Submitted by lightingnations t3_yx1d75 in nosleep
On Saturdays, Grandma took me fairy spotting. We’d catch the 9:36 train to Heuston station, cross the underpass, and then spend hours wandering through Ravenscroft Forest, hand-in-hand.
At the far side of the giant lake, behind a hanging wall of vines, there was this super-secret spot only we knew about; a flat patch of grass, perfect for mid-day picnics.
While we munched fruit scones and sipped hot tea from a thermos, Grandma would point toward a nearby oak tree, huge and brown and dappled with moss.
“Look Evelyn, that’s where the fairies live,” she’d say, pointing at a huge hollow in its side.
A circle of fat, spongy mushrooms surrounded the tree’s exposed roots, and she insisted anybody who stepped inside the ‘fairies ring’ was liable to become trapped in their realm.
To ten-year-old me, it sounded like Narnia.
All I wanted, more than anything, was to catch a glimpse of these magical creatures. My eyes stayed glued to that dark hole until Grandma began packing up, at which point I’d beg her to wait just five more minutes.
“Don’t worry, Eve, we’ll come back again next week,” she’d say, then we’d pinky promise on that.
As a tribute for intruding upon their home, Grandma always left behind a pack of chocolate fingers—the fairies’ favourite snack—either stashed beneath a log or fallen leaves.
And come the following week, those treats would always be gone…
No matter what the two of us did together (rummage through thrift stores; practice hopscotch; even homework) Grandma and I always the best time, so you can imagine how devastating it was to find her on the kitchen floor, her eyes rolled back in her skull.
She entered hospital on June 3rd, 2015. Again and again, the adults in my life promised she would recover soon, but while staying with my aunt Christine, I tiptoed downstairs one night and heard her speaking over the phone.
“Poor Mary’s developed sepsis now. Even if she miraculously pulls through, she’ll be too weak to look after Evelyn.”
When we next visited, grandma breathed through a respirator, her arms purple from all the ugly bruises.
I grabbed Aunt Christine’s hand and told her we had to go to Ravenscroft right away. Perhaps, in exchange for chocolate fingers, the fairies would grant a wish like in the old stories?
With a sympathetic voice, she explained Grandma needed us close by right now, not wishes.
Upset, I bolted out of the ward, doctors and nurses calling after me. I blitzed straight past the carpark, caught the next train to Heuston, and used my pocket money to buy the biggest pack of fingers imaginable.
Beyond the underpass, a bearded man handed over a flyer protesting the council’s decision to fell Ravenscroft and develop a block of flats, which I folded into my pocket mumbling, “Thank you.”
At the fairy tree, I set the chocolates outside the circle and said, “I don’t know if you’re listening, but I really, really need a wish to come true: please make my grandmother better, please.”
I sat there with my legs crossed until dusk. By then, there’d been zero sign of any fairies, and what’s worse, Aunt Christine would now be absolutely furious with me.
Angry at the stupid fairies, I shouted, “Thanks for nothing,” and then kicked the head off the closest mushroom.
I shoved past the ivy wall and stomped along the trail until, out of nowhere, there came a flutter of wings from the direction of the tree. I spun around, seeing nothing.
Had the fairies heard my wish?
I shoved back through the vines but didn’t uncover any mythical creatures—only a scrawny girl, roughly my age and dressed in a strange blouse, cramming chocolate fingers into her piehole at a pace that put hippos to shame.
“Are you a fairy?” I asked, as I slowly approached her. Like me, she had curly blonde hair, except hers stuck out in all directions, almost feral.
“I’m no fairy,” she snapped, her mouth half-full.
“Then…what are you?”
“I’m a girl.”
I contemplated this. “Why are your clothes so weird?”
“Why are yours weird?”
Weird? What was weird about a pink sweater with a unicorn picture?
I said, “You shouldn’t eat those biscuits, I left them for the fairies.”
“That was silly. Didn’t anybody tell you fairies are make believe?”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
My hands balled into fists. “Well either way, I paid for them, and you’re just shovelling them into your gob.”
After a loud burp, she said, “Got any more?”
I shook my head. And with that, she ducked inside the hollow.
“You could at least say thank you,” I shouted.
No reply. I stepped over the mushrooms, went right up to the hollow, and peeked inside. The girl had vanished. But how?
Just then, Grandma’s warning echoed through my mind. Was this how changelings lured children into their realm?
If that were true, though, what had I to lose? Without a wish, Grandma might not last much longer.
One step into the darkened space, the ground gave way, and I toppled forward.
