Little Girl Lost: Thirteen Tales of Youth Disrupted

Mannison Press Presents

Edited by Ronald Linson and Deidre J Owen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 Mannison Press, LLC

Published by Mannison Press, LLC at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Hailey Piper, Wailing Jill

J. B. Rockwell, The Child Thief

Piers Anthony, Walk the Walk

Drew Piston, The Smuggler's Door

Caitlin Marceau, Forgive and That Other Word That Means Forget

Deidre J Owen, They Belong to Her

Rhiannon Lotze, Barrens and Brine

Bradley R. Mitzelfelt, The Girl Who Couldn't Shed Tears

Ronald Linson, The True Nature of Swimming Holes

Roxanne Dent, A Setting for Julia

Nicola Kapron, Based on a True Story

Ashleigh Hatter, Remembering, Almost

Rachel Nussbaum, Sarah Small

Special Thanks

About Mannison Press

Introduction

The Lost and the Found

The origin of Little Girl Lost: Thirteen Tales of Youth Disrupted lies in the writing of two stories by its editors. They Belong to Her (by Deidre J Owen) and The True Nature of Swimming Holes (by Ronald Linson) came to fruition about the same time, and the idea came to me for this volume. I posed it to Deidre and she readily agreed.

As it happened, a number of circumstances converged and we ended up not only starting this project, but we founded Mannison Press. We saw potential in our respective strengths, and since we've collaborated before, it was a natural conclusion to found the company as partners.

Our goal was to put together a collection of stories from as broad a range of genres as we could...and we've succeeded. Little Girl Lost has stories in the three major speculative fiction genres: fantasy, science fiction, and horror, not to mention crime drama and literary fiction. That is not to say that some of the genres don't overlap and blend together.

For example, Walk the Walk by Piers Anthony is a light fantasy tale with elements of horror thrown in. Rhiannon Lotze's Barrens and Brine is a rip-roaring far-future pirate adventure.

Reading the submissions was, I think, the most enjoyable part of getting the project off the ground. We received so many excellent stories that it was hard to choose, and we regretted the necessity of rejecting many of them.

Finding the real gems was exciting. It was like going into a clothing store and finding that perfect shirt. Not only is it the right color, it fits like it was made for you, and best of all, it's on sale for fifty percent off. Finding a perfect story for Little Girl Lost made our day.

We came into the project with broad ideas regarding the meaning of lost. We did not want all of the stories to fit the literal concept of the word. True, we have some of those, such as my own story and A Setting for Julia by Roxanne Dent, but we sought to include more fluid definitions.

The loss of innocence is a recurring theme in literature. William Blake's beautiful 1794 poem, The Little Girl Lost, is a fine example. Blake's poem is about a young girl growing up and becoming sexually aware. That is only one kind of innocence lost, however. We felt that the theme of overcoming adversity—or at least surviving it—better suited this volume.

Sarah Small by Rachel Nussbaum and The Girl Who Couldn’t Shed Tears by Bradley R. Mitzelfelt fit squarely into this ideal. Both tales revolve around a young girl thrust into a situation in which she has to rise to her full potential or perish.

And then there are occasions where a young lady is the arbiter of her own downfall, such as in Forgive and That Other Word That Means Forget by Caitlin Marceau. Poor choices often lead to much mischief.

I am pleased that we found these tales of the lost little girls of pure fantasy, of worlds that could have been, and of worlds that could be. Their stories will inspire, frighten, and disturb you, but above all, I hope that they will entertain you.

Ronald Linson

New York City

August 2019

Hailey Piper

Hailey Piper is a writer of horror short fiction. Since her debut novella, The Haunting of Natalie Glasgow, was published in October 2018, her short stories have appeared in various websites, magazines, and anthologies. After spending her childhood surrounded by the creepy woods of the American northeast, she's now settled into a mostly civilized life with her wife in the D.C. metro area. Find out more about her work at www.haileypiper.com.

Wailing Jill

By Hailey Piper

[horror]

Gran had just closed the chimney flue and eased into her rocking chair when she began the evening's last story. Ruth sat in a cushioned seat on the wayside of the den with her embroidery hoop, while Toby and Jasper sat on the floor, each gazing into the flickering fireplace. It was the kind of autumn night where the wind moaned across the countryside, past the old willow tree and the dirt road that broke apart the fields.

Windstorms always remind me of Wailing Jill, Gran said above the fireplace crackle. She pronounced it Welling Jell, which made the boys giggle. I knew her. We were both schoolgirls, she only a year older than me at the time, but not friends. Not a care then, any of us. It was later that the highwayman came into it.

