The Thirteenth Door
The Season of Rot
It’s spring. It’s always spring in Evalore. The village is bursting with blooms and buds everywhere you look. It smells of fresh earth and crisp spring air, with a hint of death that no one wants to acknowledge. No one but Poppy that is. It made her nauseous.
She has never understood why they had to exist in perpetual spring. Life seemed to have a soft tinkling song that constantly played. She wanted to find the thing playing the obnoxious sound and drown it in the river.
“Poppy!” Her mother called, “Get down here and help me make the bouquets for the parade this afternoon!”
Poppy groans, as she slowly peels herself from the comfort of her pink cloud of a bed. “Stupid fucking parade” she grumbles to herself, “why must we have a parade every damn day?”
She didn’t bother getting dressed; her mother hated being kept waiting more than she hated Poppy’s dishevelment. Her anger was never loud or aggressive. It was always veiled by sickly sweet passive words. Her mother would be more furious if she were late than if she looked like death.
Which, lately… she kind of did.
It started with a rash. It was a small red and dry patch, just below her elbow. Then the skin slowly began to flake, then peel. And now it’s starting spread. The doctor told her it was “stress.” The priestess told her it was “spiritual misalignment.” Poppy thinks it’s rot.
And the rot has a voice.
It whispers sometimes, low and mournful. Beneath her window at night drifting in with the breeze.
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
Stepping onto the landing that overlooks the living room, she hears her mother’s huff, an expertly performed martyrdom. “Took you long enough, I’m basically halfway done, and I am tempted to tell you not to bother helping me since it’s such an inconvenience for you.”
Poppy’s head falls back as she opens her mouth as if to scream, not letting any sound escape her mouth. She lets out a deep breath and plasters a toothy smile on her face before stepping into the kitchen. “I’m sorry mother, I saw a butterfly land on my windowsill, and it completely enchanted me.” She manages to say, with none of the sarcasm she is feeling.
“Oh, well that’s alright then. The beauty of spring should always be appreciated.” She moves some things around on the table in front of her and gestures for Poppy to begin arranging flowers, when a knock sounds at the back door.
“Lilly? Poppy? Are you ladies in? I wanted to see if I could borrow Poppy to help me get my cart ready for the gathering this evening. I know you have things to do for the parade this afternoon, but I was hoping I could steal her away for an hour or so.” The throaty voice of Ivy instantly makes Poppy relax. Her shoulders drop. A real rare and unbidden smile blooms on her face.
“Come in Ivy dear, Poppy hasn’t been much help this morning, but if you want her, I can manage these arrangements myself today.” Lilly replies.
Poppy ignores the barbed sweetness of her mother’s remark and calls out to Ivy as she dashes up the stairs, “One moment Ivy, I’ll be right out, just have to get dressed!”
All but crashing into her room, Poppy grabs the first thing she sees in her closet, a black knit sweater and deep crimson leggings. Mother will hate it. It’s perfect. She finishes off the look with a black ankle boot and a red poppy headband that is brought out by her short black tresses.
Once she’s dressed, she avoids going through the kitchen to the back door, and rushes out the front as she hollers, “I’ll meet you at your shop Ivy!”
“Your mother is in rare form today. Not that it’s a change from every other day.” Ivy says, as they load up her old wooden cart with fresh baked goods and handmade jewelry.
Poppy gently sets a basket of muffins into the cart and then leans against it, “A change in her demeanor would be a sign of end times.” she says as she starts to scratch her arm.
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
Ivy pauses, her sharp eyes catching the movement. She tilts her head, silver hair spilling over her shoulder like a silk curtain. “What do you have goin on there, dearie?
Before Ivy can respond, something small and pale drops onto the cobbled path between them.
Her fingernail.
Silence follows heavily. Even the birds seem to stop chirping. Poppy stares down at her hand, then at Ivy.
“What’s happening to me?” She asks, fear creeping into her voice like cold water seeping into shoes.
Ivy steps closer, inspecting the inflamed skin along Poppy’s arm, “What was it that happened right before this rash appeared?”
Poppy blinks, trying to think, “I was standing with a group of people who were annoyingly cheerful about another stupid parade, and I asked why we couldn’t have a day off from the never-ending springtime holidays… Next thing I know, I’m scratching like I rubbed my arm with Monkshood.”
Ivy nods knowingly, still examining, “You enacted a spell.”
Poppy opens her mouth to reply but confusion steals her voice. Ivy continues without ever looking up from Poppy’s arm, “When you questioned our rituals,” Ivy continued, “you enacted the spell of rot. I’ve never seen it before, not in person, but there are stories. Old stories. From when Spring was just a season, not a goddamn religion. It cycled with three others. The people say it used to rest.”
Before Poppy can collect herself enough to reply, Ivy rushes into her store and comes out with a large leather-bound book.
“Let’s see... Spells to ward off heat? No, no... not helpful... Ah!” She taps a page. “The Curse of Rotting Flesh.”
