#AScareADay - October Reading Challenge Days 25-27

I loved these stories/poems, and highly recommend them. Get ahead or do the challenge day by day: https://romancingthegothic.com/2025/09/21/the-scare-a-day-challenge-october-2025/

My creative responses vary from Changelings to Beverley Wend & Eglantine Pritchard, and more...

Intro/Outro Music Credits: "Danse Macabre - Busy Strings" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Hello and welcome back to Eldritch Girl. We've

actually caught up with our posts last week.

So on Friday, we reached day 24. And now we're

just going to have to do the posts that I've

published, which means these episodes are maybe

slightly shorter. So our next one is A Scare A

Day, day 25. Eleanor Atkins is dead and her house

is boarded up by Kaaren Warren. And this is by

an Australian author that I'd never heard of

before, published in 2014 and free to read online.

I love this. I actually really love all of the

modern ones. In fact, I really like the ones

that we've read. I think all of the ones in a

row. I think this one was pretty emotionally

devastating, especially hot on the heels of Day

24, which, you know, if you're reading these

back to back, like, you know, you've just got

over sweet subtleties and then bang, Eleanor

Atkins hits you in the face. And this one pushed

a lot of my buttons regarding the passage of

time. So I've just watched The Thursday Murder

Club, which is based on the book by Richard Osman

and that is the first book in the series. I will

definitely be reading that series now that I've

seen that film because I don't think I'd actually

heard of The Thursday Murder Club before. But

oh my word, like that is, yeah, that film I think

really encapsulated for me. the just I don't

know there was a lot of bittersweetness in getting

older the ways that people deal with their age

and their aging and the ways that they still

try to take control of their lives and continue

their lives when your body is failing you and

you can't physically do a lot and a lot of your

purpose which was your job you know in life has

been taken away from you because you've retired

and you now have to find other ways to fill the

time i know a lot of retired people who've really

struggled with that transition because there

is nothing to create your routine for you anymore

and actually it's one of the things that i'm

dreading about my own retirement which won't

be for a good many decades yet unfortunately

but i don't know how i will cope with it because

I don't have a plan for it yet I'm in my 30s

and I know it sounds really silly to be thinking

about retirement but I have ADHD and I need routine

um starting to suspect that it's all DHD actually

like I really need a routine to keep me structured

otherwise my life falls apart um and I yeah just

This story today, on day 25, was just about this

woman and her life and how she dreamed that it

would turn out and it didn't quite turn out that

way and she became a housewife or, you know,

like a wife and mother and that wasn't really

what she'd planned on and somehow she'd become...

the person she never wanted to be when she was

younger, you know, the person with a routine

that people would recognise. And she lived in

a haunted house and the ghosts for her were friends

and they were ghosts that she wanted to protect.

They were people that she found some solace in

and something really comforting. And she ended

up with a ghostly lover. you know that spiced

up her own sex life with her husband which she

wasn't particularly satisfied by originally and

then that's how they ended up with their kids

and the kids felt that there were presences in

the house they didn't like and that really didn't

want the house and didn't want to be in the house

when they were older and they didn't want the

house after she died but she didn't want to leave

it because that was where all the ghosts were

and She wanted to make it this happy home of

sort of living and dead together. And I guess

she was the only one that really felt that way

until she also passed away and the house was

boarded up. And there's a little bit at the end

where it's like some squatters moved in and they

were quite happy in the way that Eleanor was

happy in the house. yeah it's just so poignant

and sad and it's from this perspective of aging

and yeah I just can't stop thinking about this

in conjunction with the Thursday Murder Club

and I think I would definitely be reading that

series of books I hope that it handles that and

it probably does as as well if not better than

the actual film does and I know Chris Columbus

as a director tends to stick very faithfully

to the material he's given or he attempts to

and this definitely had that feel of that cozy

murder mystery feel so I think I would definitely

get on with the book that it's based on so yeah

anyway that's inspired me to read more by this

author but also by Richard Osman And I recommend

that film to you as well if you like this story.

So, OK, that's day 25. Yeah, I'm just glad the

ghosts are happy in the end. It's desperately

sad. I really liked it. It just hollowed my chest

out. Yeah, and my response to this one is a short

reflective piece that might make its way into

a book or a story at some point. I don't know.

