Patches (Part 4)

8: The REAL Fun Begins

Gilbert woke up on a hard wooden floor. Sitting up, he massaged his stiff back as he took in his new surroundings. What a peculiar place he was in. The walls were covered in colourful green, navy, and burgundy patches and a strange light coming from the moon-shaped window tinted the room purple. Underneath the window was a spinning wheel along with a wooden worktable lined with sewing supplies. It looked as though whoever was working there was there recently because the table was still messy with light blue string strewn everywhere. The area surrounding the wheel was filled with plush toys, some empty, and some incomplete, but each were sewn with patches. Patched top hats of many odd styles were carefully organized in rows on the shelves and in the mahogany cabinets. The rest of the space in the room was used for potted decorations of flowers that Gilbert couldn’t even begin to describe.

In a place so extraordinary, he wondered if he was dead and this was the afterlife – a world of a child’s imagination where he could forget all of his troubles from when he was alive and start anew in his own world. He could no longer feel the sickness in his stomach nor the fatigue in his body – all of that was gone now. The last thing he could remember about life was drowning in the river with Patches in his arms. They died together and this is where he wound up. Maybe Patches came with him as well or she went on to her own bunny rabbit paradise. Wherever she was, he hoped that she wasn’t grouchy anymore.

“Ahhh,” he groaned as he stood to his feet. “My bloody back, mother of arse.”

Wandering over the window, he looked outside to get a glimpse of the new world. Violet light shone down from a pitch black sky onto patched hills as far as the eye could see, reaching into the dark hollowed world full of gigantic, creepy button-eyed plush toys made by one whose life was dedicated to that of plush. The only thing that was the least bit welcoming out there was a giant, purple leaved tree in a world dedicated to the art of the needle. He tried unhinging the door to get a better view, but no matter how hard his little hands twisted the handle, it wouldn’t budge. It was jammed tight.

“Odd,” he murmured, slipping over to the worktable.

Sitting down on the slick chair, he began to play with the disordered workspace. He cleaned up the string that had been scattered around the desk and put if off to the side. Surly the person who had been working here would appreciate this later. It would make a good impression on them. He placed the buttons on top of each other over and over again until the tower fell down. Giggling each time this happened, he would start again and repeat the process all over again. As he was playing he noticed something white sticking out of one of the spools of thread. Reaching in, he pulled out a familiar handkerchief. It was clean now, the bloodstains almost invisible to the eye. He couldn’t believe his handkerchief made it here with him. He thought Patches was the last one to have the handkerchief. How did it end up in the spool like that, and clean for that manner?

Unless Patches was there with him. Why did she wander off without waking him up? Perhaps she was curious of the dreamlike place herself and went sightseeing. She wasn’t the one to really pay much attention to him, so it wasn’t a wonder that she’d left him behind. He was a little upset about it…knowing how she treated him, but at least she wasn’t all that bad. If she hated him, she would have killed him herself, and that’s all he needed to know to go looking for her.

“Patches where are you?” he wondered aloud, turning out of the seat and heading towards the double doors and was stopped by a slip of parchment on the door. “A letter?”

Dear, Child, started the letter.

Child? Was it meant for me? Tearing the letter off the door, he read:

I suppose you’re wondering where you are, aren’t you? Well, although it may seem like it, you’re not dead. No, no, you’re very much alive. Be happy! Rejoice if you may! Be as Dandy as a Dandelion! Because if it wasn’t for my Precious Petunia you would have woken up with your head floating down the river like a little black-haired duckling! Quack, quack, as they say! Yes, if you haven’t guessed it by now it was Patches who forced us to spare you! We haven't the heart to make her sad! She showed us the handkerchief on her broken leg. If you hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have been able to walk anymore. My, my, we must have gotten carried away back there, didn’t we? Well, she’s fine now. Now that she’s in our dimension we were able to heal her leg. Delightful, right? Wrong! It’s more than delightful because that means you get to stay with us forever too! Isn’t that great?! You’ll never leave us! You’re with us now. Just us, forever.

You see, this is our home – a world that I created for us and our work. There are all sorts of cute soft toys everywhere! So many that we’ve even lost count! You’ll never be bored here! You’ll like it here, we promise! We are so indebted for what you’ve done for Patches that we want to host a party for you! A bash, festivity, a celebration for a job well done! Doesn’t that sound fun? You come out, you come downstairs and meet us in the dining hall, and the only dress requirements is one big smile for us and this letter SIGNED, okay?! Patches and all of our helpers will be there too! And after the party, you can take a nice, long, well-deserved rest. How does that sound? Sound good? You can’t respond, so yes, it sounds fantastic!

See you soon.

Your master, Mr. Raven Needlework the Black Trumper

Please write your name here so we know your name for later X__________________. That’s where your name goes. Sign it please. We need it. There should be a metal nib in one of the wardrobe’s drawers. Don’t know what that is? You’ll find out. If you see a quill in there – it’s one of ours. Don’t use it. You’ll die.