Ruth slid her needle in and out of the cloth. She envisioned a gallant rider on horseback, his form wrapped in a flowing scarlet coat, a wide-brimmed hat upon his head. What highwayman, Gran?

"Oh, he was a goblin of a man, his ears long ago nicked sharp by a knife. And mercy, those greasy yellow teeth. Never knew what became of him, only what he did to poor Jill. He would wander the roads of this countryside, holding up the good people with his bent little carving knife. Wasn't particular, that highwayman. Jewels? Gold? He just wanted whatever you had.

And Jill, she thought herself so clever. 'Why lay eyes on me? I have no jewels he might want. I'll walk shabby and penniless everywhere I go.' But the highwayman wasn't having that. Not the day he caught poor Jill. 'You got money, don't you?' he asked. She told him she did not. He asked for silver, jewels. 'I got nothing of worth on me, mister. Not a thing.' She thought she'd be free to go.

Gran's rocking chair creaked forward. That's when she felt thumbnails under her eyeballs and heard the highwayman ask, 'You got eyes, don't you?' And that was the end of Jill. She leaned back, hands folded in her lap. Or so we thought. Not long after, people started seeing her outside, wandering these lands in the dark. You see, she was looking for her eyes. Or any eyes might do.

You've seen her? Toby asked. His round face sweated at the mouth of the fireplace.

Gran's fingers flexed at her dress. "Seldom, but she comes. Whenever I hear the wind wailing on a night like this, I look out the window. Some nights, I see nothing. Others, I see her. You might be walking in the dark and think that's harmless howling at your back, but don't glance. Hurry home. It might be Wailing Jill.

"Those fools who look to her wailing, see if she's in need of saving? The quick ones throw their hands across their faces and run. They get out with nail scratches on the backs of their hands. The rest, they never see again. If you come upon her, then creep, quiet, as if you'd leap out and scare her, but never do that. It would only give you away. Stalk her with your eyes, sidle away on soft feet, until you're inside where her wailing only bats at the door.

And if you wake at night, my loves, and see that girl in your window, blood running down her cheeks from black, empty sockets, white palms splayed on the glass, don't you scream. Not even a peep. Just lie still and wait. Hope that she'll wander someplace else, for someone else's eyes.

Of course, Gran, Ruth said.

I didn't mean you, love. I know at night my good girl is sound asleep. It's your two scamp brothers who need warning. Gran leaned over their small, wide-eyed faces. You two best watch your step, or best you can hope is your hands will look—like these! She thrust her hands in front of her eyes. Faded scratches cut up their backs.

Toby and Jasper both shrieked and giggled. Gran cackled at them.

Ruth was quiet. She had not resumed her needlework.

That's enough ghost stories for one night. Gran's weathered hands pressed the arms of her rocking chair, helped her tower over the den. Time for bed. Papa will be home before long and he'll want rested children to help with the horses in the morning. Off with the lot of you, wash the sinning off your hands.

The boys darted from underfoot, off to the washroom.

Gran inspected Ruth's embroidery hoop without a word, and then pulled Ruth against her chest. Good night, dear. You sleep well.

Ruth did not sleep well. She lay awake in bed, where her blankets hid her from the night. A single candle lit her bedside, but she kept glancing from it to her bedroom window, where no palms splayed against the glass.

No ghost did that to Gran's hands, she said into her pillow. Just some old cat. If Papa were home, he would set the story straight. After, he would tuck her into bed with his old coat, and she would fall asleep amid his scents of fresh-cut wood and topsoil.

She shut her eyes, but every rattling gust in the darkness reminded her too much of Gran's story. How could her brothers sleep so soundly? They were five years younger, their heads close to bursting with wild imaginations. Every inky corner of the fire-lit den danced with goblins and banshees, and every unseen part of their bedrooms hid a myriad of formless shadows with gnashing teeth.

Ruth's door creaked open and her heart thumped hard before she heard the first footsteps. Toby and Jasper, as if summoned.

Jasper's round face appeared shiny above her candle's flame. What's the matter, Ruthie? Scared of Wailing Jill?

No more than you.

Let's see, then.

Icy, airy teeth nipped Ruth's skin through her bedclothes as she opened the cottage door to let her brothers into the night. Toby lit Gran's gas lantern and hung it over the front door. The light stretched only a few paces past the cottage, where the swaying grass buckled.

You know where the willow tree is? Toby asked.

I can't see it, but I know which way, Ruth said.

We each cross the way, touch the willow tree, and back to prove there's no cowards in our home except Jasper.

I'll go! Jasper snapped. See if I don't.