It's a Pagham on Sea piece again, set in the

1960s this time and featuring Eglantine Pritchard

and Beverly Wend. If you haven't read any of

the books, Beverly Wend is the matriarch of a

family of eldritch abominations, while Eglantine

Pritchard is the one who keeps stopping their

early ambitions to open a portal for their progenitor

to come fully into our world and destroy it.

We will find out through these kind of backstories

and things that Beverly also doesn't really want

that to happen. That's more her younger sister

Eileen. And the middle sister, because there's

three sisters, the middle sister Olive is actively

trying to prevent Eileen from... following through

with things and she goes a little bit more drastic

and Beverly is pretending not to notice but yeah

so Beverly and Eglantine have this back and forth

they've been sort of to all intents and purposes

like enemies since they met but that's not really

the dynamic between them I don't know like we'll

see so Anyway, this is at the end of their decades

-long drama. A lot of people are dead. Equilibrium

has finally been reached. Ko -fi members can

read Eglantine's story in the monthly posts and

e -books available to download. This is set just

after the 1st 13th, so Hector Wend has destroyed

himself and then that's where we are at now.

So Hector is mentioned in my novel 13th. If you've

read that, you'll understand who Hector is. They

sat beside one another, while not really sitting

beside one another, two elderly women on a bench

overlooking the promenade, one at each end. They

were dressed for the weather, but neither dressed

the same. Beverley had on a blouse and high -waisted

ankle -length skirt, with a dark red woolen shawl

about her shoulders, fresh from the hairdresser.

Eglantine had her usual tweed ensemble, bottle

-green skirt covered in terrier hairs. She never

bothered with the hairdresser. her hair was as

thick and long as it had been on the day she

moved to town in nineteen twenty three coiled

at the back of her head in a bun beverley didn't

say anything neither did eglantine seagulls called

and hovered over the pier which was closing down

the sandwich kiosk was closed the ice -cream

van was looking dismal but still optimistically

open A few girls in miniskirts and boots up to

their knees came by arm in arm, quite obviously

braless in the autumn chill under their knitted

tops, hair so stiff with sugar and spray that

even the stiff breeze coming off the channel

couldn't budge it. Eglantine and Beverly tisked

in unison, then looked in opposite directions,

unwilling to share even a moment of mutual displeasure.

Still, it was common ground. Young people today,

Beverly said at last, by way of an olive branch.

Eglantine sniffed. We wouldn't have dreamed of

that in my day, going about with everything showing.

She's bound to catch a chill and then she'll

be sorry. You can't tell them, Beverly said,

picking off the stray cat hairs in her lap. They

won't take to be told these days. There was another

long silence as both women gathered their thoughts,

unused to being in each other's company in public

and at peace. I was very sorry to hear about

your sister, Eglantine said at last. Sisters,

I mean. And your great -nephew, too. Great -grandson,

Beverly corrected, then tightened her jaw but

forced herself to answer. Can't be helped, she

said. No, Eglantine agreed after a while. I suppose

it can't. I didn't mean for it to happen, Beverly

said suddenly. Her voice cracked. She cleared

her throat and reached into her handbag for a

cough sweet. Eglantine already had hers in her

hand and held them out to her. There was a pause,

and then gloved hand touched gloved hand, the

fleetest of touches, and Beverly accepted a lozenge

from the proffered packet. Thank you, she said

gruffly, and partially unwrapped it. She left

it in the paper, gleaming sickly yellow in the

sunlight, and contemplated it for a while. Eglantine

returned the packet to her own lap and looked

out over the seafront. I don't want to say I

told you so, she said at last, with a tight,

prim expression. But I did tell you. Beverly

shot her neighbour a smouldering glance of hatred,

but the redness in her pupils faded as quickly

as it had flared. She couldn't deny that. This

was her fault. Hector had been a wonderful weapon,

but she had been so caught up in perfecting him,

trying to bring out his potential, that she had

lost sight of the fact that at his core he was,

and forever would be, a scared and lonely little

boy. It had been a weakness she couldn't strengthen,

a stain on his soul she couldn't scrub out, no

matter how vigorously she tried. His mind had

gone in the end. That was her fault too. And

he had taken her sisters and then torn himself

apart, afraid of anything that would hurt Beverley,

his tormentor, his matriarch, his world. Eileen,

of course, couldn't have lived. Beverley knew

that. She had always been wild, and age had made

her both wild and bitter. Always thwarted, always

scheming, always trying to move mountains for

her own grand ends. No, it was a good thing that

Hector had taken her. But Olive... Unthinkingly,

Beverley tipped her head and fixed misty eyes

on the space between her and Eglantine, where

Olive in the middle would have sat. Hector had

simply got the wrong end of the stick there.