The letter was shaking in Gilbert’s hands. Crumpling it up, he cast it to the floor and whimpered, “No.” Mr. Needlework brought him to his own world with no way out. He was trapped in this world with him forever. “T-This can’t be real. I-I can’t be stuck here!” Cowering down, he cried to the lonely world, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

In panic, he rushed over to the window and jerked the handle over and over again like a caged animal desperate for escape. No matter how hard he tugged at it, his efforts were worthless. Taking both hands, he yanked with all of his might. It clicked, but the door refused him as he tried to open it. He smacked the window and hit his head on the glass, giving up all hope. His whole world and what it would become belonged to the raven now. And to think, all of this would have never happened if for once in his life he had just listened. If he’d listened to the Haywards, he wouldn’t have gone into the room with Hugh and Mrs. Hayward’s neck would still be straight. If he’d turned around when Hugh called him, Hugh wouldn’t have been run over by a horse. Above all, he should have known to be quiet when the raven was passing by, but he couldn’t keep his mouth sealed, and now Patches had the same fate as he. Patches wanted nothing more in the world to go to the town, but now she never would…and neither would he. He ruined everyone’s lives because he didn’t know how to do as he was told.

Do as he was told. “The letter,” he murmured as he sauntered over to it, picking it up with a shaky hand. It’s just a name. That’s all he wants. Smoothing the parchment on his slacks, he smiled. It’s simple really. I can do that. I’ll give him what he wants and Patches won’t die too. Going over to the wardrobe, he opened the drawer and found out the nib he was told of. The tip was like the point of a quill, but was attached to a thin piece of black-painted metal. Only one problem: there was no ink for it. He double checked and searched around the drawer for a bottle, carefully avoiding the quill he was warned about, but found none.

“Where’s the bloody ink?!”

Frantically, he tore through the other drawers in search for the bottle, but there was nothing but thread, buttons, and unfinished knick-knacks. Slamming the drawers shut, he ran over to the desk and breathed out. He tried to write a G to see if there was any leftover ink already on the nib, but of course, luck was never on his side. How was he supposed to write anything down if there wasn't any ink? He looked down at his hands then realized there was something he could use. He wouldn't like it though.

This is for you, Patches. Gilbert closed his eyes as he pricked his thumb with the nib shouting, “Ouch!” before daubing the utensil in his own blood.

Nervously pressing the nib to the paper, he spelled out his name in red – G-I-L-B-E-R-T W-A-R-R-E-N-S – and stuck the pen into one of the spools. FWOOM! Gilbert leapt up and flung the paper at the table as his name went up in black vapors – the raven’s vapors. Covering his face and holding his breath, he backed far away from the deadly gases as it clawed its way to the ceiling. He tried the door, but the moment he touched it, a sharp pain went up his hand like a needle. Screaming underneath his hands, he backed to the corner wall, in a last desperation to stay away from Death’s fatal chamber. The infected hole tore through the parchment, spreading over the entire bottommost half of the letter, and as the entire paragraph burned out into a fizzle, the vapors settled to the floor.

Click, went the door as it unlocked, and the boy wasted no time in accepting its offer.

He gasped in air, coughing as he stumbled into the hall. “My God,” he breathed. One more second in there and he wouldn’t have been able to hold his breath anymore. One more second and he would have shriveled like the paper. Looking back at the door, he let out tears. I almost died in there. Why did the letter do that? Was it my fault? Is there anything that I can do right? And what about Patches? What am I to do now? He couldn’t go back in there, risking the chance that the vapor’s dust could still kill him. Just thinking about it scared his soul to the railing. His hands dug into the wood as he hyperventilated, “No, no, please no. Patches! I don’t want you to die too! Noooo!” He hung his head down, twisted around, and knocked it on the rail. “Patches, I’m so sorry. I tried to sign it, I did, but it burned up. You’re going to die too and it’s all my fault. I-I don’t want to lose you too-HOO-AHOO.”

Baa, came from his left. One of his sheep stood before him, only different from before. Wool made of snowy yarn, eyes midnight buttons, and with hooves patched marigold, it watched him curiously, cocking its head to the side.

“Sheep? You came here?”

Its head straightened and nodded.

“Are you here to help me?”

Without a sound, the sheep trotted to the door and opened it wide, going deep into the room, and retrieving the letter’s remains. Clopping down the hall, the sheep moved forward a few steps, looking over its shoulder as the curious Gilbert began to follow compliantly. The flock had been with him for the longest and they helped him more than anyone – if there wasn’t trust, then the sheep wouldn’t have gotten the letter for him. Although they lied, bantered, and bashed him, they would always end up being the ones who were right in the end. He needed them more than ever now – for Patches.

The sheep bobbed its head with a nod as it made a turn for the stairs. As he followed the sheep, his eyes sprawled over the railing, gawking at the stairs that spiraled down floors upon floors, the burgundy carpet’s floral pattern making his vision go into vertigo. Blinking, he kept his eyes on the sheep rather than the carpet’s design. With every creak in the wood, he felt as though the floor would break and he would crash through the floor, falling forever. Minutes ticked by slowly as they passed floor after floor, each floor scattered with plush creations made throughout the raven’s time. Mr. Needlework wasn’t joking when he wrote that there were a lot of soft toys about. There was enough there to last one an eternity – only an immortal would have been able to accomplish such a feat as this. It could make one wonder how long the raven had spent time here by himself. Perhaps even saddening now that Gilbert thought of it. All those years alone with only a pet rabbit as a companion.

It must have been lonely, thought Gilbert, but I’d rather make Patches happy.

