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“No way! I’m not going in there! Don’t you hear the stories they tell?” Eleven-year-old Roger Elbert backed away from his two friends. They were all standing on the Blackwood lawn, nearly ten yards away from the front steps leading up the large doors.
“But Roger you have to. I dared you so you have to! Just go in, grab something from inside and bring it back. Or are you a chicken?”
He glanced up at the massive house, overgrown with vines and lacking the greater part of the roof. Perhaps it had once been a beautiful house, but the passage of time – what had it been, ten years since anyone had seen someone enter or leave the home? – as well as failure to maintain the property had led to its outward appearance gradually declining in such a way that it was hardly recognizable as a place in which people might live at all.
Roger glared at Marline Quince. “I am not a chicken.” He pushed past her and stomped over to the porch. He turned back to look at his friends, and saw them running across the lawn. Marline tripped over a tree root, scrambled to her feet and kept going, shouting “Hey wait up!” Roger smirked. And they called him a chicken. As he approached the door it seemed to expand at all four corners, until it was all that he could see before him and he felt smaller than he ever had in his life. Roger gulped. Should he knock? Someone had told him the door was boarded shut on the inside, but he might as well try. He lifted his closed fist to the wood, preparing to strike at the door, when –
The door swung open, and a woman with a kindly smile looked at him and held out her hand. “Hello Roger, my name is Constance Blackwood. You’re just in time for dinner.”
Despite the obvious signs of a fire, the house’s interior still held some charm. Roger sat in the dining room his arms folded across his chest, staring at the salad Constance had placed in front of him. “Listen, I told you. It was just a dumb dare. I’m sorry, just please don’t tell my father.”
The woman called Constance sat directly across from him at the table, and beside her was the oddest-looking girl he had ever seen. Constance had introduced her as Merricat, though why Merricat couldn't introduce herself, Roger did not understand. Her hair was dirty and unkempt, and she had clearly not bathed in a long, long time. As if that wasn’t strange enough, Merricat was wearing an ugly, bright yellow garment that may have perhaps once been a table cloth or a set of window drapes, for it most certainly was not meant to be worn as clothing. Constance, on the other hand, at least seemed to take some care in her appearance. She was wearing clothes clearly meant for a man, but smelled clean and had brushed her hair and even added a pretty flower with vibrant white petals behind her ear. Merricat had not taken her eyes off of him for more than a moment yet.
Constance spoke warmly, “Roger, we’re trying to help you. From what I heard, you were going to break into our house and steal something to show your friends. I don’t tolerate thieves at my table, but if you are a guest, perhaps I can give you something to show your friends later, and no one need know what you almost did. But first, we must eat.”
He glanced down at the salad again. From what Roger could ascertain, it was simply a normal salad; some wildflowers and fruit coated in some red dressing, perhaps pomegranate? He lifted his fork and took a tentative bite, chewing, and finally swallowing. Roger had never tasted a salad so delicious, and the dressing held a bittersweet taste that left his craving more. He took another bite, and then another. Constance smiled encouragingly, though she had not eaten a morsel of her own, nor had Merricat, who had a wicked glint in her eyes and was still staring at him. He wished she would go away. She scared him.
“Okay, that was really delicious, but I have to leave. Can you just give me something to show Marline and Dennis so I can go now? My mum –”
Roger clenched his stomach, suddenly overcome with nausea. He broke out in a cold sweat, and jerked his head towards Constance. “What- What did you give me? Tell me what you gave me!” He demanded, pushing himself away from the dining room table and to his feet, though he swayed on the spot and had to grasp the back of his chair to regain balance.
“Sanguinaria canadensis,” the wild one, Merricat, muttered. She stared through him, and Roger suspected that she was not truly seeing him at all. She grinned.
“Bloodroot. That’s right,” Constance affirmed. “Do you remember what it does?” She pulled the flower from behind her ear and stroked the petals gently with her slender fingers.
Roger’s vision blurred – the women were colorful, elongated blobs now. He could no longer see their faces. “You’re both crazy!” He screamed, crying.
“Sanguinaria canadensis is highly toxic and sometimes fatal in large quantities. Its red juices can elicit internal bleeding, comas, and respiratory failure, and can cause dizziness as well as vomiting. The dizziness is coming around now.” She giggled. “Constance, after we eat do you think we can make necklaces from his teeth? They would make wonderful beads; they are so small.”
“Silly Merricat! We did that last time. Why don’t we make bracelets instead to match? Will that make you happy?”
“Yes, I love you Constance. We are so very happy. I’m so glad we are together here.”
Roger tried to run, made it to the hallway leading to the front door, and then collapsed, gasping for air. He writhed on the floor in agony, until he moved no more.
The girls assessed the unmoving form of the lifeless child. Merricat kicked him.
“Is it better than the moon?”
“Silly Constance, I don’t need the moon anymore.”