He thought Olive was a traitor to the family

for her clandestine friendship with their tweedy

nemesis. He didn't know that it was with Beverley's

grudging blessing, because she couldn't admit

that without the meddling Welsh woman she couldn't

keep Eileen in line. Olive's absence left a hollow

in her chest. All over now, Eglantine said firmly.

I won't be having reason to meddle any more.

Two curses are quite enough, Beverly agreed.

I think you'll find us quite... She looked for

a word, and fixed upon the terrier hairs sticking

to Eglantine's unbrushed thighs. Neutered. But

you will die, Miss Pritchard, Beverly thought

to herself. You will die, and then we may not

be so neutered any more. First, Eglantine had

cursed away the family's ambitions of greatness.

You will all be no better than you ought to be.

And then she had taken away their shrine. It

was the only way, after the things Eileen used

it for, and the things Beverley allowed it to

be used for. Everything had got out of hand,

was all. Eglantine nodded sharply. I'm sure the

family will all fall into line neatly enough.

Of this, Beverley was certain. Oh, I'm sure.

It was a strange afternoon, the kind where rain

was promised but never quite got around to falling,

the kind where the air was on the turn with the

season but not fully decided which season it

wanted to be. Some people were wearing coats

to the pebbled beach, others were still in their

shirt -sleeves, and some carried umbrellas they

didn't yet acquire. Beverly didn't like it. She

breathed in, catching a waft of vinegar. I never

thought it would turn out like this, she said

aloud, more to Olive, who wasn't there. I thought

there would be dancing and parties, and I'd be

daring, like the fashionable ladies who had those

short skirts, you know, them as showed your ankles.

Eglantine did not pass comment, but remained

still, back stiff and straight, staring out to

sea. It wasn't even my idea, really. Beverly

shook her head and laughed as a sudden absurdity

came back to her. Do you know, I used to make

people call me Belle for short. Belle. I was

a one. No, I never imagined this would be how

it was. I wanted to be an artist and marry one

of them painter chaps from a good family and

live in Paris. And then I wanted to marry a lad

from one of the farms over our way, but he died.

And then I thought I'd find me a rich gentleman.

She shook her head. We found a rich gentleman,

all right, the three of us, didn't we? Not what

we wanted at all, in the end. Eglantine, who

had never in her life wanted any kind of man,

gentle or otherwise, pursed her lips at this

and did not commiserate. Beverley might have

been peeved at this some ten or twenty years

earlier, but now she took it in good part. I

never did go to Paris, she said. I wouldn't bother,

Eglantine said. I had no looks on it myself.

Beverley tutted. I hardly think it was at its

best during the war, dear. The river smells,

Eglantine said bluntly, the wind picking up so

that Beverley strained to hear, and if I wanted

to eat wet p-sies in the rain, I could do that

just as well in Llandudno. Beverley didn't catch

that word and coloured. Wet what, I beg your

pardon? Pastries! Eglantine gave her a look and

her double chin quivered. Wasn't it romantic?

Beverly asked, recovering from this misunderstanding,

her youthful reminiscences getting the better

of her. Like the pictures? Eglantine shrugged,

large bosom rising and falling, and threatening

the strained buttons with violent eviction from

their moorings. I suppose it depends if you think

straight lines are romantic, she said dismissively.

I never found romance in uniformity myself. Where

did you find it, then? Eglantine shook her head.