After an hour’s worth of walking, they reached the bottom floor which spread out into a long, wide, carpet, leading to a ten foot entryway door. It was undoubtedly locked with a chain that stretched across two handles, imprisoning all that lived within the manor unless their master allowed them out. No longer was there a wonder to Gilbert that the window wouldn’t budge upstairs – Mr. Needlework didn’t want him to potentially escape the manor. Hundreds of feet up or at bottom floor, that man simply wouldn’t take any risk of his ownership leaving him again. The only way out of the raven’s world was to confront Mr. Needlework himself, and the only way to do that was to beg him for his freedom, which in all probability would not happen, but at the very least he had to try. He promised Patches that he would take her to the town across the river and that’s what he intended to do.

The sheep stomped a hoof at the gawking Gilbert, demanding that he continue to follow. 

“Sorry,” he apologized as he took one last glance at the door before following the sheep forward to a long corridor. This place is endless. How does one even begin to live here?

The corridor led to many doors and many halls, but the sheep remained straightforward, leading him deeper into the manor and further away from the main hall. The corridor grew cold like the break of winter, a strong, uncomforting chill heading up his spine. Uneasiness tainted his nerves as he worried of what would happen when he met Mr. Needlework face to face. No chasing, no fighting, no hiding. Just him, Patches, and the demonic raven casually chatting like old pals. It seemed rather odd, knowing that Mr. Needlework had tried to kill him prior. Gilbert was unsure if the demon had truly forgiven him.

A bright light shone down the dark corridor, leading to a lily pink door with a dark green sign on it reading: Dining Hall. Gilbert clenched his teeth together, biting his own tongue anxiously. This was it. This is where he would properly meet the master of the manor and the creator of the imaginary world. His future was beyond this door and it was up to one decision of what it would become – did he have the gall to ask Death himself to give him life? Creaking the door open, the sheep slid in, Gilbert slipping in behind it. Greeting his eyes, was the creature that brought him here, Mr. Raven Needlework.

Casually sitting at a table was a man in a banded green waistcoat, petting the sheep’s yarn with a bony, grey hand, burned to a black ashen colour. He wore a hat, similar to the ones he'd seen in the higher room, patched sea green and dolled with black feathers behind an emerald green bow. In his auburn hair was a single red rose that led down to a black ponytail. Turning his head, he smiled at him underneath his elongated beaklike nose. His spoke in a raven’s tone, “Goody! So we see Madam Marigold brought you here to us as we asked.” Facing towards Gilbert, he revealed a missing arm. Black vapors flowed out of the sheep, reconstructing the lost skin, and reuniting him with his limb. The sheep fell to the ground, her body going limp.He stretched a hand, burned as the other was, taking the letter from the sheep’s mouth. Sighing softly, he said, “Well, as we made her do. We do love our puppets as much as we love playing as them.” Folding the letter, he stuck it into his waistcoat pocket. “Mr. Gilbert Warrens.”

There was no response from the child, only eyes full of fear. A puppet? Was he the sheep? He swallowed a nervous lump. It dropped into his stomach like stone. That can’t be. I thought I could trust them…

His hands broke down and began to shake as tension circulated around his nerves. He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t handle being in this room with the creature of his nightmares. Locking eyes, he stared into maroon brown irises of a smug-faced demon, watching him so welcomingly when both knew very well what happened in the woods. He wasn’t ready to accept his nightmare’s forgiveness.

Fear began to plague him as he thought, I don’t want to be alone. Not without Patches. I want Patches with me….

“How long do you plan on standing at the door? You must not want to leave that bad, do you? OR you’re too polite to sit down. Don’t be so modest! We’ll seat you!” Mr. Needlework got up from his chair and grabbed the hand of the child who dared not to move away from the demon. “The party hasn’t even started yet! Come, sit, sit!” He forcefully dragged him over to one of the chairs, sitting him down on the cushion. Returning to his own seat, an orange light flashed to his right as the brick fireplace sparked to life, heating the cold room. “That should help you. We don’t want you getting sickly wickly again! Your hand was cold – and WHEW, were they freeeeeeeeeZING – so we turned the fire on. We always tend to make rooms colder, so we apologize for troubling you, our peculiar Pansy.” When the child didn’t respond, the demon pressed his lips together. “What’s wrong? Don’t you have anything to say to us? We only want to talk with you. We can’t have you being all quiet! Come on, speak up! Be loud, be proud! Sing to us! Make noise! Huzzah!”

Gilbert’s eyes drifted towards the fire’s light, refusing to look at the nightmare of a man. “Where’s Patches?” he murmured.

“Patches,” he grumbled. “Patches is not here at the moment. We wanted to talk to you in private for a little while. So let’s make the best of it!” Mr. Needlework tugged the quilt on the table, grabbing Gilbert’s immediate attention, glaring at him with eyes that told him that he better not look away again. “Now that, we have your attention, let’s have a chitty-chat. So, what brought you to our woods in the first place? We can’t imagine it could have been for a good reason. Children never have good reasons to be in the woods.” His long red nails scraped back and forth along the table impatiently. “Tell us why you came here.”

He swallowed, “I ran away from home.”

Mr. Needlework hand smacked the table and he burst out in tears of laughter, “AhhhhhhhhAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHahHAH HAH HAH! Haaaa, haa. Ha. Ha.” Throwing his head back and sighing he chuckled, “Mystery of mysteries, how funny this is! So both you and our darling ran away on the same day! That’s PRICELESS! Haaaaaaaaa, haaaa!”