My chin landed in a clod of wet dirt. I stood, spitting moss and dead leaves. I’d landed outside the tree. But wait, hadn’t I fallen into it? How did that work?
This hardly seemed important. Overhead, storm clouds were brewing, and the sun had almost set. Not wanting to become lost overnight, I started back toward the trail.
Immediately there was some sensory confusion. Instead of an ivy wall, crisscrossed, skeletal branches now thrashed around, shaken by a powerful gale, and the grass had a fresh layer of dew, as though it recently stopped raining.
I wormed my way through the branches and searched for familiar landmarks doubling back once, twice, soon finding myself stumbling around blind in the dark.
Hoping a late straggler out for a walk would come to my rescue, I called out for help, again and again.
“Hello?” a male voice eventually shouted back.
“I’m lost, please help,” I shouted, racing past a thick grove of trees, in the direction of the sound.
But as a heavy pair of boots stomped along, I skidded to a halt.
I’m not sure why I suddenly got spooked. Perhaps it was the sour stench that accompanied the approaching silhouette. Or maybe the harsh, grating quality in it's voice, which I could now hear clearly above the groaning air. In any case, I got this powerful sense I didn't want to be seen.
Quickly I broke from the path and threw my back flat against the far side of an ash tree. I squeezed my eyes shut, my entire body shivering as the voice circled my position. “Where are ya darlin'? C'mon out.”
Then, out of nowhere, something brushed my arm.
A hand clamped around my mouth, stifling an oncoming yelp.
Terrified, I opened my eyes saw the girl from earlier, a forefinger pressed against her lips.
We stood motionless while heavy footsteps lumbered by, the harsh voice melting into the gloom. Once it completely tapered off, the girl whispered, “Let's go,” and dragged me along the trail.
For fifteen minutes she guided me through a labyrinth of swaying trees and hedges. On the far side of the lake, we approached what resembled the front entrance, except the train tracks above the underpass were missing.
And after that tunnel spat us out on what should have been Heuston street, my jaw popped open. Because the station was gone, replaced by two rows of red-brick houses. Black posts with arches at the top stood guard every twenty metres or so, and there was no clear boundary between road and pavement.
Was this the fairies realm?
Unconcerned by this, the girl pulled me through a narrow archway, into a cobblestoned path pinched between two buildings.
Still catching my breath, I said, “The overpass.”
“The what?”
“The train track.”
“Oh, that. It doesn’t exist yet.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded.
“You’ve travelled back in time,” she said like this was no big deal.
In response to my bemused expression, she added, “When you climb inside the tree you travel through time.”
“You’re lying.” Although my conscious mind remained in denial, my senses all recognized this as true; how else could you explain Heuston street’s magical rearrangement?
“Why’s that so hard to believe?” the girl asked, irritated. “Didn’t you believe in fairies twenty minutes ago?”
“That’s different,” I answered bitterly. “I’m going back.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Pat the hat’s back there. He’s probably still searching for you.”
“Who’s Pat the hat?”
“A local basket case. They say he's to blame for a bunch of missing kids. That's why he lives in a hut out in the forest by himself.”
“Isn’t there a way around?” I asked, still struggling to process these events.
The girl shook her head.
I thought for a moment. “If the tree takes me through time, then…when am I?”
“1955.”
1955? Did the fairies send me here as punishment for kicking the stupid mushroom?
Certain they’d never help Grandma now, I crouched into a ball, knees hugged against my chest, and sobbed.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked.
“I wanna go home.”
“Oh. Well…I can take you back to the tree tomorrow?”
“What am I supposed to do until then? I don’t know anybody in 1955 and you ate the biscuits meant for the fairies.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I really needed a wish. My grandma’s sick and I needed the fairy’s to make her better.”
While I buried my face in my lap, the girl said, “Why don’t you come home with me? You can hide out there until morning.”
Looking back, she most likely offered because of the guilt over my unfortunate predicament. Aunt Christine would worry sick about me, but there didn’t seem to be much choice.
I stood brushing snot off my chin. “Fine. You owe me for eating the chocolate anyway.”
“Then its settled. By the way, my name’s Rosie.”
“Evelyn.”
Already starting down the alley, she pointed at my jumper. “Okay Evelyn, people aren’t used to those kinds of clothes in 1955, and nobody else knows about the tree, so we have to stay hidden. Also, Grandma would flip a lid at the thought of another mouth to feed, so I’ll sneak you around back.”
“I live with my grandma too,” I said. Then, solemnly: “Well…I did.”