Not where I expected, she said after a while,

and her voice was husky. But that's the way of

it, I dare say. She took a lozenge for herself,

unwrapped it, and put it in her mouth. Beverley

crinkled the paper of her own lozenge and followed

suit. They sat, sucking their cough -sweets in

silence. Well, Beverley said after a while, I

shan't keep you. Eglantine nodded, folding her

arms against the intensifying breeze. Beverly

stood and wrapped her shawl closer about her

shoulders. Don't sit out here too long, she said.

You'll catch your death. Then I'll have to throw

it back again, won't I? Eglantine quipped, although

she didn't crack a smile. Neither did Beverly,

although she had to concede that was a pretty

good one. Beverly left her rival on the bench

and made her way stiffly back up the steps to

the town and her own little cottage and the family

who adored her, and she had never felt more unmoored

and alone. Eglantine sat on the bench for an

hour longer by herself, knowing Gwendolyn would

be home by the time she got back, and was quite

content. There we go. So, yeah, that was that.

For day 26, we had a poem. And that was The Right

Foot of Juan de Onate by Marcin Espada. And that

was published first in 2015. The poem relates

to an incident where the right foot of the bronze

statue of Juan de Arnante was cut through with

a chainsaw as an act of revenge and defiance

for what the conquistador did to the Acoma Pueblo.

There was a sense of grim satisfaction for me

in this poem, the idea of someone trapped in

his bronze statue and forced to watch the growth

of people he tried to destroy, having his own

statue mutilated in ways he had had others mutilated,

because that's what he used to do to people.

There's a big gap in my knowledge around the

histories of much of Central and South America,

also in the media from different countries in

this region. I have been watching a lot more

films from there but again I can only access

what I can access here and I can't get a lot.

from those regions from those different countries

I can see a lot of the anxieties and tensions

in the drama and horror films I have seen from

Argentina, Brazil, Guatemala, Colombia, Chile

and Mexico and in the magical realism of Borges

and other authors for example and I always feel

like I need to know a lot more about the backgrounds

of these books and films to properly appreciate

the nuances and what meant into making them so

that's something that I'm looking into developing

but where it came to using this as a prompt um

i really like the image of the statue itself

being an unwitting revenge trapping the spirit

of the man in the bronze figure so that he can't

get out he's unable to escape it he's clawing

at his bronze statue i thought about the imagery

of someone being trapped somewhere after death

and i thought this might be another part to the

necromancy idea which i started in day 11 and

continued in day 21 so a little bit left field

i guess but my creative piece for today is on

that theme, so the trapping of a soul after death.

And I've called this bone puppetry. This isn't

the same thing as real necromancy, Isabeau told

them patiently, as if she were teaching the basics

of the alphabet to dull -witted children. Necromancy

is to bone puppetry what puppet shows are to

live theatre. The corpses wore expressions of

agonised horror. They saw themselves in the gilded

mirror of the blue salon, and their mouths gaped

wider in silent screams. Do they know, Gaudin

whispered, as an enemy captain bayoneted his

terror -stricken own men, only for them each

to rise as if on strings and fall upon their

still -living comrades? Do they know what has

become of them? Isabeau cast him an amused glance.

Of course. Throughout this whole episode, the

breaching of the chateau, the rather one -sided

battle raging in the outer ward, and the falling

bodies of the small platoon that had been allowed

to get this far inside, Lady Isabeau had remained

calmly seated in her favourite spot in the bay

window, a poetry book lying open on her lap.

She had not allowed Gordan to move from his chair

and join the fray, and Faubert had not done anything

but eat grapes from the fruit bowl and pass Lady

Isabeau whatever she asked him for. the book

of poems, an apple, her mirror, and ivory comb.

Outside, and now inside the very room, corpses

performed their macabre dance of death. There

were now only three soldiers left alive in the

blue salon, fighting for every breath in the

furthest corner of the room. Gardin could not

begin to guess how many were left outside these

walls. From beyond the open window the sounds

of battle had died, and there was nothing now

but an eerie, deathly silence. Gardin, as strong

and well -built as he was, felt that he could

not rise to his feet now if his life depended

upon it. His knees were dissolved, his marrow

stiffened like cold granite, and his mind had

forgotten even the notion of movement. Lady Isabeau

hummed a soft tune to herself and examined the

curled ends of her hair in the hand -mirror.