“Can I see P–” 

“HAAAAAAA, haaaa, ha, haaa, haa,” he continued, wiping the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief. “You must have had it so rough where you were before! The two of us can’t blame you for running away without knowledge of situation. We won’t ask you about it though. Your business is not ours – we honestly could not care about such human matters.” He clapped his hands together and revealed a crooked, sharp-toothed grin. “You like it better here. We gave you gifts and joy! MORE THAN ANY CHILD COULD…ever want. You loved our gift, Pansy, did you not? The gift we attached to our letter? It went up like a firework – magical, graceful, and beautiful!”

No, he thought, but there was no way he was going to say that. “It was fine, but I almost died.”

“OH GILBERT, SUCH A DOWNER! If you keep moping around like that you’re going to drown in your own tears!” he joked. “Smile, grin, be as happy as can you can be because now that you’re here with us, you will never frown again! We’ll make you smile one more time; we just need to know what you want. Make a wish, Pansy. Make one wish, we’ll see what we can do, and we’ll make it come true! Now close your eyes… and wish.”

Gilbert shrugged and repeated the name Raven so hated, “Patches. Can I see Patches?”

“You’re one stubborn, persistent, budding flower, aren’t you? Rude too! You didn’t even close your eyes for us. No fun spirit left in you, is there? But we don’t mind. No, not at all! We are good spirited! We won’t hold a grudge against you!” His nails ripped open the quilt as he dragged them along slowly as though tearing through flesh. He was not happy. “If Patches is what you want, then as you wish, cheeky bastard.” Mr. Needlework pulled out a long grey walking staff from underneath the table. It was tipped with a raven’s claw holding a crystal orb with an ever beating heart. “We can’t keep her waiting forever, so better late than never.”

Oh no, I almost forgot! Quickly, Gilbert added, “A-And I would like to go outside too. With her. To see the r-r-rest of your world. If that’s fine t-t-too.” I'm going to help you get out of here, Patches. No matter what.

Mr. Needlework paused for a moment with thoughts running through his mind. He pressed his lips together again, thinking about what to decide what he wanted for the child. “We’ll think about it, but no promises,” he grumbled, his words digging into Gilbert with disgust. “Done begging us till the dirt dry? Yes? GOOD! LET US BEGIN THE BASH!”

The orb lit up with a bright light that blanketed across the room like a purple veil, forcing the curtains open, revealing a dreamlike garden that went for miles. The floor became a pearly marble, the walls turned to paled plaster, and the quilt swirled into a white lacy cloth. Porcelain china burst out of the wardrobes and set themselves on the now granite table, organizing themselves around the seating in a traditional fashion. Light shot out of the heart and spread above them like a firework, forming a diamond chandelier with strange fires in glass that lit the white paradise demi gold. 

“TA-DA! Impressed? Yes! We know you are!” 

“Of course,” he unwillingly agreed. Mr. Needlework gave no care for Gilbert’s opinions. From shoving Gilbert into a chair to shoving words into his mouth, the demon did as he pleased. How was he ever going to convince him to set him and Patches free? Needlework did whatever he set his mind to. “It’s beautiful.”

Mr. Needlework’s face bundled up in annoyance. “Bah, you’re more boring than a dead bumble.” Leaning the walking staff on the chair beside him, he crossed his hands on his chin and said, “We thought this scenery would be better fitting since you look so dreary. It’s not fun being left in the dark, so we made everything whiter than snow! White just like our Poppy, Patches, BUT! You still look droopier than a dead rose, so please at least TRY to show some delight or we’re not going to be very pleased with you.”

“Yessir,” slurred Gilbert as was finally allowed to properly respond.

His attention turned towards the door and his lips twisted into a smile. “And speaking of Patches.”

Creeak, came from their left as the door slowly opened, revealing the soft toy rabbit walking on two legs. Following it were two other plush animals – a hare and a jumping rat – closely watching its movements like starved hawks.

There are more of them? thought Gilbert, mouth agape in disbelief. I thought Patches was the only one here.

“Good day, Cambric.”

The rat was a deep midnight black with ivory button eyes and white paws. On his head was a white top hat with a seven of spades sticking out of a sea blue ribbon. He wore many patches on him, violet and hoary blue, as though he had been in many frays in his lifetime. The most peculiar part of him was his worn pink tail – it was so well-made that it almost looked like it belonged to a real rat.

“You too, Morris.”

Beside him was the black hatted hare, Morris. He was a chocolate brown, black eyed, proud plush that walked with his burgundy stubs behind his back. He was the only one who wore a coat over his dark red belly, as he must have been the most important to Needlework – the way his head stuck up like royalty certainly showed that. Respected and arrogant, the hare hit the rabbit in the back, prodding it forward and it growled a familiar growl.

“Patches, is that you?” questioned Gilbert.

The rabbit’s head snapped up to Gilbert and its gaze wandered towards its master.

“That would be her,” confirmed Needlework. “SIMPLY delightful costume, correct?”

She growled lowly at him as she was pushed further into the room by her cohorts.

“Be not upset! Worry to be upset! He is not harmed! He is perfectly safe, don’t you see? Alive, breathing, and full of a childish joy!” said Mr. Needlework cheerfully. “Come, come. Don’t shillyshally! Come see that your precious child is safe!”

Patches kept her button eyes on her master and sprung forward, but Morris grabbed her by the arm and gave her a hard, angry glower. To the surprise of Gilbert, he spoke. “I certainly hope you weren’t planning on attacking the master, traitor,” hissed Morris in an animalistic voice. “You put a one scratch on Master Raven and I’ll–”  

“We believe that we wanted her to come here, darling Daylily,” ordered his master and he immediately let her go.

