Roanoke

“A house that sits atop a hill, a beautiful image it is. The plains shine golden, the lakes bright blue what a beautiful place to live. Those who dwell within these walls smile perfectly picture still, silent, small and frightened eyed, but, incredibly strong of will.

You’ll never walk the empty hallways, they have walked before, though people saw them enter they never did walk out those doors. Some say they never left and that they walk the hallways still, some say they never did exist and question if you’re ill.

Yet whichever side they fall upon one thing they all agree, is that the house hidden in cornfields is no place they wish to be. You may call it superstition, and you may be correct, but that house of wood and stone holds onto memories of flesh.

So, tread carefully over broken ground, forget not where you are, people smile warmly but they’ll greet you from afar. Pass the threshold they dare not, nor enter door of oak. For terrible secrets hide in beautiful places, this is Roanoke”.

Roanoke was supposed to be a safe place, an island off the main land separate from the pain and suffering that had fallen upon those who’s Government had betrayed them. That was the old times, where people lived in overpopulated cities one atop the other, the perfect breeding ground for chaos when those same people lost faith in their leaders and their religion, memories few dare to speak of in new times.

History states amid the flames and blood of the old land a messiah had risen spreading word of “The Madame” a wealthy woman who owned the island Roanoke just north bound from the mainland, under no jurisdiction nor government, it was a nomad’s land. The Madame promised shelter from a decaying world, a utopia where humanity could start again, the only price? The children.

Children were rare even on the mainland, much of the population had been pronounced infertile and the children who did exist were a prized possession among families. Mothers often hid their children as out of desperation many had been snatched or their lives taken in a violent fury by those envious of what they couldn’t have, some were simply feeble and succumbed to illness, poverty, and malnourishment in an unliveable world.

To state a price so dear as children was a brazen demand, but the messiah who was cunning, knew that desperate times often called for desperate measures and so he used the people’s fear to bend their will. Many gave in, so worn and weathered from survival that they would have given anything to end their suffering and the suffering of their children, so, in masses they gathered at the docks, children in hand saying their final goodbyes as they departed on their separate vessels, promising a better life. Though families couldn’t tell you what awaited their children, I could, for I lived it.

I remember the darkness and the cold of the ship, it was damp and smelt of decay with the walls so cramped it was as if they were closing in on us, the children, some as young as infants screaming and crying for their mothers who they would never see again. I was alone, being an only child, I had said my goodbyes with tears in my eyes to my mother who I’d watched turn her back on me.

Though over time her face has blurred I remembered her hair, long, glossy black, plaited delicately behind her and curling out in tendrils at the end as if it were reaching for me, or perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part. All I have of my mother is that image and this locket, the one I held in my hand now as I stared at my own reflection in the tarnished silver. I assume the locket was my mother’s for I have had it, I believe, for as long as I have existed, though existence does blur within the walls of the Manor.

We had arrived at the manor after many nights and days, though I couldn’t be sure, as the boat had had no windows so as far as I knew, we could have sailed for one long, endless night. Upon first glance the Manor was grand, its presence demanding as we had exited the ship, strange adults surrounding us in grey scrubs and masks that itched as they had picked us up one by one and separated us into the living…and the deceased. I didn’t like to look long at the small motionless bodies as they were taken away, but there were many.

Those of us who could walk were marched in single file to the tall oak doors that looked down disapprovingly at us, upon entry, I remember catching a fleeting glimpse of an unusually tall motionless figure, her dress spilling out around her in frills and folds of detailed material, her hair piled tall upon her head, her face covered in shadow. I also remember the routine that had followed this encounter in perfect detail for it was the same one I had followed in every waking moment since. We were shoved into a tiled room lit only by a single light bulb, there, we were stripped, turned to face the wall, and sprayed down with a pressure hose that had pricked my back like needles, then, dripping wet and cold we had been shoved into the same grey itchy scrubs and masks as our captors, the water soaking into the material, making it heavy. From there we were paraded into a grand dining hall, pushed into hard benches that lined long wooden tables and fed what I could only describe to you as gruel, however, many of us hadn’t seen food in weeks so we had swallowed it down gratefully and with haste. Before we had even finished our last bites we were separated and grouped depending on our size and strength, these groups were then divvied up to separate areas of the Manor in need of attention, whether those be the gardens where the fruits and vegetables grew, the kitchen, where the gruel was prepared, the foyer where floors were scrubbed, or the lounge where silver was polished. When the sun finally set outside the glorious windows, we were sent to bed wearing the same itchy scrubs from the day before, crammed into large rooms lined with copper beds whose mattress springs were often in disrepair, poking and prodding us in our sides, then if we were lucky, we’d sleep, waking to repeat the entire process again.  