They will all be released when I have no more

use for them, she said, as if this was of no

consequence. The cries of the living men were

dwindling, as one by one they were overcome by

their dead friends. Gardin's horror matched theirs.

He could not imagine what he would do if Faubert

was ripped from his company, only to rise and

come for him as a common enemy, a stranger, no

matter how resistant his soul was to the irresistible

manoeuvres of his corpse. Faubert's eyes were

unhealthily pink and glassy. His full cheeks

flared pink and feverish. Godin caught his own

distorted reflection in the silverware set before

him at the little inlaid table where Lady Isabeau

had insisted they dine. He too looked ill, but

his cheeks had the greenish pallor of sickness,

in contrast to Faubert's heightened flush. they

deserve it faubus said in a voice that gaudin

barely recognised as belonging to his friend

lady isabeau said nothing as charming and mild

as a painter's subject and it didn't matter to

her whether the screaming dead deserved their

fate or not They make such sad music, she said

wistfully, then met Godin's eyes with her calm

stare, all the power of the forest and the earth

and the depths of the mosaic shades, drawing

him away from all horror around him and into

her sanctuary. Don't you think? Something ice

-cold clutched Godin's heart, as he realised

he loved her more than life, more than Faubert,

more than anything. Yes, my lady, he heard himself

say, in a voice he barely recognised as his own,

deeply sad. Lady Isabeau smiled. It will end

soon, she said, as all things must. Gaudin nodded

greener than ever, and Faubert sat back in his

seat facing their lady, ruddier than ever, and

Lady Isabeau hummed a few lines of an old tune

as the screaming faded away. And all that was

left was the muted thudding of bone puppets hitting

the ground out of time. Don't wake dead necromancers,

it's a bad idea. Yeah, so that's the third of

the four pieces of the necromancy story and I

just thought that I would share that today. I

think that we have now... caught up with today's

piece which is for day 27 and this story was

called Uncontainable by Helen Stubbs. It was

published first in 2016 and again free to read

online. I've got links in my post. I've got to

say wow this is some really twisted village horror

today. I'm here for it. This did not go where

I thought it was going. This is not for people

who need a trigger warning for baby death. I

will tell you that right now, right up front.

It's definitely on the changeling theme, but

not at all where I thought this was going. I

do love the idea of evil beings or people, who

really knows, being seen for what they are by

a feral child. Also, I loved the implication

that if one of these kind of entities leaves

or goes or, you know, is no longer in the village,

that just another one arrives to take their place,

doing a completely different job. And it's all

very innocuous, you know, and they're just a

turn up in a different guise. God, like, just

sorry. The whole image of the coat and the fucking

babies. No, no, no, I'm sorry. I think you should

read this. I think everyone should read this

story. I can't even tell you, like, I can't even

do it justice. Like, you just have to read it.

It reminded me actually of a short segment from

the Mexico Barbaro anthology. The first one,

not the second anthology, the first anthology,

which was the one directed by Lex Ortega, which

was called Lo que importa es lo de Andreto.

I hope that I said that right. I don't speak

Spanish. I speak French, but not Spanish. Where

only the little disabled girl Laura can see the

harmless, you know, inverted commas, man in the

neighborhood for what he is, which is a bogeyman

who kills children, harvests their organs for

sale, which is obviously the El Coco, El Cocoy

bogeyman in Spanish and Portuguese speaking countries

who eat. children and that kind of modern contemporary

take on it. reminded me of this short story.

So in this story the lodger calls her Rochelle

but her name's Rachel. Rochelle, Rachel's uncanny

perceptions and knowledge combined with her aggression,

rejection of gifts, violence, her spurning of

the priest, you know that all sets her up as

a changeling to me. So when the story takes the

macabre, weird as fuck direction that it takes,

I was like Oh, God. And the image of the good

wife, whatever her name is, who makes her special

milk. And she's got a coat that reminds the lodger,

who's the narrator, of a wasp. Because she's

obviously got something hanging underneath it.

No. Yeah. uh and then she's found murdered and

then he discovers her coat down in the basement

and he gets to open it and see what's underneath

and like and what she does with with kit like

oh oh Good for Rachel. Good for Rochelle, I reckon.

