Horror, Poem, Scenic, Short story

A mother’s lot.

She was always strange, that woman on the hill. A mother of many, she guarded her children behind the walls and hedges she’d grown and built for years.

Her parents had died many years before, and few suitors ever went to visit. And curious children or adults alike where threatened or greeted with violence before they had made it up the winding path which met the house below two great oaks.

Her song would start again after she would put visitors to flight, comforting children who seemed terrified of any other coming near but their very own dear mother.

Each day she would toil outside her home, the children safely within. But many’s a time the question would be puzzled over, as to why they would never help carry water.

And for the rare occasion where she would come to market, she would keep an eye on her home up above the village on the hill to ensure her children never stepped outside the door.

No tears or crying was heard, so nobody saw need to go up. The children seemed happy enough, though enjoyed songs for the young far too long.

Perhaps the children were simple, perhaps a mark of shame. But so carried on everyone, as the years and years went by.

Until finally the singing stopped for a day, then another and a week beyond. No sign of life, no song or drawing of water was made from the house on the hill.

When finally curiosity grew enough to seek out the cause for the silence where her songs for children once filled the air above, a lonely body was found. A body surrounded by dolls, poorly made from straw and cloth.

These were the children to whom she sang, the ones she guarded so fiercely. So visciously did she guard what was not real, she lost her chance to have that which was.

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