Page 12 of Hellebore

Time hasn’t been kind to it – the walls barely stand now, the old panels of corrugated iron we dragged here as children scattered across the ground like shed skin. Rust stains the dirt beneath them. The doorway sags inward where the timber frame has rotted.

And yet, when I duck through the narrow entry, something inside me loosens – it still feels like home.

A strange peace settles over me easing the relentless cold that’s followed me since Francesca vanished. As though being here is the key to unlocking everything I’ve lost.

Perhaps Francesca left something behind.

A message. A sign. Some small clue hidden in the bones of this collapsing fortress that might finally make sense of the memories that refuse to fit together.

Dust coats the floor in a thin layer, disturbed only by scattered leaves that must have blown in through the broken walls. Mushrooms grow along the seams where the panels meet the earth, pale stems bending toward the dim light as though reaching for sustenance.

It’s harrowing in its emptiness – a tomb left for nature to claim.

A flicker of darkness slips between the branches beyond the broken window frame, causing a hitch in my breath. Cold anticipation creeps up my spine, my stomach twisting with raw nerves as I step from the doorway, trees swallowing all sounds.

The old folktales that were whispered between children at church begin to trickle to the forefront of my mind, those stories my mother threaded into me from as early as childhood. Those fables about spirits who wandered the forest paths – women who died too suddenly to leave the world behind. Women trapped by the weight of their sorrow, their binds tethered to the land as they waiting for release.

And as I see those dark strands of hair vanish behind the trunks, a certainty grips me so fiercely it hollows out my chest.

“Francesca!” I shout, already running, feet stumbling in my haste.

Branches tear at my skin as I push through the scrub, weeds and twigs scraping at my ankles.

“Francesca, wait!”

But she runs. She moves through the woods with desperate speed, slipping between the trunks like smoke. Within seconds she’s gone, swallowed by the forest before I can reach her, before I can even see her face.

But a razor-sharp certainty clings to me, an undeniable truth that sinks in my stomach like a stone through a still river – Francesca is here. Her spirit tangled in these woods, wandering the place that took her life. Frozen, lost in mourning, waiting for a truth that is yet to be brought to the light.

Waiting for someone to unearth the answers of why she is gone.

With mere days until Christmas eve last year, preparations were wearing Isabel and I thin.

I remember the exhaustion. The scorching heat as we stood beneath the church veranda, watching mother pass out gifts to congregation members with a waxen smile on her face. Knitted wash cloths and handmade soap, fragrant mists and tallow candles tied with red ribbon. We dragged our feet as we returned home, our arms laden with goods in return. Dried fruits and breads weighing our tired muscles down.

Mother remained behind, swept up in the gossip and sending us on our way to begin chores without her.

We approached the homestead reluctantly as night grew across the treetops, a sense of disappointment settling between us.

Home wasn’t our sanctuary, the forest was. And leaving the embrace of its shadows made our stomachs knot. Though on this night, instead of twisting into dread, my stomach flurried as my boots kicked dust at our front door.

Upon the lintel rested a large gift wrapped in brown paper, a delicate golden ribbon tied around it with a small tag woven into the bow. Beneath it, a posy of wild hellebore sat in the dirt, hand tied in twine, burgundy petals catching the afternoon sun.

As Isabel reached for the gift, I found myself hopeful – that it were for me, that someone had thought to offer me a gift, offer me appreciation. But as the smile scrunched Isa’s cheeks, I knew. Her name adorned the tag.

“Who is that from?” I had asked her, clinging to disinterest as though it were armor.

“Nobody, I don’t know,” Isa said, cheeks flushing as she turned from my questioning gaze.

“Well, go on. Open it!” I urged, curiosity burning my tongue.

She tore into the paper, the sound sharp as my heart pounded in my chest. She drew a steady breath as she stepped back, her mouth slack and eyes glistening with awe.

“Is that a bow and arrow?” I whispered, finding myself taken aback by the gift. Surprised. Confused.

“Yes?” Isa responded quietly, more a question than answer.

“It didn’t say who it was from?”