The rat snickered at his chastisement and Morris childishly stomped on his foot, but that only made him roar louder – in pain. Needlework said nothing and Patches ignored them as well, as expected from her.

His glove motioned her to come closer. “Come, come! Have a looksee!”

Leaping onto the table, she protectively stood close to Gilbert, inspecting him diligently. She looked into his eyes – the eyes that were still possessed by fear – and reached out to him. Gilbert drew his arm out, and for the first time, Patches hugged him. She snuggled his arm affectionately, filling the child with a small spark of comfort. Even though he imprisoned her here along with him, she still cherished him. Even though he shattered her life, she still wouldn’t give up on him. If this was how she felt, then no matter what happened now, the intentions he had to get her out of the world would never be for naught.

“It’s alright, I’ll be fine. Please, don’t fight him,” whispered Gilbert to Patches. How he wished that were true. Mr. Needlework was sitting on the other side of that table, patient and cruel, and the only thing standing in between them was a tiny, little rabbit plush, but so as long as they didn’t give up, there was still a chance. “It’s alright. I’m here.”

A sharp growl from her master interrupted their moment, “Get ready for the routine.”

Curling up in front of the child, Patches guarded him with every fiber of her being, her eyes locked on her master defiantly. Not one moment did she budge from her spot – she was not risking Gilbert for the hellish creature before her. The demon dug his nails into the cloth, a cracking sound pinning the air the table as the marble splintered underneath his strength. Still, the rabbit refused to waver to the demon. She stood her ground down to the last string. In spite of the fire, the room became cold as Needlework’s scowled viciously.

“You’re a performer. Get ready for the routine,” rasped her master.

Thump, went Patches’ feet, challenging his authority.

Needlework’s golden brown eyes glowed bright yellow, the colour of the raven’s eyes, and his skin spotted with black flecks as raven feathers began to sprout from his pores.

Patches, I’m scared. I want to go, he wished he could say, but he was afraid it would cause them to fight one another – a fight that Patches would not win. Instead he whispered, “Don’t,” but the rabbit barely faltered, if only a little tension. 

“Pah, we don’t want her. She doesn’t deserve to perform after that act she pulled,” spat Morris in disgust from the other end of the table, his rat pal standing beside him. The fire lit his chocolate pelt ginger as he stepped forward, “May we begin, master? Without her?” His body was shaking as though he were afraid – afraid of his own master.

Mr. Needlework slumped back in his seat, rubbing his scrawny fingers up and down his face, groaning as his form returned humanoid. “So be it. Yes, as you wish, Morris…. Let us begin…. Same routine, as always. Bouncy and fun – keep the boy happy. He’s such a frowner and his looks are so gloomy…like a caged blue birdy. We will make him smile wider than a scourge!” 

Patches let out the sharpest snarl.

“What’s wrong, Patches?” asked Gilbert. Please, don’t do it.

Yet she still did not respond, not even to the pleads of the one she wanted to protect. She was in a daydream, focused on the demon’s unbroken cheery smile as the performance began. The two plush held place knives in their paws, playacting a swordfight with the cutlery, the silver glinting brilliantly as they falsely clashed. The swordsmen slid around the teapot, the rat jumping on it, gaining the higher ground against his opponent. He raised his blade, beckoning the hare and heckled at him tauntingly. The hare held his ground and–

“Oh, Pansy!” called Mr. Needlework, stealing Gilbert’s attention from the performers. “I believe there is something special in that teensy-weensy weeny pocket of yours!”

Gilbert’s hand’s slid into his pocket and pulled out a slip of singed parchment. On it was his name in which he had signed in blood. “This is the letter piece that I-I – my name, b-but how?” stumbled Gilbert. “I thought it was gone.”

“Gone, he says. Gone like the leaves of autumn!” chuckled the demon. “This is OUR world and WE can do whatever the whatnot we please. We can bring whatever we want back, but what we don’t want back is bad children causing a ruckus among us – especially with our special darlings!” He cracked the table with a feral smack, grabbing the performers’ fearful attention as well. Grinning wider he continued, “You’ve been a bad child, Gilbert Warrens. Bad children run away because they’d rather leave their family and be lost forever than stay warm and happy. They’ll lie to their parent’s faces, they’ll treat their siblings poorer than a begging scum on the backside of the street, and they’ll steal whatever they can get their sticky, greedy, mitts on. Humans like you always end up in our wood. Humans that no one would miss because they don’t deserve family – humans like you, Gilbert. Here’s a real stumper dumper for you – did you ever know anyone like you too...?”

The memories began, “Want to hear a story?”.......“Please…Oh Gilbert…I shan't ask to ever go in there again. I beg that thou come'ist with me and aid'ith me on my journey.”...............“Be quiet or I’ll pop all of you across the head forty times over with my shoe!”...........................“Are you alright?”.........................................................“I’m going to tell Mr. Hayward that Mrs. Hayward shouldn’t work with children anymore. I’m telling him what she did to you. No one should strangle a child like that. Speaking of which, are you alright?”..............................................................................................................CRACK!........

Hugh, and the moment he thought it tears overflowed from his eyes and the anger boiled in his chest. He stood, slamming his chair back. “Shut your mouth up! I NEVER ran away! You don’t know anything!!! NOT A DAMN THING! SHUT YOUR MOUTH UP! SHUT UP!” 

