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Alright, guys, in a wave of inspiration I have finished my back story for Abigail and Wendy! I hope you all enjoy and please tell me what you think! A WORD OF CAUTION: the following text deals with mature content such as bereavement, violence and racial discrimination. if you feel you are uncomfortable with these concepts, please do not read this tale. I mean to cause no offense. ~~~~~~~~~~ Occultway House had been deserted for six years now; its owner had perished in the Great War, his bereaved family downsizing to a smaller, financially manageable home, two towns away. But the great wooden I-house had two visitors this cold autumn night; two familiar visitors at that: young Wendy and four minutes younger Abigail. Tender footsteps unsettled the dust on the rickety floorboards leading to the girls’ old shared bedroom; in time with each step, Wendy’s hair bunches gently beat the length of her back. “C’mon, Abigail, we have to get this done! The moon is almost out!” An impatient whisper from Wendy, who gestured a hurrying hand to the straggling Abigail. “But... it’s... heavyyy!” She strained for each word, as she exerted her strength to forcing a crate, larger than herself, up the grand staircase. “Gosh, would you stop your complaining?! Just hurry up!” Wendy rushed back down the hallway to the staircase, lending herself to pull the crate from the other side. Together, the two girls managed to eke the crate over the top step, and then Wendy was off down the hall again, leaving Abigail to push the remaining distance alone. Wendy pushed ajar the door to the bedroom; she was careful not to grasp any of the peeling paint. The centrepiece of the room was a great queen-sized bed, which the twins had shared, with ornate bed posts and canopy. The reddish colour scheme – the twins’ favourite – could seldom be seen beneath the grime and now stirring dust. Wendy shot another silent gesture for Abigail to hurry; the legs of the work laden twin began to tremor from the heavy load, which pierced the eerie silence as it scraped along the floorboards of the hallway. A few moments passed, the crate was in and the door was locked – the twins always conscious of anyone entering behind them – and then they were ready. Wendy knelt, fidgeting, waiting edgily for Abigail to lift her nose from a ghoulish hardback book that lay open on the floor. Abigail held in one hand the only candle yet lit. The flame danced teasingly on its wick; without it there would be only darkness, and darkness brings only... They were sat on the circular woolen rug at the foot of the bad, with the crate lying to the left of the bed, closest to the door. There was also a bag of oddities; Wendy had emptied this onto the floor to her right, nearest to the window, which was covered by extravagant drapes – these, in turn, were coated in muck. Silence was the clearest adornment in this old place. Abigail continued to inexhaustibly analyse the text that lay before her. “Abigail, what is taking you so long?!” Wendy finally snapped. The dust beginning to skirt her clothes seemed to jolt away, as though in fright. “Please, Wendy, take thy beak out of my heart.” Abigail retorted calmly and eloquently, daintily turning to the next page of her book. “Argh! What have I told you about quoting your silly little books when you’re talking to me? All you ever do is gorge your greedy little mind on meaningless words! It never gets you anywhere, or you wouldn’t be sat up here in our ramshackle old house with me, doing... this!” Silence. Abigail stared blankly at the pages of her book. She tried to remain stoic, but she found it too hard to respond in another quotation. Her lips visibly trembled as her eyes, hidden by the angle of her now drooping head, welled uncontrollably with tears. “Abigail...?” Wendy queried, her stern tone softening on the final syllable. “It’s these ‘meaningless words’ that are going to bring our daddy back!” Abigail cried, as she tore from the book the closest page she could grab; she crumpled the paper and slammed it to the floor, too docile to throw it at her sister. “When I tried to just get on with things when all the boys and girls at school were picking on us, you had to rise to their petty little challenges, acting out and dragging me into things! You think you’re so perfect but you just... just...” Abigail screwed up her face, throwing her arms over her head in an internal conflict over whether or not she could feasibly insult her sister. “You’re trying to blame