole. The doll fell first, hanging by the hair of her upside down friend. Before they hit the bottom they stopped abruptly. Fat little Emily's girth had clogged the drain. Lillian was stuck swinging from the blimp above her like a hot air balloon stuck in a train tunnel. The doll began to yank and yank, until she yanked too hard and one of Emily's locks gave way, taking a bit of scalp with her.

Emily awoke screaming. She found herself stuck upside-down facing a cesspool of shit. She screamed and screamed and screamed some more. And as she screamed the viscous smell danced up her nose and onto her tongue. She watched the grotesque little doll climb up the muddy sides. Finally the doll shoved her hands between Emily's lips, gripping the roof of her mouth and began to yank her down by her teeth.

The taste on Emily's tongue caused

her to vomit, gurgling her cries and

wails. The bile, blocked at the mouth spilled out of her nose and showered Lillian. Finally, with enough energy and courage from the little doll, Emily gave way and fell face first into the sludge. She frantically flailed and jerked as she tried to get right side up, but the hole was too thin. She let out one more scream, allowing the putrescent liquid to rocket up into her lungs and stomach. Her flailing stopped and her arms fell around the doll in a loving embrace. And there, the doll and Emily stayed, in that loving embrace, until they both more. And as she screamed the viscous smell danced up her nose and onto her tongue. She watched the grotesque little doll climb up the muddy sides. Finally the doll shoved her hands between Emily's lips, gripping the roof of her mouth and began to yank her down by her teeth.

The taste on Emily's tongue caused her to vomit, gurgling her cries and wails. The bile, blocked at the mouth spilled out of her nose and showered Lillian. Finally, with enough energy and courage from the little doll, Emily gave way and fell face first into the sludge. She frantically flailed and jerked as she tried to get right side up, but the hole was too thin. She let out one more scream, allowing the putrescent liquid to rocket up into her lungs and stomach. Her flailing stopped and her arms fell around the doll in a loving embrace. And there, the doll and Emily stayed, in that loving embrace, until they both dissolved into their murky resting place.