“Was she a mean lady who hits you with a cane?” Rosie said over her shoulder.
“No. She’s nice.”
“Better than mine then. You hungry?”
As if on cue, my stomach spoke up.
“We can stop by the bakery. Ms. Donnelly works there Saturdays. If there’s any treats left at closing time she lets me have them.”
On the far side of a network of puddle-filled side streets, I hovered in the shadow of an entry while Rosie rapped on a wooden door.
A smiling lady in a green apron appeared and handed over a loaf of bread, and after they chatted for a little while, the woman returned inside, then Rosie hurried over and tore the loaf in half. “Here. It’s not as tasty as chocolate fingers, but it’s still pretty good.”
In 1955, the town felt more like a sleepy village. Within minutes we’d reached the outskirts, then a winding dirt road carried us past farmers’ fields filled with cattle and sheep, toward a small, white cottage. Our shoes squelched in the dirt as we tiptoed around back, toward a window at chest height.
“Wait here,” Rosie whispered. “I’ll let you in as soon as grandmas asleep.”
A few seconds later, this rough, gravelly voice started up. From the sounds of things, Rosie landed herself in hot water by returning home late.
To guard against the howling wind, I rubbed my arms until the window swivelled open, and then my guide pulled me inside a cramped bedroom with a simple wardrobe and tiny bed. Black grime crawled up stone walls, and the only clue a girl slept there was a red-haired doll resting on a wicker chair in one corner.
“Soon as I finish my chores tomorrow, I’ll take you back to the tree,” Rosie said. “You can borrow my old clothes so we don’t have to sneak around.”
Old lady snores, harsher than a chainsaw, blasted through the wall while she laid out some sheets and a mat along the floor, since one girl could barely fit in the bed, never mind two. After we tucked in, I looked up at Rosie and whispered, “How come you know so much about this time travel stuff anyway?”
Propping herself up on one elbow, she took a deep breath and started into the story.
Rosie’s grandma had a nasty temper, and anytime chores needed done, she’d wrap this big black cane around her granddaughter’s neck and spit orders.
On her ninth birthday, Rosie had been in such a rush to finish her errands and play she didn’t double-check the bananas she purchased from the greengrocer, which meant she missed a bruised spot.
At the sight of this, her grandmother stood wielding the cane like a sword.
Before things got hairy, Rosie flew out the door all the way down the lane, and she didn’t stop running until she hit Ravenscroft Forest, where she mindlessly kicked around dirt until she happened across a tree with a giant hollow in its side. That seemed as good a place as any to hide and cry, so she crawled inside the hole.
Immediately the ground gave way, then she landed flat on her chest.
She spat out leaves and glanced around. Nearby, an elderly lady sat picnicking.
“Hungry?” the lady asked, as she offered Rosie chocolate fingers.
Although Rosie knew not to accept things from strangers, this one had a warm, inviting demeanour. Plus, she really, really loved chocolate, which she hardly ever got.
While they ate, the lady explained Rosie had tumbled into the future and proved this by showing off a high-tech gadget that—from the description—sounded like a mobile phone.
After they ate, Rosie announced she wasn’t going home, ever. Anytime beat the past.
Unfortunately, the mysterious lady explained staying would be far, far too dangerous.
As a compromise, the lady promised she’d leave more treats. “Next time you’re hungry, scared, or sick of your grandma, come back here. I’ll hide more chocolate for you. But Rosie, don’t wander too far. If you wind up trapped in the future, that would be very, very bad.”
And so, Rosie routinely visited that same spot. Sometimes there were snacks, sometimes there weren’t, and once on Christmas day, a red-haired dolly greeted her.
But whatever the case, she never saw that old lady again.
“And I never even got to thank her,” Rosie said, her story ending on a down note.
“Wait a minute,” I replied, excited. “My grandma left treats when we went for picnics. Did the lady say her name?”
“Mary, I think.”
“That’s her,” I said, a little too enthusiastically. In the next room, the snores ceased, briefly.
I whispered, “The lady who left the treats was my grandma. I could take you to meet her.”
This made Rosie’s face light up. “Really?”
That sense of elation didn’t last long, because now my mind travelled back to 2015.
“What’s wrong?” Rosie asked.
I explained Grandma’s illness meant she couldn’t take care of me.
“But we can still visit, right?”
“…I guess so.”
“And when she gets better, we can have picnics? All three of us?”
“Okay, deal.” I held up my little finger. “Pinky swear.”
She made a face. Apparently, people didn’t pinky swear in 1955.