“THAT DOES IT!” he scorned, his seat denting into the wall as he shot up, “You have disrespected this manor for the last time,” and his personality was quirky no more, so much so that it caught the attention of the performers. Smacking his piece of the letter on the table he crowed, “THIS letter was no letter. IT WAS A CONTRACT. A contract between human and demon – a contract for your soul.” His skin turned black as feathers began to consume his body, the room chilling colder by the second. “When you signed the letter, did you bother to look at the other side to see if there was more to it? Did you not see that once you signed it, all of us would have a deal together? Your soul is ours, human. It was once you fulfilled the wish you made – to see Patches – your end of the deal. There is no going outside this manor now. For either of you. It is a one for one only deal - no extras involved. Now we shall take our one and only deal.” Tearing the paper off the table, he crumpled it back into his pocket. “Ta-ta, Gilly.”

And that was it. Patches jumped out of her puppet and sprang onto Needlework’s face, biting and ripping into his flesh, vapors spurting out of his body and into the room. His hands flew into the air as he frantically tried to tear the rabbit from his now raven face. Worried about their master who was quickly gaining his monstrous stature as the Black Trumper, Morris and Cambric revealed themselves to be a twisted, old, dirt brown hare, and a crippled-body rat with a long, sharp tooth curling down to his belly. Hungry for rabbit flesh, they climbed up the feathered mass and battled against the rabbit on the raven’s fowl body, forgetting about something the most important of them all – the child whose heart still beat. None payed any mind to what had landed by Gilbert when their master flailed his hands. The child, not so much as a threat to the powerful beasts, snuck down by the object with one mouth covering his breath, and picked up the most precious thing in the world – Needlework’s walking staff. Unnoticed like an ant on the floor, he crawled toward the door, silently opening it and leaving the room, and taking a quiet, but relieving breath. 

Taking one last look at the door, he thought, I wish I could help you, but I know you don’t want that. I know you don’t want me in danger, so I’ll let you protect me. I know I’ll die in there, so I’ll stay away – I’ll stay away for you, Patches. I’ll do anything for you, Patches, and he left his friend to fight for their freedom. “We'll get out of here.”

Without another moment wasted, he gripped the staff and left Patches behind, his feet echoing on the hard wood. He would get as far away from the Trumper as possible. The more he ran, the more the beasts fought, and the more they fought, the more they had a chance of noticing a certain child’s absence. Not bothering to look back to see if any of the creatures had followed him, he used all the energy his body could give to push through the corridor. Guilt resonated in his chest. Leaving Patches behind was painful to his conscience, but losing his life would pain Patches. The Trumper wouldn’t kill Patches – he loved her too much – but he would indeed kill Gilbert the moment he was once found again. Without his staff, he wouldn’t be able to change the world. Without that power, Patches stood a fighting chance.

Gilbert came to his one hope out of this hellish world – the entryway door. It shadowed over him like a citadel gate, a stronghold leading to the unknown. Light gloomed in through the cracks, warming him with confidence, but a question still provoked him – was it the light of freedom or the light of death? Once he went through there, would he be able find a route to the exit, or would be lost in the endless dark world forever? No other choices were left. He was out of time. There was only one way to find out. The only thing that stood in his way now was the lock. It was a stretch, but maybe the staff was the ticket through. If it was able to change the décor around it, then it had to be able to unlock a lock that was created by its master. With a bit of luck.

Breathing in, he prayed, “Please work.” The lock was fashioned with three claws and a deep, round circle in the center – a design all too triggering to Gilbert. “….for Patches.” Taking another breath, he jangled the staff into the lock and – click – the lock unbound the door form its ropes, the chain tumbling down with it. “Yes!” he shouted in a whisper as pushed his body against the wood.

But then a hung feeling dropped in his chest. Guilt sucked his heart to its core like an inner black hole. Daydreaming down the dark corridor, that feeling fell further until it crashed. He left Patches, his friend behind – the one who stayed to fight so he could win the war. What if Patches was to be apprehended by her master, then what would he do? Would he just leave her to live in this world for eternity? What was the purpose of escape without the one he promised to take with him?

Ker-shut, and the child stepped away.

Gilbert had made many mistakes before, but signing the contract with the demon was the worst. It seemed as though no matter what he did, no matter who he listened to, everything always went wrong, but for once – just once – he wanted to do things right. If it meant risking his life for it, so be it. He was not letting Patches stay here.

I’m not leaving without her; I’ve lost too many people already, thought Gilbert as he turned to the corridor. I don’t want to lose her too. Gripping the staff tightly, he took his first step. “I’ll find you, don’t worry,” promised the boy as he slinked back into the darkness – into the Hell he so desperately wanted to leave. "I'm coming for you, friend."

9: Harebells and Strings

The halls grew colder as he went down from corridor to corridor, searching for Patches, the presence of the Black Trumper ever so echoing as the chills crawled on his skin. The purple atmosphere became thicker as the halls became twisted a surreal painting as though what was unreal in his world could be real whenever it wanted. Windows were on the floor and carpet was on the ceiling and the surroundings were entirely wood, no patched décor to be found. The Trumper must have never taken his guests down this far before so he never bothered to properly create the world for human eyes. Strange, because he didn’t walk that far before it distorted. A few minutes into his searching and this was what became of it. It caused him to wonder if guests were meant to be in the manor at all and did they all end up being tricked signing a contract with the Trumper? Gilbert did not want to know.