Rachel Rochelle. Well done. Well done, kid. Anyway,

I think this story might be vying for top place

in my favourites. I'm really getting into Australian

and Aotearoan writers, Southern Hemisphere writers

in general. I think I've really enjoyed some

of the writers that I've... read so far writers

like Lyndall Clipstone and Mason Hawthorne as

well I've done interviews with them yeah and

you could have a look at those interviews on

my podcast for more ideas for what to read next

So because this one led me to think about changelings,

I'd like to do my take on changelings for this.

But I've already shared a snippet of The Snow

Child. And if you want my take on fae horror

and the, you know, the horror of being the only

person who sees things for what they are, I think

The Snow Child as a short story is the one to

go with. But instead of reposting more extracts

from that story, I thought I'd post something

else that I started a long time ago, which is

The Changeling. story set in pagam on sea's universe

but not in pagam itself trigger warning as well

for baby stealing baby neglect and death because

the fey don't care about the human children they

steal so it starts off i'll just read like the

um the first couple of paragraphs to set the

scene this is the just this is just experimental

i don't know what i'm going to do with it i've

got multiple things i thought i was going to

do with it um I don't know, but we'll see. So,

it starts off this way. Maybe. Ellie Jenkins

hated mirrors. She'd seen a monster in one as

a child and had never gotten over it. Of course,

nobody believed her. Aunty Lisa hadn't wanted

to bring her sister's kid up in the first place

and wasn't interested in whether Ellie saw monsters

or not. Nick Emlyn Hall loved mirrors. He'd seen

a monster in one as a child and never gotten

over it. Only his foster brother believed him,

and that was because Cameron saw monsters in

mirrors too. Okay, so those are your characters.

Nick and Ellie then meet at a ballroom dancing

class. The room does not have mirrors in it,

really, because it's above a private shop. which

is a UK term for a shop that sells sex toys and

fetish wear. And I added this detail because

I went to a private one -to -one burlesque class

for my hen arranged by a close friend, which

was above a shop exactly like this. And the upstairs

all had rooms which had numbers on them. You

know what I mean? I had a great time. And by

total coincidence, it was the same dancer that

I had already booked, unbeknownst to my mate,

to belly dance at my wedding. So there's this

thing that she says, I know everybody in the

world. And I'm like, no, I absolutely don't.

That's silly. just left me with this complete

stranger as far as she knew and came back and

like we were just chatting like old friends she

was like what is going on and I was like oh yeah

this is Stephanie you know and she was like yeah

you see you do know everybody what are the chances

of that anyway Nick and Ellie meet while poolroom

dancing and at some point romance and plot happens

they shag in a Wetherspoons toilet doesn't get

much more romantic than that guys and then she

discovers this is after she's discovered that

her boyfriend's having it away with her mum whom

she is trying to reconcile with as an adult So

she basically just gets out of there and she

ends up staying over at Nick's house and he lives

with his brother Cam. And they have a bit of

an exchange because weird stuff happens and they

kind of realise that they're all connected in

some weird way. So this is an exchange that they

have in Nick's kitchen. Nick looked at Ellie

who was brimming with questions. Do you own a

full -length mirror? Ellie shuddered involuntarily,

a distant memory of Aunty Lisa's making her cringe.

No. You don't like them, do you? Why not? Nick

swung his legs much to Cam's irritation, scuffing

the cabinet doors with his heels. Ellie shrugged.

Stupid. When I was little, I thought I saw a

monster in one. Nick gave Cam a look of triumph.

There you go. That doesn't... Ellie, what sort

of monster? Cam turned to her now too, the first

time he had deigned to even look at her since

she came into the kitchen. She didn't feel like

explaining something so childish. I don't know.

Grey skin, wrinkled, massive eyes, really long

nails. The details were hazy now, but that description

struck a chord. Her hesitation drew a sigh from

him. Small? Probably only about as big as you

were? What are you saying? The brothers exchanged

glances. Mirrors can show us what we really look

like, Nick said slowly. If we approach them in

the right way, it's easy to do by accident. Ellie

wasn't ready to hear that. She didn't want to

be seven years old again, having night terrors

about the things she saw in Aunty Lisa's mirror

after spinning in front of it in a rare new dress.

