Mary Longnails

*skitter skitter skitter*

When I was a child, every other week (or so it seemed), my mother would take me to a step aunts and uncles house. I was never really loved by my step family and I was already a nervous child, painfully shy, afraid of his own shadow, that kind of thing and they helped to nurture that so much so that much of my youth was spent as a quivering wreck.

*skitter skitter skitter*

I don't like to think of often, because who would like to think of their traumatic upbringing. But, as is so often the case, as I lay here, trying to get to sleep (which would be far easier if not for my noisy neighbours and blasted skittering spiders), my mind wanders back to times past and in particular, those times. They were horrible. Not physically abusive, mostly mental, emotional. My step aunt and uncle lived in a house they'd built themselves. It was part of a new housing development site, so for the time being it was pretty isolated, with only half built shells of houses for company and enclosed by a forest of trees to the north and the river Mersey to the south. It was (and still is, from what I've seen of the area as I've passed through on my travels) a very picturesque location, separate from the urban sprawl that is Liverpool.

*skitter skitter skitter*

I wish that spider would go away. Anyway, the house, as I say, was remote (relatively speaking), and so when I was forced to stay over, that was that, I was trapped with my step cousins whilst the adults did whatever they did. Like I said, they never really loved me, never really accepted me. My step family were (and this might sound biased, because it is) idiots, very tribal and took great and delicate care to remind me in oh so many little ways that I was not one of them, as if I'd ever want to be. They were particularly fond of trying to frighten me with ghost stories. They often succeeded.

*skitter skitter skitter*

One time there was a huge party, it might actually have been Hallowe'en because I remember there being fancy dress, I was in the bedroom with at least ten of my step cousins, trying to sleep. I'm a nervous sleeper at the best of times and being in such close proximity to people who would gladly do me misery if I let my defences down, I was still awake long past midnight. Well, that was one reason why I was still awake. The other reason was that one of my step cousins, a mean, rat-faced boy, had told me the tale of Mary Longnails.

*skitter skitter skitter*

The story he told me was as such: Mary Longnails was a poor girl who had lived, and died, decades ago. Her parents had been fanatically puritanical and had never let her experience any joy, any extravagance, any pleasure aside from that which she could derive from scripture. Mary however, as children will do, found a way to defy her parent's wishes and she developed a massive imagination, particularly in dreaming. She found that she could, in her dreams, be anything she wanted, that she could escape from her crushingly oppressive life. That is until one day, she didn't wake up. Her parents, beside themselves with worry, tried everything they could to revive their daughter, but she remained comatose from that day forward, withering away before their eyes, however, as the days went by, the mother noticed that her daughter lips were slowly curling into a smile. When the mother first realised this, she thought it was her imagination. But day, after day, her daughters lips curled ever more. At first, the mother was relieved, exclaiming that even if her daughter was beyond saving, she was at least happy enough to smile, however, the smile soon underwent a metamorphosis. It changed from a serene, angelic smile to a cruel, menacing sneer.

*skitter skitter skitter*

The mother died in her sleep two weeks after the daughter had fell into her coma. The father had been working late to take his mind off of his daughter's condition and arrived home to find his wife already in bed. He tapped her shoulder lightly and broke down when he saw her open eye completely devoid of life staring back at him. He staggered out of the bedroom and into his daughters, seeking some form of solace he gripped her hand and found it to be stone cold. She had died too.

*skitter skitter skitter*

That was when the dreams started for him. In his dream he was looking outside his bedroom window, and saw his daughter flitting in and out between the thick cover of trees that surrounded the garden. Every so often she'd stop and look directly at him but her eyes held no recognition in them. He called out to her but this only caused her to dart away into the shadowy canopy of the trees and the dream would end. One evening, there was a grand thunderstorm and the father slept fitfully. In his dream he saw his daughter moving between the trees again and again called out to her. This time, however, she moved hesitantly onto the lawn and shuffled toward the house. A loud thunder crack shook the foundations of the house and the father awoke and found himself standing at his bedroom window instead of lying in his bed. He blinked blearily as he realised the oddness of the situation and then glanced down at his lawn where he saw a creature spring lithely back into the tree coverage.

*skitter skitter skitter*

The next night, instead of going to bed, the father stood at the window. He positioned himself in just the right position behind the curtains that he could see the trees but that anything in the tree line would be hard pressed to spot him. Hours passed as he nervously waited. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed three and then he saw her. His daughter was picking her way between the trees, moving with a grace she had not shown in life. He stifled a sob and then his eyes widened as his daughter stopped in her tracks and sharply glanced up at the window. He backed away instinctively. "Surely she can't have heard me?" the father thought desperately to himself. He cautiously stole a peek through the window, his daughter was gone. Then he heard a scratching noise coming from below the window. With great trepidation he pressed his face against the window and looked down. There was his daughter, scrabbling her way up the bricks, the scratching, skittering noise was her elongated fingernails scraping the brick.

*skitter skitter skitter*

They found the father three days later. The doctors declared that he had died of a broken heart following the death of his wife and daughter but they couldn't explain the look of terror on his face.

"And that house used to be here. It was torn down but this house is built on its remains. Mary Longnails is still about. She became a sort of vampire" my step cousin said, "only she doesn't drink blood. She eats dreams. She became a glutton for imagination and feeds off it, but especially dreams. So when you go to sleep tonight, make sure you don't fall asleep with your head against the wall, that's how she gets you."

I didn't sleep that night. At three AM I was crouched by the window, keeping a watch out for Mary Longnails. And I saw her, or at least I think I did. A slim, agile shadow slipping in and out of the trees that separated us from the outside world. Or maybe it was a dream and I had fallen asleep, but I still remember that smile, twisted, cruel, hungry.

*skitter skitter skitter*