“Curse!? I thought you said it was a spell!” Poppy cries. She has stopped scratching and is now sitting on the edge of the cart scared and unsure.
“I did my dear. It says curse, but it works more like a spell... I think… I’m unsure whether or not it will kill you; but it will definitely make life difficult for a while.”
Poppy looked down at her hand. The skin around the missing nail is already graying at the edges. Something deeper than panic begins to bloom in her chest… something ancient.
“How long is ‘a while’?” she whispers.
Ivy’s expression turns serious.
“Until the Earth is allowed to rest.”
The two women stare at each other for a moment, neither saying a word; just letting the weight if the revelation settle like dust over bones.
“Alright dear girl,” she said, voice brisk but not unkind. “Let’s get the last of my things loaded up and head to my booth. I have a feeling now that we know what’s going on…” She glanced down at Poppy’s hand. The skin had started to crack, just slightly, like tree bark in a draught. “Things will progress quickly.”
“If I wasn’t an outcast before, I’ll definitely be one now…” Poppy says as they set up Ivy’s booth. The parade was starting on the other side of town, but the festival grounds would soon be brimming with smiling faces, pastel dresses, and sugary lies. For now, it’s just the two of them. A gentle solitude before the overwhelming masses arrived.
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
Poppy freezes, the necklace she’d been laying out slipping from her fingers and clattering against the wooden table., “Okay, what the hell is that?” She asks turning to Ivy. “I have been hearing this voice whisper, ‘Let me sleep. Let me rot. Let me return.’ since the rash showed up and it’s getting louder each time.”
Ivy doesn’t even flinch, “Based on the lore, that would be the whispers of the earth. It feels your rot… and is begging you to restart the cycle.”
“And how exactly do I do that?” Poppy blinks, her chest rising and falling faster with each second.
Ivy shakes her head, “That I do not know. The book only speaks of the affliction; it doesn’t speak of a cure.”
Poppy groans as she rubs her hands down her face and feels something slide down her skin. She pulls her hands away from her face only to see the raw red flesh of her palms. The skin has begun peeling from them, in thick curling sheets. She stares in horror, breath hitching.
“Let’s get you cleaned up before everyone arrives. I think I have some fabric in one of these boxes we can use to wrap your hands.”
As Ivy turns to rummage through the supplies, Poppy stares at her hands. The raw skin beneath is angry and alive, but it pulses in time with something beneath the soil.
She can feel it.
Waiting.
Listening.
“Here we are love, let’s get you set right, and you can just relax until things start.” Ivy gets to work gently bandaging Poppy’s hands before carefully wiping the specks of blood they left on her face.
“Thank you, Ivy.” She says as tears burn behind her eyes, “You are the only person in this village that actually sees me.”
Ivy cleans up the left-over fabric scraps and tosses the dirty ones in the garbage. “We are similar you and I. Born in the spring with names both beautiful and deadly. I see a reflection of myself in you.” She plants her feet in front of Poppy and waits for the young woman to look up. “What you are experiencing is something ancient and sacred. It is an unbecoming, a shift in reality. These small-minded idiots will only see your rot; I know your beauty.”
That was it.
The tears sharp finally spill over. Poppy reaches for Ivy’s hands with her own ruined ones, clinging to her like a tether to the world she no longer belongs in. With the older woman’s hands encased in her rotting ones, Poppy chokes out a whispered, “I love you.”
Ivy holds her gaze, and then gently lets go, resting a weathered hand on Poppy’s trembling shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough of that.” She says with a half-smile. “Last thing we need is the both of us turning into puddles.” She turns away and dabs at the corner of her eye as she softly replies, “I love you too.”
“Well, it looks like you are capable of being helpful.” Lilly’s shrill voice echoes around the booth, draining what little self-preservation Poppy has left. “Well,” she says, not looking up, “it’s easy to be helpful when the help is appreciated.”
Lilly’s hand flies to her chest as her mouth hangs open in theatrical offence. Her eyes narrow; but before she can spew her venom, Ivy steps forward.
“I appreciate you lending me Poppy for the day,” she says in a calm, warm tone. “I don’t think my creaking spine would be holding me up right now if I didn’t have her.”
The comment is enough of a distraction to have Lilly adjusting her face with a saccharine smile, “Of course Ivy, I’m glad she is useful to someone.” Lilly looks at Poppy again, noticing her bandage hands, “Even if she is as clumsy as a goat.” Without waiting for a reply, Lilly spins on her heel and stomps off toward her pastel posse, their laughter already rising in the distance like a swarm of buzzing bees.
“That went well.” Ivy chortles. Poppy just rolls her eyes. “Next time I’m just going to fake a fainting spell.”
Ivy chuckles loudly at that, letting air back into a room, just as the first customer approaches the booth.
An hour passes. Poppy stays quiet, trying not to fidget. But she starts to notice the looks. Whispers. Glances that snap away the moment she tries to meet them.
She leans toward Ivy. “Are my hands that noticeable? I feel like everyone is talking about me.”