“Here, gimme your finger.” Our pinkys interlocked. “There. Now it’s a special promise.”
“Huh. A pinky swear.”
With that, the two of us said goodnight.
After an uneasy night’s sleep on the brutal floor, Rosie gave me a tight blouse and wool cardigan so that I’d blend in. Only my trainers didn’t match, but there weren’t any spare shoes I could wear.
After quietly worming my way out the window, I waited while Rosie’s grandmother barked orders.
She eventually shuffled around the house and blew a raspberry over her shoulder. “Grandma needs me to pick up sausages from the butcher. I’ll take you back right after.”
Along the way, Rosie asked me questions about the future—mostly about how people lived and worked. She couldn’t understand the concept of the internet and refused to believe two men would walk on the moon in less than twenty years.
Halfway into town, from across the trail, a group of girls playing hopscotch called Rosie a gobdaw, which didn’t sound especially friendly. She ignored them at first, their insults growing louder and meaner until she finally snapped and said, “What do you want?”
They challenged her to a game of hopscotch.
Stepping forward, I said, “I’ve got this. Grandma and I played all the time.”
Rosie told the girls I was her cousin. They remarked on my strange shoes and, whenever I used words or phrases not common in 1955, shot each other funny looks, but in the end, none of that mattered once I beat them three times over, blowing one raspberry a piece.
In order to reach town faster, Rosie taught me ‘scutting’, which was when you hitch a ride on the back of a carriage. One milkman carried us half a mile before he heard our stifled laughter and ground to a halt.
The two of us took off giggling, him shaking his fist.
It was the first fun I’d had since Grandma took ill. We played olden-style games with other kids, got more treats from the friendly baker, and waved at workmen passing on bikes, quickly losing track of time.
At mid-afternoon, back at the cottage, the tongue-lashing Rosie’s grandmother dished out reached all the way to the end of the lane, where I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more.
“Sorry, Grandma grounded me,” Rosie said, finally reappearing. “I had to wait until she took a nap.”
“We better beat feet,” she said, with a glance at the sun, now cut in half by the horizon.
Dusk had already crept along by the time we reached Ravenscroft.
“Okay,” I said, jogging up the dirt trail, “here’s what we’ll do: I’ll go home and smooth things out with my aunt, then tomorrow at midday, I’ll bring you a disguise, and we’ll go see Grandma.”
Rosie stopped and held up her little finger. “Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear.”
As we stood there, fingers interlocked, a branch snapped, somewhere close. Then a sour stench drifted toward us.
Our heads whipped in the direction of the sound where, thirty feet ahead and draped in shadows, a towering figure regarded us from the murk.
“Evening girls,” it said, one hand wrapped around an oil lantern. It hoisted the lantern higher, illuminating an ugly mouth stuffed with jagged molars. The man staring us down wore one of those flat caps—the kind you see in black-and-white photos.
While the two of us stood rooted on the spot, he said, “Are yis lost? Not to worry, I’ll make sure yis get home safe and sound.”
A hand wrapped in a fingerless glove uncurled, the forefinger beckoning us closer. Rosie and I slowly backstepped away.
For a few seconds, branches shivered and shook as the wind whistled through the lacings of branches. Then, suddenly, ‘Pat the hat’ charged forward.
Rosie’s hand clasped tight around mine. She dragged me toward a dense wall of trees, where we turned sideways so that we could slip through a narrow gap between trunks. Pat charged after us but got stuck halfway through, clawing at the air. “Get back here,” he snarled, some real venom in his voice.
Rosie and I’s arms soon became cut from pushing through a labyrinth of sharp branches and thornbushes. Each time we shook off our pursuer, he somehow picked up the trail.
Sweaty and exhausted and unable to run any longer, we hunched behind a bush and listened helplessly, those footsteps drawing ever louder, closer.
With one hand against her knee, still breathing heavily, Rosie pointed up ahead. “The trees that way. I’m gonna distract him so you can make a break for it.”
“Rosie, no.”
Too late. Without warning, she gave me a quick hug and then took off.
About twenty yards out, she scooped up a twig and snapped it in half. After that, the gloom swallowed my new friend up. I couldn’t even go after her.
Dead leaves shuffled as our pursuer changed direction. When there was only groaning wind, I charged in the direction Rosie indicated, quickly finding myself staring down our hiding place again.
I went in circles, hopelessly lost. Exposed. Soon Pat would find me, then I’d never see Grandma or Rosie again. Nobody would ever know what happened to the girl who ran away from the hospital…
But then, there came a flutter of wings, close to my ear. My head whipped around.
