by Jess Howe

Created on: March 10, 2009

That first time I went to Bag Hall up there in the wilderness beyond the town, that started it. That first time was one of the strangest of strange encounters. My problem was it got me thinking, and in this day and age, you can't let yourself think. If you do, you'll end up doing something you might regret later.
Thinking is dangerous.
"Welcome, Sir," the ragged servant girl opens the door with a bony hand. Of course they were glad to see me; any officer of the guard is welcome at a house. We might be bringing food, soap, or maybe medicants other folk aren't allowed to see. Watch your belongings, I was warned and my friend Hal squeezes my shoulder in reminder as we come through the door.

Have a look to your left and there's the cockroach crawling stealthily up crackling pink paper. This is just behind the smoking buffet of torched creatures caught in the wood, maybe some roadkill pie and beeswax. They are very proud of the beeswax; bees are a luxury these days. The Hagger family of Bag Hall owns a bee farm that is three colonies large, I hear, as I stare at the wilted lettuce and tiny withered carrots and tomatos. The scent of garlic is dense; it hangs in bunches from the cieling, above couplets of folk who do not seem to even notice it. Smoke of cigarrettes and hash mixes with it in the air.
"That's old Gerald Hagger, of Fairfax," remarks Hal who has been here before, as my sight catches a weather-stained portrait of an old gentleman. "Fought in the Revolution of the 1700's. He's originally from Ashton. Moved here in 1896."
"Now Hal, dear, you're taking all my conversation," smiles an older woman, tapping him a little too hard on the shoulder. Her makeup badly conceals several pock marks, and her wig is shabby, her eyes too bright. She smiles at me with overly white teeth, the sign of too much chlorine in the water. Or maybe they of this house have like others resorted to eating fish; I've heard of it happening in the outer towns. She pats my face with a claw and I try not to wince. "There," she says, as if she didn't notice, "that is my family portrait. Lance and I and the children. So long ago," she sighs. "You'll excuse me. Hal, show your young companion the rest of the house, I trust you."
"As I trust you," he bows and she whirls off in her patched gown. It is the only acknowledgement we know.
"She's very, well, odd," I say, watching her go. "Didn't even ask my name."
"To them, we are something else," he shrugs.
"This home is really that old?"
"Oh, yes,

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