A loud scrape interrupted his pacing. Scuffling ran down from hall to hall, long scratches lined the walls with panic. Chirrups echoed in the air as the creature’s calls desperately drew closer to him. Turning down the corner was a pair of red eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Patches?” wondered Gilbert.

“It seems all humans who come here truly are stupid,” stated an animalistic voice as a ghastly big-snouted hare stepped out of the purple haze. His wrinkled lips parted, “You should have run away when you had the chance. Things are so boring around here – I really wanted to see if a human was capable of that. Oh well, guessers can’t always guess correctly. Disappointing.” Morris took a step forward for every step Gilbert took back. He snarled at him, “Where do you think you’re running off too, little thief? I believe that staff in your unctuous mitts belongs to my master and because of you my master can’t control this world!”

In a blur of brown fur, the hare was on him, clawing at his face with his long, red claws. Gilbert flailed at the hare with his hands, but the corrupt being twisted his own body, the sounds of Morris’ bones snapping into different positions as he flattened himself and struck towards Gilbert’s neck at a speed only lightning had seen. He let out an agonizing scream and sent the staff flying as he felt his throat shredding from the inside out. Claws sliced into his neck like a sharp pendulum, eating the tissues away slowly, basking in the child’s pain.

“Please! The staff is there! Take AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” but the hare did not care. Begging, he tried to rip the hare from his tortured gullet, but the hare’s long claws were curved into his flesh like hooks.

A streak of white crossed his eyes as Morris was ripped away from him in a sharp pain. A gurgled chirrup bubbled from the hare’s throat, razor-sharp teeth sinking into his jugular. Patches’ eyes burned with primal instinct, her claws digging into his stomach, holding the struggling creature into place. Ripping her head away from him, she tore a chunk of flesh from her own cohort’s throat, forcing a rotten scream out of his mouth. Standing firmly on the hare, she screamed at Gilbert and pointed to the way back with her free paw, demanding that he abandon her once more.

“I’m not leaving you!” yelled Gilbert sternly.

And for the first time...Patches spoke, “GOOOOORRRRR!!!!!!”

Go….but that wasn’t going to happen. He came too far to let his only family he had go. Patches was coming with him no matter what! “I said I’m not leaving without you! We’re leaving together!”

Morris snarled at her with crooked fangs, blood splattering from of his mouth as he kicked Patches off of him with strong hind legs, sending her flat on her back. Gaining the upper hand, he pinned the rabbit and bit down on her ear. A deafening scream bit the air as a chunk of lobe was torn away and spat onto the wood.

“Patches!” panicked Gilbert. She’s bleeding! He chased after them, but they were dragging each other down the hall like ragdolls, pulling themselves further away from the child at a blurred speed. All he could do was watch in horror as furred lightning struck blood.

The red liquid flung from her wiry grey fur as she went for the hare’s exposed jugular. Incisors clashed like a daggers at play, fur of brown and white went flying as claws bat at chests, and pitch red blood slinging into the air as past friends thrashed sadistically. All signs of tameness were gone from them – they were fighting like true wild beasts. Beasts who would battle one another until the last crimson drop hit the floor.

What do I do? They’re so fast! Then he turned and saw Needlework’s staff sitting there, unscathed. The staff! Rushing forward with Patches in his heart, he snatched the staff up and whirled around, hand gripped tight on his weapon. No thoughts coursed through him. Willpower was what truly drove his mind as he met his friend in the midst of her battle. He focused his attention on the enemy and raised the staff and swung down with all his might. “You leave Patches alone!”

Morris crooked his bones to the lesser of the two dangers he had thoughtlessly ignored, but by the time he opened his jaws to strike at him, it was too late.

Crrrraack! 

Blood went flying as the clump of fur smacked into the wall with a thud. Limp, Morris’ body did not budge; it did not rise nor fall – it was still. His teeth were shattered and leaking out a smelly, dark liquid. Pooling around him, it mixed with the dry blood on his soaked fur, slowly consuming his unmoving, motionless body in a black veil.

“Is he dead?” Gilbert nudged the body with his foot. “Did I kill him?” Speechless at the sight, he looked down at the now cracked orb. “Did I just kill him with this?”

Patches removed her rabbit costume tied to her back and set it aside. She approached the body and stepped into the revolting pool, leaning her head in for a sniff. Her nose pulled back in disgust and she shook her head in denial. She looked up with tears in her eyes, upset over the loss of her old friend who she had once loved and trusted.

He crouched to her level and reached out for her comfort. “I’m so sor–”

Without warning, Patches jumped into the child’s arms and dug her head into his face. Her fur, although rough and old, was soft enough for Gilbert. He stroked her white fur with trembling hands, causing the deprived rabbit into purring out of miserable joy. It felt long, so bloody long, since they’d been this close to another living being. All this time, all the isolation, they finally found one who they would never lose…or get tired of…or be forced to be around. They chose this, they chose their own life, and they would not let anything, not even Needlework, separate them. Meeting eyes, they both began to cry out each other’s tears. That’s when he figured it was not Morris she was crying over – it was him.

“I thought I would never see you again,” he cried. “I couldn’t leave you. I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry I left you behind! …Even if you didn’t want me to stay! I could never leave you! I don’t want to leave you. I want you to stay! Stay with me forever, please! I don’t want to be alone anymore….you’re family to me.” Swallowing, he stared into her gemstone eyes and he said, “We’re leaving this place together a-and we’re going to find that town together, just as I promised.”