This is where I sat now, on my copper bed in a darkened, silent room, trying to catch the moonlight on the locket in my hands, silver, cold to the touch. Though I’m not certain how many days I’ve lived I do know I’ve grown, having gone through two scrub sizes since arrival. I also know that I’ve seen many children come and go since arriving, they came as we had, small and frightened and though nobody saw them leave the Manor, there were many familiar faces that had disappeared in the grey morning that I had never seen again.

We weren’t permitted to talk to one another, so I didn’t know their names, but I knew the colour of their eyes, the curl of their hair, the way the scrubs sat on their small frames. I had known her. Rich, warm coloured skin, black tendrils of curls which I’d admired as they reminded me of my mother's, her eyes had been round and kind, her nose spotted with freckles and her lips full. She had been older than I was, I could tell by the size of her scrubs and the way she had towered over me. Though we weren’t permitted to speak her and I, we had shared glances, smiles. I recalled with a knot in my stomach that day, the day I had dropped a silver fork in the lounge which had clanged terribly in the silence. The adults hadn’t seen who had caused the raucous, but she had, locking eyes with me she'd known, yet she was the one who stood when we were questioned, and she was the one who had been dragged to the steps below, steps I hadn’t seen her return from since.

The guilt ate terribly at my heart, and my mind often pondered the things she had suffered through for me, I had pondered those things for many nights, they plagued my dreams, which is why I sat now wide awake, staring hopelessly into my silver locket. I’d opened the locket so many sleepless nights before hoping to see something, anything, a clue, or a piece of my mother in there, every time I convinced myself I’d see something and every time I was left bitterly disappointed by the smooth, tarnished silver emptiness staring back at me. This was another night I had sought comfort in an imaginary hope, it was almost a ritual of mine, I took a deep breath, rubbing my finger along the raised edge of the locket, I pressed hard, and I pulled. With my eyes squeezed tight I couldn’t bare to open them and see the emptiness staring back at me, mocking me, instead I caressed my thumb against the inside expecting to feel the same cold, hard silver, when I brushed against something that itched. My eyes flew open in a frenzy and I waited impatiently for them to adjust to the darkness, slowly, painfully, they did, and I tilted the locket ever so slightly towards the moonlight terrified I had imagined what I had felt, but there it was, stark grey against the silver, a torn off piece of scrub with one word scrawled upon it “run”.

It was her; I knew it had been her but how, how had she done it…when? I tried to recall the last time I had opened the locket, but my memories were blurry and faded at the edges. My mind spun as I tried to make sense of it, no answers forming in the fog, all I could visualise was the image from that day of the fork hitting the ground, the way she had stood almost immediately, the dread as they had dragged her from the room and down the stairs that lead to nowhere.

With a loud, CRACK, the grey lights lit up the room and there they were again, the adults, I fumbled desperately for the locket pressing the torn off piece of scrub inside it before slamming it shut and shoving it in my mouth. This was another ritual of mine, no personal possessions were allowed here, something I’d figured out quickly upon arrival and so I had come to this solution.

With the locket in my mouth, I was marched again to the showers, sprayed down with force, dressed, and pushed into the dining hall, there I subtly shifted the locket to one side and ate delicately, carefully. I listened intently for the orders for the day, the murmurings of the adults, hoping but hearing nothing until I was yanked from my seat and shoved into a group that was marched to the lounge…. silver duty. My heart hammered in my chest so loudly I knew they would hear it, I was sure of it, but my resolve was hard, though I had no answers I did have questions, where did those stairs lead to? Why had she gone for me? With a lump in my throat, I began to sweat, my hand shaking with the knowledge of what it must do, I outstretched my arm which felt as if it were made of jelly and I curled my fingers loosely around the cold silver of a nearby fork, I squeezed it once tightly in my hand, and then all at once, I let it fall, and they swarmed.

Written by Celeste Dowd