She could barely get her head around what he

was saying to her. Are you saying I'm not real?

I'm saying you're not really Ellie, Nick said,

and that was worse. So then, you know, I thought,

I don't know what was going to happen here. Characters

have a bit of a chat about changeling lore. Ellie

learns where changelings really come from. A

lot of this is hinted at in my story, The Snow

Child, as well, which uses similar lore to the

bits I've got here. I'm undecided as to whether

I want to tie them all in the same universe.

I think I probably will. So a lot of this may

change or not. We'll see. But this is the next

section from the changing chat. Bearing in mind,

this isn't a joined up narrative, like I'm just

writing bits and pieces out of order. This is

just what I've got. So Ellie, in this bit, is

finally persuaded to see her real self in a mirror

and face the monster she thinks she is. Hey,

Nick crossed the room and touched her arm. Do

you want to see yourself properly? You are real,

I promise. You just... You just wear this body

like a shell, like a set of clothes. And my personality?

That's all you. Bit of nature, bit of nurture,

but all your version of Ellie Jenkins. It doesn't

change that part of you. Ellie stood in front

of the mirror, her back to it, and turned slowly

anti -clockwise. Her reflection was blurred,

as if there was Vaseline on the glass. On top

was Ellie, the human Ellie, the way everyone

saw her. Underneath was someone else. Ellie turned

anti -clockwise again for another full turn,

heart pounding, hands clammy. This time the thing

underneath was closer to the surface, the mirror

showing her more grey and less pale flesh. She

turned around one more time, and there she was.

Wrinkled grey folds of skin, stone -coloured

but tree -bark textured, blotched with patches

of moss and paler lichen, hung on a frame that

matched hers in dimensions, her breasts full

and drooping, rolls and curves all pretty much

the same, and her face was sharper and flatter

than she'd expected to see. Her nose almost didn't

exist at all, a nub of slit nostrils in the middle

of her face, eyes huge and round, bugged slightly

and taking up most of the space where her forehead

had been. Her hair was dandelion down, sprouting

delicately from the dome of her skull and wispy

poofs of white. Nick and Cam appeared behind

her, also naked, and when they turned around

three times, the family resemblance was unmistakable

despite the differences in their builds. It wasn't

their appearance, which was basically the same

as hers. Grey wrinkled skin like lichen -covered

bark, both considerably mossier than she was,

with short dark green fronds sprouting over them

in thick patches. Human beauty standards didn't

apply between them. Ellie looked down at herself,

expecting to see the skin she was used to, but

the glamour of human Ellie Jenkins had also been

stripped from her body, and the reflection matched

the distorted reality. Everything made sense.

There was no horror, although she'd anticipated

there being something, some panic or tingle of

fear, of disgust, but there was only a profound

sense of fitting. She'd worried that she wouldn't

fit her real skin, but in fact it made better

sense to her than the human one she had. Do you

like it? Nick asked. Ellie nodded, running her

new, old, real hands over her body, exploring

the fibrous textures of her form. What happens

to the babies? The real Ellie, where is she?

Nick winced. Human babies don't tend to live

long in fairy. They get taken because they look

cute, but the new parents get bored easily. Eventually

the stolen kids get mulched and their bodies

fruit into sprites, imps, that sort of thing.

Mulched? Ellie stared at him in horror. You mean...

There's a garden, Cam said without emotion. They

call it the Golden Green. Ellie felt sick. The

Golden Green? Why... Things rot really prettily

in Faerie, Nick said flatly. Anyway, the real

Ellie doesn't exist anymore. She probably spawned

a whole swarm of wood sprites and tooth fairies,

if that's any consolation. Like mayflies, you

know, except they live a bit longer. Ellie covered

her mouth, forcing down bile. Look, none of that

matters because, to all intents and purposes,

you're the only Ellie now, so that makes you

the real one, Cam said in a manner that was meant

to close the conversation but didn't actually

help. Like I'm the real Cam and Nick's the real

Nick. Ellie couldn't take all this in at once.

She ran her hands over her body, the one she

had always had but never knew was there, and

tried to take it all in. There was a slight concave

pit in the middle of her chest and no navel.

