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It's not a sewer. Not quite. But it's close as damnit.
Urban myth:
A modern story of obscure origin and with little or no supporting evidence…
Only sometimes, you know, they're actually true.
So here we are at the end. Kind of inconclusive, you may be thinking. And that's understandable, but this is a true story, and like Margaret Atwood says in
Happy Endings, the only authentic conclusion to true stories is John and Mary die.
But though Harry could have died (or worse, just vanished forever), he didn't (and hasn't). As I sit here in the bedroom typing, the door to the room open behind me, the sound of him fighting with his brothers drifts up the stairs, and that's conclusion enough for me.
One last word: when or if you have children, and you're playing a game with them in which an invisible creature (be it monkey, doolally, or something entirely less ordinary) is an essential component, just make sure the invisible creature is one that has teeth.
Preferably large teeth.
Dress Circle by Miranda Siemienowicz
The musty smell of old carpet filled the corridor, hot with the press of the crowd. In the half darkness, Laura fingered the pair of tickets in her bag. She felt defiant to be here alone. They had been a gift for Markus, for the two of them to use together. The line jostled forward.
Two ushers stood on either side of the corridor where it met and opened into the theatre. Through gaps in the crowd, Laura saw rows of plush seats cascading towards the darkened stage. She pulled a ticket from her bag and offered it to the usher.
The short, uniformed man bent his head, turning the ticket over in his thick fingers. Clumps of wiry hair stood out from under his peaked cap.
"The dress circle?" he asked without raising his head.
"I guess. Is that what it says?"
The usher looked up. "Why, yes, it is." He tore the ticket in half and handed back the stub.
Movement at his feet caught Laura's eye. A monkey the size of a cat, dressed in an identical uniform of brass-buttoned jacket and cap, was stretching its paw up towards the usher's hand. In response to her startled gasp, the man swept the animal behind him with one leg and fixed Laura with a reproving glare.
"The dress circle," he said in a low voice, "is this way."
He folded one arm behind his back and extended the other to indicate a narrow corridor that reached into darkness behind him. The crowd continued to spill slowly into the theatre. Laura hesitated.
"Madam, please. The show is about to begin."
She stepped out of the stream of patrons and proceeded down the corridor. Glancing back over her shoulder as the gloom engulfed her, she saw the monkey scrabble up the fabric of the man's trouser leg and pluck the ticket stub from his hand.
The same odour of carpets and drapery stifled the air. Black paint obscured the walls and sapped what little light there was. Laura strained to find a door to lead her into the theatre. No one else came looking for their seats, though once she heard a quiet scuffle approach and overtake her in the corridor. She had walked at least the distance from the entrance to the orchestra pit when she finally paused, peering, and moved to turn back.
A woman emerged from the shadows in a voluptuous white gown, silver hair piled on her head. Her lips were lost behind an ornate stamp of ruby lipstick that spread onto pale-powdered cheeks.
"Your ticket?" she asked. A beauty spot danced beside her mouth.
Laura opened her hand. For an instant, the stub lay glinting before it collapsed into a film of grey ash. She flinched and the ash puffed into the air, dissolving from view.
"My ticket!"
"Ah, the dress circle, then."
The powdered matron closed a scarlet-clawed hand around Laura's arm and lurched down the corridor. Linen gushed and rustled around the hidden forms of her legs as she dragged her deeper into the building. The walls slid past with gathering speed and Laura wrenched against the grip of the thin fingers.
"What are you doing!"
Her captor glanced back, eyes like dark stones set in her ivory skin. "Faster," she hissed.
Laura struggled to match the woman's pace. Gusts of linen tangled themselves between her feet, keeping her attention on the billows of white fabric and the severely laced bodice of the matron's dress. The woman's waist was the width of a doll's. Suddenly, in a tumble of white and pain, Laura's ankle gave way. She cried out, sliding to the carpet only to have her arm jerked up as she found herself staggering on, shouting to be released.
They turned a number of corners. Laura was hauled into a maze of corridors, each narrower and more bleak than the last. Finally, they slowed where the walls were so near to one another that the matron's full skirts filled the way. Laura felt the grip on her arm loosen as a door in the wall opened and she was dragged through.
A yellow bulb hung, bare, from the ceiling. It was swinging lazily and the shadows thrown by the racks of white costumes along the walls swept the floor in pulsing arcs. A short man with carven features stood with his back to the dresses. His dark trousers hung below a protruding belly, held aloft by wide bands of suspenders that strained across his expansive gut.
"Is that her, then?" he asked the woman in white, scratching the stubble bristling from his neck.
"Yes, Director."
"Shall we see what we have?"
Laura backed away as they advanced, fingers scrabbling blindly behind. She closed a hand around the doorknob.
"What do you want with me?" she demanded.
The pair ignored her. They murmured to one another, crowding her, trapping her against the door.
"She's almost tall," said the matron, red nails tracing the line of Laura's jaw.
"Almost, almost. But her waist is so thick." The Director's stale breath was hot on Laura's face.
"Hips too low."
"Arms not slender enough."
Without warning, they seized her shoulders and began to pull at her clothes. Laura yelled as her arms were pi
Her back hit the floor and breath tore from her lungs. The glare of the light-bulb dazzled her, silhouetting the painted face of the matron. Hands pinched and ripped at her skin and the fabric of her clothes. First shouting but finally whimpering, cowed, Laura lay on the dusty floorboards with grit and chalk like a rash over her sweaty nakedness.
The Director's arm reached down. She beat at it ineffectually, curling onto her side. His fingers clutched her breast and lifted the flesh away from her body.
"No good. Needs a lot of work," he called over his shoulder.
The matron brushed past him with linen brimming from her arms. "This one."
Shivering and exposed, Laura let herself be thrust into the heavy costume. When they had pulled the dress over her head and twisted her arms through the capped sleeves, she was pushed onto all fours. A knee dug into the small of her back as the bodice of the dress jerked tight against her ribs.
"Much more, much more," came the Director's voice above her. "You'll have to hold her down."
He continued to haul the bodice tighter and Laura felt the matron lie bodily across her shoulders. Pain speared through her chest. Linen smothered her and the sharp smell of the matron's sweat flooded her nostrils.
Her waist crushed in the vice of the dress, the Director pulled her upright by the cords of the bodice. He spun her around to face the closed door, where a long mirror hung. Her reflection gazed from the glass like a ghost, her heavily padded bust and hips flaring monstrously from a waist she could all but enclose with her hands. Her face and arms were powder-pale, coated with dust from the floor. She gagged.