me for what happened to us?! It’s not my fault momma made friends with that... that... *****! This was all his faul-” “No it wasn’t! Jonah is just a man, just like any other one! If you actually picked up a book for five minutes instead of hissing every time I looked at one, you might actually learn a thing or two! He was in the war also, just like daddy, and there is nothing wrong with him just because he looks different!” Wendy was taken aback. Her sister had stood up to her. They often talked about how everything had gone wrong since their mother had found another man; the pupils and teachers alike bullied the twins, so they had run away – two towns away, back to their old home, where they lived with their parents before the war. Silence had once again ensued as the two stared down at the floor. Leaning forward and shuffling the short distance across the mat on her knees, Wendy took Abigail into her harms, kissing her gently atop the head. There they stayed for some time; two children, expected to cope with mature concepts in life - death, discrimination, homelessness. They just wanted back their father. A dazed, rumbling groan. It came from inside the crate, immediately drawing the attention of the girls, snapping them away from their tearful embrace. “Oh no!” Wendy reacted worriedly, staring at the closest face of the wooden crate. “Wh-what do we do?!” She frantically queried Abigail, but her eyes remained fixed on the crate. “D-don’t worry Wendy, we can do the ritual quickly, before it fully comes round! Uh, quick, get the candl...” Their hearts dropped; both realised the single candle that had lit the room for their entire stay in the house was about to go out. Wendy scrambled to find the other candles, but when she had emptied her bag, its contents had spread across the floor in dribs and drabs. “W-wendy? Wh-what about those candles?” Abigail squeaked quietly and fearfully, as the stirring beast began to grumble. “I... I think... I think they went under the bed... I, I can’t reach!” The candle went out before she could find anymore. They were left in darkness. “Squeee!” The beast was awake. A boar. “Wendy, it’s awake! It’s awake, Wendy!” The pig immediately began to slam itself against the side of the woodworm-ridden crate; the twins had found it in a backstreet littered discarded old items. It wouldn’t hold for long, and the boar was angry. “L-look, I found the knife, Abigail! C-can you remember the sacrament without the book?” “Wendy, I want to leave, Wendy!” “Come on Abigail, the door was locked and I can’t remember where I put the key, j-just try and recite the sacrament, okay?” Through streams of tears, Abigail began to recite the sacrificial sacrament, stuttering on every word and having to breathe jarred breaths through her staggered inhalations. The wood of the crate splintered and snapped; the brutish, frustrated boar bolted forward. “Don’t worry Abigail, just carry on!” Wendy shook uncontrollably, lifting the knife ready to protect her innocent twin sister. “I feel a strange kinship with- hnkf!” The sacrament was curtailed with a sick take on a hiccup. A stab in the dark. Wendy had missed her target. Abigail lay bleeding. “A-abigail? Abigail?! Abig-” Wendy was cut short by the blow of the brutish boar, which thrashed against Wendy, tossing her limp, unconscious frame to its side as it attempted to find its bearings. Wendy awoke next morning to find an awful truth: the stab wound had proven fatal; who knows for how long Abigail lay, as her punctured lung unwillingly accepted increments of fluid. Wendy herself had received nasty blows to the head and ribs, but nothing major; not that it mattered to her, of course. Wendy’s injuries were immaterial by this point. The doorway stood stripped of its corresponding door, indicating where the boar had made its exit. But Wendy did not exit. She sat with the body of her sister. She continued to sit for some time. She never left, at least not by her own accord... An unfortunate tale, I must admit, but my dealings are not with the fortunate. A part of my job description. How have I told you this story? Well, Abigail came to me herself; told me about her life with Wendy, their trials, their lacking tribulations... she wanted me to help. Well, at least they are both together now. What more could I afford to give to the child? What could she give me in return? . ... My name is Maxwell. I don’t give away happiness for free. ~~~~~~~~~~ EDITS: Lots of edits as I go along; I have a habit of posting first, proof-reading later.