Ivy, in the middle of packaging a small velvet pouch of earrings, glances up, and her eyes widen almost comically. “Oh dear.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Poppy dear, could you run back to my shop and take these empty baskets back for me? It will make the trip easier when the festivities are over.” She steps closer to Poppy and whispers, “Your face has begun to rot dear, I think… it’s time to head home.”
The blood in Poppy’s veins turns to ice. Suddenly she feels every eye on her. Like gnats on flesh. Their judgment taking the shape of perfume and pearls.
She nods, stiffly, and moves to gather the baskets. But just as she reaches for one, a manicured hand, one she knows well, with bubblegum-pink nails grabs her wrist. “What is wrong with you. Are you trying to embarrass me?” Lilly’s voice is like shattering glass. “Go home at once and wash your face. It’s bad enough that you dress like every day is a funeral.” Poppy swallows whatever reply is forming on her tongue; she’s ready to offer some quiet excuse, but before she can, Lilly jerks her arm.
And with it, tears the skin from her wrist.
Silence.
The air folds in on itself.
The sky dims.
Even the rainbow riot of spring colors seems to fade, bleached and brittle.
Poppy stares at her mother. Lilly stares back, mouth open, breath accelerating… then she screams. A shrill ear-splitting sound. The sound tears across the festival like a razor through lace.
People rush toward them, not to help, but to see.
To gawk.
To judge.
Gasps become shrieks.
Mothers cover children’s eyes.
Someone retches.
Ivy is the only one who moves toward Poppy.
She grabs her gently by the shoulders, but her voice is iron. “Go. Now. Run to the forest. I’ll come when I can. It’s not safe for you here.” Poppy doesn’t move right away. She just blinks as her body trembles, eyes wide and hollow.
“GO!” The fear in Ivy’s voice does the trick, and Poppy is up and running for the forest. She can feel blood beginning to pool in her boots with every step. As she runs, voices rise behind her, shrieking, panicked, and cruel.
“Don’t let her escape!”
“We must contain the illness!”
“Don’t come back, you freak!”
She breaks through the edge of the forest but doesn’t stop. The screams fade and the thunderous sound of footsteps that were behind her, cease. Poppy finally stops running. Her breath comes in ragged pulls, her legs shake, her shoulders lock. She leans forward, meaning to rest her hands on her knees, but she catches sight of the raw, glistening wound where her wrist used to be. She freezes as reality stinks back in.
Standing tall, she screams into the crisp air, “Fuuuuuuuuuck!”
Her voice echoes against the trees. No one answers.
Slowly, she looks around. She’s stumbled into a clearing, grass underfoot, surrounded by tall trunks and tangled roots. The canopy above is open to the sky, but it feels darker here. Thicker. Warmer than the spring she’s always known. Like something ancient is breathing here.
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
She throws her arms into the air. “Hey! I would love to help you out with that. Wanna tell me how?”
The wind stirs. Leaves shiver. But no answer comes.
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
“Gah! Tell me how! My body is falling apart, literally! So, if you want my help, you should probably tell me how I’m supposed to do that… soon.” She slowly sits on the ground, pure exhaustion seeping into her bones. Time passes, the sky darkens, and the wind stays silent.
With trembling fingers, she unwraps the bandages from her hands. The skin beneath is worse now, blackened in places, bubbling, and fragile. “Why is this happening to me?”
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
“Fuck you!” She screams back. The trees don’t flinch.
“I just wanted something different. Something real. I’ve never fit in. I’ve never belonged. I’ve been suffocating in their pastel lies and fake fucking smiles… How much do you want from me?” Her voice breaks as she pulls off her sweater, now sticky with blood. Left in only a thin tank top, she staggers to her feet, glaring at the trees. Then, she begins to slowly strip away the rot. One strip of skin at a time. Each one thrown to the forest floor like an offering.
“Is this enough? Have I paid the price yet? … No?” She peals a large piece of skin from her chest, and three more fingernails come off with it. Tears are streaming down her face, their salty presence stinging her raw flesh.
“How about now!” She screams in broken rage as she falls to her knees. not even noticing the pain.
Let me sleep.
Let me rot.
Let me return.
“Fuck you…” Her voice soft as she lays down on the earth. She closes her eyes, and feels the skin start to slide off of her body on its own. Her lips crack and peel, the hair falling from her head like ash.
“Is this enough?” Her lips now raw and bleeding.
Surender
The energy to fight is the last thing to drain out of her, before she does just that. Her life begins to seep into the earth in a slow, red, and reverent sigh.
Then suddenly, A loud crack screams through the forest and vibrates through her bones.
Thank you
With the physical elements of her life having now been returned to the earth…
“Fuck you”, is the last thought that crosses her mind.
I’m sure the story goes on and speaks of the seasons’ return. But this isn’t that story. This is Poppy’s story. A tale of rot and decay. A beautiful surrender, even with a few fierce fuck yous along the way.
Yes,
life is beautiful.
A wonder.
A celebration.
But death?
Death deserves its moment too.
Not to mourn,
but to honor.