Up ahead, beside a fern, I thought I glimpsed insect-like wings, glistening in the pale moonlight. They disappeared with a shake of my head.
Seeing no other choice, I raced in the direction I’d seen them—barely aware of the thorns slicing my neck and wrists—ducked beneath interlocked branches, and then found it standing dead ahead: the fairy tree. I’d made it.
Those thick winding limbs heaved up and down like great exhalations as I bolted along.
With one foot inside the hollow, I hesitated. I couldn’t abandon Rosie. If Pat caught her, the children in my time would tell stories about a girl’s spirit that haunted Ravenscroft.
After a long, deep breath, I shouted, “Hey, I’m over here, yoo hoo,” until a bush at the edge of the clearing rustled around. Then, I dove inside the hollow, my left foot raised like I was taking the stairs three steps at a time.
Like before, the world gave way. Rather than topple forward, this time I crouched low, nimbly slipping through the bough.
A trampled mushroom lay dead ahead. I’d landed back in 2015. Now I simply needed to—
Behind me, Pat tumbled out of the hole into the dirt.
Jaw clenched, he looked up and snarled, “Why you little...”
The scream that escaped my mouth was so loud Rosie must have heard it back in 1955.
My legs carried me past the ivy wall, furiously working at top speed. Despite my efforts to shake Pat, he stayed hot on my tail, his hands swiping at the back of my neck every few seconds.
Past a grove of trees, rippling moonlight appeared before me, and right as my pursuer clenched a fistful of hair, we both tumbled down an embankment, crashing against jagged rocks along the way. As my foot bent at an odd angle, a sharp bolt of pain raced along my right thigh.
The blackwater hit like an ice bath. Bubbles spewed from my mouth while I twisted in every direction, blindly searching for the surface.
Suddenly arms clamped around my waist. They hoisted me out of the water and lay me on a level patch of grass, still gagging on brackish liquid and soggy leaves.
Before I even managed that first breath, two hands covered with wet, fingerless gloves wrapped tight around my throat.
My skull felt like a balloon with too much air. Above me, Pat screamed that he should kill me—that he was going to kill me. It seemed like I was gazing up at him from the bottom of a well, and that well kept sinking deeper and deeper.
Goodbye Grandma. Goodbye Rosie.
But then, voices. “Over here. This way.”
Beams of lights pierced the trees while dogs barked wildly.
Several figures burst from the forest: men and women carrying flashlights; police officers holding sniffer dogs on short leashes.
It was a search party. My search party.
The closest officers aimed their pistols at Pat, who threw both arms into the air.
As the tremendous pressure around my throat eased, a brutal coughing fit set in.
Someone threw a blanket around my shoulders and then carried me toward the entrance, a crowd gathering behind us as word spread the missing girl had been recovered.
Aunt Christine was standing by a police car, her eyes puffy and red. At our emergence from the forest, a flurry of kisses was unleashed upon my forehead.
That late-night ‘swim’ earned me a broken ankle, not to mention all the cuts. Paramedics rushed me to hospital where doctors reset the bone.
Even doped up on painkillers, I refused to sleep until the nurses let me see Grandma. I had to tell her all about my adventure—that I’d met the girl she left chocolate fingers for.
But since my disappearance, her condition had taken a turn. Now, even with the respirator, every breath was a battle.
When they wheeled me to her side, I leaned forward and asked if she could hear me. A pair of glazed eyes rotated in my direction. Then, feebly, Grandma lifted her right hand, the baby finger curling.
A pinky promise.
Just then, my eye happened across the medical chart above her bed which read: Rosemary O'Sullivan.
Rosie. Mary. Rose-mary.
“Rosie,” I said, to which she gave the faintest of nods.
Together we sobbed, our pinky’s interlocked, until her head slumped against her shoulder.
In the corner, a heart monitor emitted a steady: eeeeeeeee.
Nurses rushed in. One wheeled me away while another pressed down on Grandma’s chest, but there was nothing to be done. Her time had come.
A week later doctors discharged me, dismissing my story as a coping mechanism, or a hallucination induced by swallowing lake water.
The first thing I did was catch the train to Heuston station, meaning to warn Rosie about the future—about what lay in store.
But as the train pulled up, my heart dropped.
The forest had vanished. In its place, JCBs and steamrollers ploughed through huge mounds of dirt, pyramids of horizontal logs piled up here and there.
The tree was gone. And with it, my doorway back to 1955…