Goody Wren

                      Goody Wren

                                                          A short story by Judy Buch

It was May. But Grandma's attic felt like July. Sweat beaded my forehead and soaked my armpits. After Gram died, mom said,

“Take what you want. It all goes.”

In the corner under the eaves, I spotted a scruffy suitcase and reached for it. I tugged at the latches and snapped the case open. My eyes blinked at a painted face. It’s icy stare and garish red lips caused a shutter to run through me. Still, curiosity made me reach for it. When I picked it up, a folded paper fell to the floor. The note read.

“Do not discard or abuse me

or you'll have trouble and shame.

I'm a living personality

And Goody Wren is my name.”

“Creepy!”

“What's creepy? Are you talking to yourself? What is that?” My younger sister, Emily, stepped off the ladder and pointed to the suitcase.

I ignored her. Overcome by some irrational fear that the bizarre-looking puppet might suffocate, I hesitated before folding it back into its case.

Not waiting for me to answer her, Emily grabbed Goody Wren, squashing her under her arm, and hurried to the ladder. Then came the crash and Emily’s scream. At the foot of the ladder, she lay blubbering and grasping her ankle.

Mom and Dad rushed to her and within a couple of minutes, Mom had applied an ice pack. Deciding that Emily needed medical treatment, they both helped her to the car.

Strangely, the Nisan wouldn't start. Dad opened the hood and checked the battery.

Our beagle, Muffy alerted me with a low growl to the presence of a crumpled figure, lying on the hallway floor.

I picked up Goody Wren and positioned her carefully on Gram's recliner.

Mysteriously, the engine started, and the three of them drove off. I walked past the U-Haul truck filled with boxes and furniture and into the house with Muffy close at my heels.

I put the note and Goody Wren back into her case, and returned her to the attic, where she belonged. After closing the creaky pull-down ladder, I took Muffy for a walk, with an urge to get out of the house.

Later, as Muffy snored, my family returned with news that Emily's ankle was only slightly sprained.

Since it was late, Dad said we should spend the night at Gram’s and leave in the morning.

That night Muffy’s whine woke me. “What is it girl?” I turned. A strange chill crept over me. Moonlight filtered in through the window and there propped in the corner, sat Goody Wren. My breath caught in my throat. Her grotesque lips twisted into an eerie smirk, and her painted eyes bore straight through me, unblinking and full of secrets.

I sprang from my sleeping bag, my feet barely touching the floor as Muffy darted ahead, leading the way. I slammed the door shut behind us.

The next morning, still wide-eyed from a sleepless night, I recounted everything to my parents. Dad marched to my bedroom and flung open the door. The corner was empty. Goody Wren was gone. Only, as sunlight spilled across the floor, did a trail of dusty footprints, small and misshapen, appear, leading from the corner of the room to the hallway.