What's this? From the seed pod, Nick said, showing

her his own. They grow us in the golden green.

Cam and me, we're from the same pod. We sensed

it the moment we met each other. You're from

a different one. Different bush, probably. I

got a sense of connection to you the moment we

met, so I suspected straight off you were one

of us. But I don't think we're linked beyond

that. So, we're plants? Ellie explored the dip

in her chest, imagining a small stem burgeoning

out of it, connecting her to sunlight and water

and air. Sort of. Ellie ran her hands downwards

between her legs and paused, surprised at the

absence she felt. Where's my... She looked properly

at the brothers. Where are your... cocks? Nick's

sharp mouth split into a perfect triangle, giving

him a wicked air. Don't need them. We don't get

rid of waste that way, and we don't reproduce

like that. So what are these? Ellie grabbed her

breasts, but they were hard and light and rattled

when she shook them. Oh, wow. Seeds. Cam rattled

his own, a little smaller than hers. We all carry

seeds. These are pods, really. They release when

we die or we're fully mature, but changelings

don't often live that long. How long? Ellie jiggled

her seed pods, listening to the percussive shake,

feeling nothing. Unlike her human tits, she had

no sensation there. A hundred years? Oh. Most

changelings don't last a year, Nick said. Not

in the bad old days when people were wise to

us. They'd kill their own babies if they thought

they'd been swapped. It was all extremely grim.

I went around a few times before my luck started

to hold. Like we reincarnate? No, that's a specific

worldview, isn't it? This is more like recycling.

Nick looked at Cam for corroboration. When you

kill a changeling or one dies or whatever, these

seeds get released. They're a part of us. Every

seed you bear inside you is another you. The

more you have, the better chance of being recycled.

So the seeds release and they... what? They grow?

Essentially, they get collected up first because

you can only regrow in the golden green. Where

the human babies get... Mulched. Yeah, but that's

nothing to do with us. That's how the sprites

and small swarming things get born. Cam nudged

him. The roots of our bushes feed on them too.

What's left? Oh God. Ellie felt sick again. Ah,

right, yeah. Well, anyway, not really our fault.

Circle of life, right? Nick shifted from foot

to foot, or rather stump to stump, his belly

round and ripe and rippling with movement. Ellie

found she was still attracted to him, so perhaps

in her plant -changing life her orientation was

towards juicy, age -ended fruit. Attraction was

also a human thing, if she didn't have the requisite

parts to do anything about it, so maybe that

tug towards him was something else she didn't

yet have a name for. It's pretty cool, isn't

it? Nick asked, changing the subject and drawing

her attention back to the mirror. Look at us,

like a horror film. I really like it, Ellie admitted,

the strangeness of it ebbing the longer she remained

fully exposed, filling every part of her form

with herself. Her whole personality fitted into

it perfectly, no need to hide or conceal or suppress

any bit of it, no need to squash anything down

or over -accentuate anything else. She was, for

the first time in her life, both complete and

completely comfortable. I think you're a dead

sexy goblin, man. Nick's triangle smile made

his big, globular eyes shine with a pale, sinister

light, and she loved that even more. Excellent!

Cam coughed. Cam is allergic to fun, Nick said.

Cam sprouted thorns across his whole body, a

savage gleam in his sunlit eyes. Ellie patted

herself down, checking herself for similar protrusions.

Oh my God, that's amazing! Can I do that? Nick

laughed. No, I told you, we're from different

bushes. Why does everything you say sound mildly

dirty? Mildly? Nick tossed his head, mock offended.

You could probably sprout something, Cam said,

thorns retracting. Try. Ellie closed her eyes,

double lids folding over her enhanced field of

vision, and took notice of what was beneath her

skin. Additional things that felt like muscles

but probably weren't flexed and relaxed in her

shoulders, and something squeezed through slits

that opened up like gills. She opened her eyes.

Any good? The other two nodded, vaguely impressed.

Her shoulders were covered in nettles, their

stinging undersides not bothering her own skin

but shielding her head in a clump. Yeah, I didn't

know how to end that, so that's the end. That's

all, folks. Let's see if this experimental writing

goes anywhere. There we go. That's it for today

and I'll be back on Wednesday with a few more

posts. Bye for now.