Ruth would have hushed him, but she didn't think Gran could hear them over the night's moaning. And if she did, so much the better. Ruth wanted them caught, pulled inside by their ears. This was a stupid game the boys had cooked up, and she would have ignored them if that story hadn't scared her from sleep.

But it had.

How will we know who's true? Jasper asked.

Ruth drew three of the ribbons out of her hair, red, blue, and lavender, and handed one to each of her brothers. A fresh gale tugged at her stray locks. We'll each tie ours to a stretch of leaves. Any liar will be known at daybreak.

Toby darted across the field as the wind swept away Ruth's last word. He existed briefly outside the light, a patch of white nightgown in the black, but then it faded, and there was only stormy darkness where he had been.

Jasper cupped his hands around his mouth. Ohhh, I'm Wailing Jill. I'm going to get you, Toby.

Stop that. Ruth hugged her arms around her chest.

Within the wailing wind, there would be no hearing Toby if he screamed for help. Of course, there was no ghost, but if he tripped on a rock or branch, broke his leg, couldn't move, caught pneumonia, what then?

There's no Wailing Jill, you know, Jasper said. Nothing to be scared of. How could Gran know what she said to the highwayman? She weren't there.

Because she was telling a story.

Did you hear the one about the flying duchess? She was blown away by a big gust and starved to death in the sky. Sometimes when the bad winds come low like this, she swoops down on you.

Did you hear about the little boy who kept saying awful things until his tongue fell out?

Jasper looked at her like she'd bruised his feelings. What's got into you?

I'm cold and tired. Ruth thought of holes and the eyes that should be in them, blind as the night across the field. And I want to be done with this.

Jasper turned back to the unseen countryside. I'm cold, too.

Palms appeared in the black, and Toby's face, half cut open in a big toothy grin. He collapsed beneath the lantern's glow. The wind had made a mess of his hair. Ruth was of a mind to take them both back inside and put them to bed. A run across the darkened field couldn't dissolve Gran's story, only make it worse.

Going last, are you?

Ruth looked down on Toby. He'd put Jasper up to this. They both deserved to be dragged inside. No, I'm going next. She approached the edge of the lantern's glow, grass crunching beneath her slippers. It was no small thing to step outside that warm light and into the baleful dark. Toby did it because Toby was a child. He didn't know better.

Another step and she was into the dimness, and from there it was easier to walk away. Even as she drew too far afield to clearly see the cottage and her brothers, the lantern was a reassuring lighthouse to guide her home.

The boys couldn't see her anymore, but their voices carried through the storm. Ohhh, it's Wailing Jill! Ohhh. Stupid children.

At the edge of sight dangled the willow's nearest stretch of leaves, where Toby had knotted Ruth's ribbon and darted back. Neither of her brothers would have dared come out had she stayed in bed. She passed the ribbon, let the stretches of willow leaves stroke her shoulders, until she reached the trunk. The wind pawed at her lavender ribbon. She reached for leaves that dangled closest to the trunk and made a knot.

Ohhh! Jasper was likely encouraging Toby to do it, too. They were each the other's worst influence. Next time Papa went to town, it would be best to take one with.

Stop it, boys! Ruth's fingertips were numb now, giving her trouble with the knot.

Moaning sailed past her ears and drove a chill through her limbs. Her ribbon flew into the wind. The boys' moans were mean-spirited, taunting. This cry was hollow, mournful, as if it couldn't be mean-spirited because that would imply spirit.

She lowered her arms and turned slowly on one heel, putting her back to the willow trunk.

Pale hands broke apart the blackness, their nails long and brittle. Their wrists dipped into the outstretched arms of a tattered, frilly dress. Its hem tugged against skeletal legs, its white collar taut against a slender neck. The face was a pale oval with the blackest holes for eyes, the cheeks stained by crimson tears.

Wailing Jill's mouth stretched open, a bottomless pit in her face, and her hollow wail engulfed the wind.

Ruth clamped her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. Her knees bent, nestled her among the willow's roots. The tattered dress breathed death across her face, and she covered her mouth and nose not to gag.

Jill's arms slid overhead. Her hands pawed at the willow's hollows, about the height where Ruth's eyes had been. No eyes, not even one. Her furious nails scraped at the tree, and her head cocked to one side, ear to the storm.

At her feet, curled-up Ruth tightened the grip on her mouth. Not a peep. Not a crunch in the grass. She was still, waiting, like Gran told her. Waiting to break for home.

Light snapped out of the world. Ruth squeezed her throat so tight the scream couldn't get out. Had Jill taken her eyes without her feeling it? No, the stars dotted the sky and the moon was a slender white presence. Toby, Jasper—where were