Bundling the rabbit into his arms, he went and picked up the discarded costume and stuffed the scrap of plush into his pocket. He started for the hall, but then he heard a soft wheeze coming from behind him. It was scratchy, subtle, exactly as it was. There were no doubts as to where it came from. No one else was in the corridor with them but him.

CRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAWWWWWWWW!

“Lead me!” screamed Gilbert as he sprinted away from the shadow of the Black Trumper. 

The Trumper’s beak snapped for his back, a loud clamping sound snapping mere meters from his ears. He sought vengefulness against his precious pet hare. As the unfortunate guest that the master invited to his manor, Gilbert would be mutilated and killed for everything that he did. If that raven had him, he would painfully tear his flesh away from his body bit by bit, limb by limb, and bone by bone. Bleed out and slowly die like the low being he was until all that was left was a soul to be taken by the promised contract that the boy denied to the creature. Left, and left, they ran down the hall. Right, and left, they struggled against wills. The raven shoved his large feathered body through the clasped-in walls, and Gilbert, with his juvenile speed, lugged his feet against the floor. Tired and afraid, he fought for his life. He dreaded the agonizing wrath of the Trumper. Being frayed apart by his beak like scissors to string ached the bile in his stomach. The vision of his blood painting the violet world a violent red was all it took to keep his tired legs moving. Patches led him from hall to hall; pointing her head in the quickest way she could towards the freedom Gilbert turned away from to selflessly risk his life to rescue her – the door to the outside. The door that led to the unknown. It was only the only chance they had left.

Pushing against the door with every bit of his last strength, he forced himself halfway through when it was gruffly stopped by a crooked, grey withered foot, trapping him in-between the door and the demon raven. He struggled to squeeze through the door, but it was no use. He was as good as dead. The Black Trumper glared down at him like a little elusive mouse and smiled wide as he knew he had him. As the beak went down on him, the child flinched; waiting for his head to be torn from his torso, but the pain never came. The beak had stopped…unable to force itself through the crack to get to him. With infuriated yellow eyes, the Trumper unwillingly released him from his wooden bonds and continued after him in the garden.

Footsteps thundered against the ground like as the Trumper relentlessly hunted Gilbert. With more space for him, the quicker he moved, and the closer he was to the boy’s soul. Tearing through the garden with uncontrollable rage, he destroyed the very work he created. Flowers and bushes were ripped from the grass as his talons tailed his ‘guest’. The petals, the leaves, his hardest work, all running away with the soul he was supposed to own. Gilbert was heading for the giant tree in the distance he’d seen from the window at the top of the towered manor. The rabbit did not deny or tell him otherwise, as she was facing towards the tree too, so he must have had his head in the right direction.

The great barren tree came into his reach, his bitter persecutor not too far behind him. On the tree was a bright white light, a glasslike portal that led to the real world. The portal rippled in a sky blue flash, revealing the lush, green forest from the world he longed to be in. His feet pounded on the stone, ascending the steps that led to portal, and he hurdled through. Ringing reverberated in his ears and the crystal silver of the portal consuming his vision. Feeling a tug on his chest, he was pulled through the two worlds and he came through the other side, landing on the sweet grass of home. Kissing the green blades with all the thankfulness in the world, he stood up and embraced the golden love of the real sun and smiled. He was free.

Patches let out an alarmed scream as he was grabbed by a long, raked talon. She had been standing in the distance, expecting him to follow her, when he stayed there, thinking that the Trumper couldn’t follow him through. Gilbert screamed as sharp teeth bit down onto his shoulder, thirsting out his blood. The raven began to pull in the child with him, his demonic laughter petrifying his soul. Holding his breath, he struggled to push the vaporous raven away from him, but nothing he could do would stand against the demon’s strength. Breathe in, he would be poisoned, or get pulled in, he would be shredded. Either way, he was about to die. There wasn’t enough time for Patches to – and as though smacking the words right back down his throat, the rabbit was up his leg and on the Trumper. She bared her teeth at the Trumper, and protecting the child from his grasp, she bit into her master’s hand.

A sound-rupturing crow screeched through the raven’s beak as he flung the little rabbit off of his hand and slipped back through the portal. Slowly, the crows became dulled as the portal caved into itself, colours of purple and black swirling in on each other as the raven was pushed back into his own lonely world. The portal convulsed like the ripples of water, shattering into the world in-between like glass, and fizzled out into the bark of a tree. The bark of the tree turned to a rotted brown up to a black decay sticking up out of the ground like a burned post, leaving the remanences of the horror he been through in its dead, shriveled trunk.

The rabbit gawked at him with the most smug, victorious look. Good old, same old, tongue-in-cheek Patches, back to herself as she should have been. When he smiled at her thankfully she let out a rabbit chuckle. A smile from him was all she needed to know that he was grateful for what she did. Besides, that deed made them even now. A life for a life, a friend for a friend. Not that it changed how they would go about their lives. They would stick together, regardless of who they were or what they were. Human or beast, they were now a family and that was all they needed. Together, they would live their lives in a new, free world. Uninterrupted and free of evil women, contracts, and demon ravens. Welcoming the future, Patches joined him at his side and pointed towards the distance, ready to move forward with him.

“Alright,” he chuckled, ruffling Patches’ fur. “Come on, we’re going to a new home now.” No longer in need of the staff, he jammed it into the ground by the tree, leaving it behind with memories that he would certainly never forget, but now he knew that he should always remember those who were true to him.